Beyond the initial firing line that was this place’s entrance, Nyxala entered a widened chamber which appeared to double as a both a defensive standing ground and a checkpoint. They rounded a corner and found more weapons pointed their way. The path was much wider than where she entered, but it felt no more welcoming.
Both walls at her sides were battlements holding a dozen heavy duty machine guns protruding from the walls just below a narrow slit of glass. At the end of the chamber, she found a dozen more men standing before a gate. Each with eyes just as untrusting as the next.
Two artillery cannons bordered the gate, with shells large enough to topple an arachnoangel. Overhead, suspended fragile containers left none of the ceiling visible. A few shots from the guns looking down on them, and whoever was attacking would be flooded with whatever they contained.
She somehow doubted it would be anything kind.
Prong guided her down the middle of the path, and the guards behind her closed in, avoiding the sharp spears along the sides of the chamber. They rose from the ground, threatening any who entered this place. And by the shape of the grating of the ground she walked on, more spears would rise. All the defenders had to do, was shoot the fluoro orange plastic clamps that held them down.
Everything in this place screamed hostility. From the design of the spear-tips — jagged and barbed — to the penetrating gazes of its defenders.
Nyxala shuffled forward, her steps short with the effort to keep her tail hidden. Her vertebrae clicked back into place involuntarily, limiting the feathered length’s ability to curl around her legs tightly. She had no choice but to leave its lower end to drag across the ground as she tried not to trip over herself.
In any other circumstance, she would raise her spines and snap them down again, giving herself flexibility once again. But her concealer wasn’t functioning. If she raised those spiky points for even an instant, all those venomous eyes would notice.
“Go fetch Judge,” Prong said as they stopped before the wire fence separating them from a set of heavy doors. “Lys is apparently at the lower gate, waiting with someone who needs protection. Let him know the one who asked is a Technocultist.”
Nyxala watched one of the younger men, an unevolved, rush off through the large steel doors before the others were quick to seal it behind him. With her head low and hood covering her upper eyes, she glanced between Prong and the men across the fence. None moved to open the way.
“What, you didn’t think we would allow a cultist into our home so easily did you?” Prong scoffed. “You threatened one of ours, and refused our search. I don’t care what excuses you have, or who you claim to know, you will stay out here where we can gun you down the moment you lift a finger out of line.”
She despised being taken as one of the people she had sworn herself to kill. Especially from the one group of people she had no ill will for.
Nyxala hadn’t known the Cultless were this well organised. At best, those that were abandoned by the cults, or simply failed to attract enough interest to become an acolyte, could hope to craft a modest living for themselves. Always taken advantage of by the cults, but retaining their lives. More often, they became collateral.
Was there actually a force here? A gathering of people that hated the cults enough to fight against them. Could she convince those discarded from the cults to join her in taking down their oppressors?
It was such an attractive idea. Having an army at her back when she finally tossed aside her need for obscurity and waged war on the cults. One more hateful than the Technocult.
But it took one glance over the gathered souls to discard those fantasies. Only the older men reached beyond their first evolution. Most didn’t have even one. A single harbinger squad from even the minor cults would decimate them.
All that stopped that from happening… was the ability-suppressing soul net.
It clutched at their names as much as it did her own, but when your name was already worthless, it simply evened the playing field. The build-up of weapons and fortifications that would be useless to so many with a decent name was proof enough on how much they relied on the effect.
“What is this… suppression?” Nyxala asked, wary of describing exactly how it appeared. She didn’t want them knowing she had a name that could interact with souls.
“The only thing that keeps us safe,” he said, a tinge of spite in his tone. “A ritual that covers every corner of our little slice of Coral.”
Nyxala was surprised he was being open. In his eyes, she was a cultist, and who knew what she would do with the knowledge.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he grouched. “Your betters already know everything about it. If they had any way to deal with it, we would have been eradicated years ago.”
“So, you just live in suppression? It can’t feel good to have who you are smothered at all times of the day.”
Prong let out a mocking laugh. “Who we are? The world chose our names, and decided they would be worthless. Here, we abandon the names that label one as better than another, and take on a title of our own.”
“Names aren’t decided by the world alone. They are carved by your experiences. Your efforts.” The dissemination of fate’s role in one’s name permeated each of the wards, but it was not true. Nyxala had seen the results herself.
“Easy for you to say. You and Lys are the same. Gifted incomparable names, then claim it was hard work and effort that carried you to your strength. I can tell you right now that for most people, it doesn’t matter how long you train, or how hard you try, gifts do not simply fall in your lap. We have forged a place here that is fair. Without our worthless names.”
