MissanHam Prison, Year 13,491
Gunther pushed the cart bearing Dusty's body.
It rolled easily, wheels screaming against the polished stone floor—a thin, shrill sound that lingered in the corridor longer than it should have. Gunther did not slow. He did not look down.
The hallway was narrow and painfully bright. White panels lined the walls, inset with faintly glowing runes that pulsed in slow, regulated intervals. Each pulse marked another layer of authorization passed. Each one meant another door had decided he belonged.
At the corridor's end stood a reinforced metal door, seamless save for a thin vertical seam of blue light at its center. Two guards waited there, armor matte and featureless, rifles held at rest with practiced indifference.
One guard glanced at the cart. Then at Gunther.
"Rune-smith Raiz," he said. "Surgical Theater C is ready."
Gunther nodded once. He did not thank him.
The door split open with a low hydraulic hiss.
Cold air spilled out, sharp with antiseptic and ionized metal. The chamber beyond was circular, its walls layered with articulated arms bearing instruments—blades, clamps, injectors, rune-etched plates humming softly as they warmed. Everything waited in precise alignment. Everything had already been measured.
The surgical table stood at the center.
Gunther guided the cart forward and locked it into place beside the table. The mechanism clicked with quiet finality.
Dusty did not move.
Gunther rolled his neck once, working out a stiffness he refused to name. He reached for the apron. It was heavier than it appeared—threaded with shielding filaments, stitched through with sigils meant to dampen backlash and bleed excess feedback into the floor. He tied it without looking.
Gloves followed.
Only then did he allow himself to breathe.
The doors hissed again.
Two figures entered, teal robes whispering across the floor, faces already half-hidden behind filtration masks.
Gunther glanced over his shoulder and released a soft breath that might, in another life, have passed for amusement.
"Neuman. Rogier." He inclined his head slightly. "Good. This should be straightforward."
Neuman didn't bother replying. He went straight to the console, eyes flicking across vitals and authorization strings as they cascaded past in pale light.
"Subject is prepped," he said. "Sedation's holding. Neural suppression is clean."
A pause.
"There's still activity in the hippocampus."
Gunther adjusted a clamp without looking up. "Concern?"
"Not outside acceptable variance," Neuman replied. "Residual patterning. It'll burn out once we begin."
Rogier selected a scalpel from the rack, weighing it in his hand, testing the balance. "Body's holding on," he observed. "Happens more with younger subjects."
Gunther let out a quiet, humorless huff.
"Stubbornness," he said. "Runs in the family."
Rogier's mouth twitched beneath the mask—almost a smile, almost nothing. He returned the scalpel to the tray and stepped aside.
"Your call."
Gunther nodded.
He moved to the table and studied the marked lines along Dusty's temple and chest. The blue tracings glowed faintly, precise and patient.
Gunther drew in a slow breath, then released it through his nose.
Rogier glanced up. "You good?"
A beat.
"Need to step out?"
Before Gunther could answer, Neuman snorted softly, fingers still dancing across the console.
"No," he said. "That's just part of his routine. Helps him 'become one with the rune.'"
Gunther didn't react.
He placed both hands on the edge of the table and leaned forward, eyes following the luminous incision paths.
"How many Prade engravings do you think we can fit," he asked evenly, "before efficiency starts to drop?"
Neuman stepped closer, peering at the tracings. "Depends how much redundancy you want."
A faint huff. "You always did like pushing tolerances."
Rogier shifted to give them room. "Just don't burn him out," he said. "Heard about the last one—brain went to ash. You've got to learn when to dial it back."
Neuman glanced over. "How many did he try to put on it?"
"Eleven. Single bot," Rogier replied.
Gunther didn't look at either of them.
"That wasn't burn-out," he said. "That was bad product."
A pause.
"This one was made for this."
Neuman raised an eyebrow. "Well," he said lightly, "we should get moving. My wife wants to make the Galewood Gala, and if I'm late again she'll start asking questions."
Rogier chuckled under his breath and returned to the instrument wall. "Tragic. Truly."
"You're right," Gunther said, stepping back from the table. "We should get started."
Gunther stepped back—not out of the room, but out of the circle drawn around the body—and crossed to a sealed cabinet along the wall. A biometric rune flared beneath his palm, then dimmed in recognition.