Nyxala glanced around. Once again noticing the burning glares of all the men that clearly agreed with him. Men. There were no women amongst the ranks. Was that the world he considered fair?
Strange that he would speak so much about how he abandoned his name, and yet he was at his third evolution. It was impossible to evolve without intent. When he fell asleep and found himself capable of evolution, he could have abstained if he’d truly discarded the name he’d been ‘given’.
“You’re at your third evolution. The same as Ly͚sy͚rã. It is-”
“Call her Lys here. That is the name she wished to be called,” Prong snapped. “And it took me forty five years to reach third. She did it in five. Don’t you dare tell me that girl went through more than I did in all that time. The fate you’re bestowed at birth matters more than any challenge thrown your way.”
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
Nyxala could see the guards around her growing further agitated with Prong, but she just couldn’t help herself.
“Oh? What sort of challenges does one face locked up in here, hiding from the world? To me, it sounds like you’re running from your problems, rather than solving them.”
Prong stepped forward with a snarl, and swung the stock of his gun at her head. He was slow. She caught the shoulder-rest in her palm, stopping the weapon dead in its tracks. He tried to yank it back, but her grip was far too strong.
She stepped forward. He tried to backpedal, but she didn’t let go of his weapon. Being almost a head shorter than him, she only reached his neck, but getting in close filled her with a sudden hunger to tear it out. She swallowed the urge, but didn’t back off.
“Is that why you’re here? Can’t be the big dog out there, where the wolves would eat you alive, so you have to settle with hitting those stripped of the power to defend themselves?”
Her antennae twitched. Nyxala stepped out of the way as one of the soldiers behind her swung his weapon in mimicry of Prong, only to nearly strike the older man. The bang of a warning shot stopped her from doing anything questionable. Like snatch Prong’s gun and mow down each of the guards around her before the guns above could react.
She was not here to fight, even if she really wanted to punch Prong.
Her fingers left his weapon with a nice set of inprints. Taking a step back, she raised her hands, gesturing peace, but two of the men behind her tried to lay their hands on her. She danced between their flimsy attempts to hold her arms, and shoved them towards Prong.
“Do you think you’re clever? We, the Cultless, are more aware of our own weakness than anyone.” His hand gripped the barrel of his gun until his knuckles became white. “You, who fate has bestowed everything, cannot possibly know the struggles we face.”
Nyxala barely held in her snarl. She kept her lips covering the inhuman teeth, but there was no hiding what she thought. This man knew nothing of what she’d been through.
“You face an existence of nothing more than being the playthings of the cults. Instead of struggling against that, you hide away like cowards. No wonder only a few of you have made it past the first evolution.”
She reacted the instant a gun was fired. Her body twisted, heart racing, as she expected a downpour of steel racing down to tear her to shreds. Instead, she found only one. Nyxala leaned back, letting the projectile sail harmlessly past her chest and wedge itself into a crack in the grating.
“Cease fire!” Prong roared. “Who was it? Who took the shot without an order?”
His anger was more evident now than when he’d gone to strike her.
“Coal?!” he exlaimed after the Cultless around the man volunteered his identity. “That was your last chance. From here on out, you are banned from gunner, and will be working in sewage disposal.”
Nyxala had known it wasn’t the greatest idea to antagonise the people she wanted help from, but she wanted to test them. They weren’t much of a force at this moment, but if she could push them to grow. Find paths for themselves, even if it were dangerous.
Well… her intentions weren’t purely rational. Having so many hostile eyes on her without the concealer was making her stressed. No better way to find relief, than to take it out on those that caused it.
Though, it did have a surprising effect on the rest of the guards. “Is the suppression ritual not working on her?” “how can she still move like that?” They were whispers amongst themselves, but Nyxala’s antennae still heard.
“And you,” Prong turned back to her. “I think it’s about time you left. You are not welcome here.”
Nyxala didn’t need to make so much of a word of protest before the heavy doors behind the gate opened and the young man from before slipped through.
“Judge called for her.”
Prong turned on him. “We are not letting this conceited brat into our home. She is too dangerous.”
The man, barely in his twenties, looked uncomfortable beneath the older man’s glare. “Prong, sir, he said it was an order.”
Silence hung between them for a good few seconds, before Prong grunted in frustration and waved the gate open. He stormed through, and reached a set of cabinets nestled in the wall off the side. Nyxala followed through the wire fencing, not sure if she was happy to be allowed in.
Prong returned, offering her a set of very heavy looking iron cuffs.
“What? Thought I’d let you walk through without shackles after the display of strength you’ve put on?” His voice returned to a grumpy neutral that gave her no way to know if he was simply suppressing his fury, or was just generally ill-tempered. “It’s this, or walk away.”
Nyxala glared at the block of metal. The shackles would hold her wrists parallel, preventing her claws from finding anywhere to slice through. Letting out a sigh of resignation, she placed her arms in the restraints. She still had her acid, at least.
As Prong locked the shackles, his eyes lingered on her hands a moment longer than they should have. They narrowed suspiciously, but soon he turned around and had the main gate open for them. Hopefully, he would assume her doll-like hands were a Technocult modification.
Slowly, she and her… guards? Captors? made their way through the heavy doors and into the Cultless’ compound proper. The hall looked like an armoury. Both sides were barred off, but the crates of ammunition and weapons were in plain sight. Behind them, were the stairs that wound around to the bulwarks that oversaw the entrance path.
Prong didn’t stop to chat with any of the men that stood around. Most had slid in from the ramparts to watch them leave.
It wasn’t until they moved through the next set of large open doors that space suddenly became a valuable commodity. There was the main path, and every five metres, a pair of alleys stretched out at both sides.
But, the layout wasn’t two dimensions alone. A ladder associated each alley, rising up to ten different layers, with bridges connecting each level.
This was not a great place to live for anyone missing limbs, but unfortunately, that didn’t seem that uncommon amongst the thousands of people living here. Prong led her down the main path, which was clearly larger than any other, yet she still felt claustrophobic from the number of people in every direction watching her pass.
“You live like this?” she asked, trying to ignore the curious, piercing eyes as she shuffled along trying her best not to reveal her mutations.
“There’s a lot more here than usual, what with the storm on the surface.” Prong booted the leg of some unconscious man out of the main path. He awoke, fuming, but quickly got out of the way when he saw the number of armed men. “The rearing wards are supported by the cults, and don’t provide shelter for any besides kids and those chosen to work there. The rest deal with the crowd here, or take their chances with the corruption and cults outside.”
With such little space, there were many who forewent the alleys entirely. They sat on ledges twenty metres up, barely a misplaced step away from slipping to their deaths. The crowds made way for the guards, only to converge into their tightly knit weave once they’d passed.
It took them a while to reach a large set of stairs that seemed to be the central pillar of this entire compound. The lower levels didn’t look any less crowded, but it was clear the space here was intended for a different purpose than residential or commercial. A water dam. A power distribution facility. Didn’t matter how far this place was from livable requirements, there were still those that slept along the path.
“Ah, you’re here,” a voice called as they entered a very similar looking armoury to the one she’d just entered through. “You must be Nyxala. Lys has been filling me in on this boy you need us to look after.”
The sacrifice’s unconscious body lay at his feet, but Lysyra was nowhere to be seen.
“She’s here?”
“Not quite.” Judge tapped a system on the wall. “Intercom. She doesn’t like to show herself around here often, anymore. And it’s hardly like her reflections, as she calls them, can survive here.”
Nyxala glared at the intercom. If only they’d left it on and accessible at all times, then she wouldn’t have needed to go through all that pain of coming down from the surface. But this place was likely just the same as the wards. They couldn’t risk a permanent connection.
“Oh!” Judge glanced at Prong and the guards behind her. “You are all dismissed.”
Considering all but Prong turned and did as commanded immediately, Nyxala was surprised to find that Judge was entirely unevolved. The man was old. Old enough that, like Prong, he could have reached an evolution simply by time passing. And yet he never had.
When Prong’s guards had already left, but the man himself hadn’t, Nyxala turned to him and offered her shackles. Surely he wasn’t going to leave her stuck with them on.
But he never glanced her way. His eyes were on the comatose man that Lysyra had carried with more than a couple replicas.
Nyxala gestured with her hands, prompting him to glance up at her. His eyes narrowed into a glare at her demands, but with a “go on” from Judge, he brought out the key.
As he slid up besides her, she raised her arms, giving him better access to the keyhole so she could finally have the use of her hands back.
Too late did she feel the tickle of fabric on her tendrils as Prong’s fingers grasped her hood. He yanked it back. She desperately tried to duck her head, but it only pulled the hood away faster.
“I knew there was something wrong with you.”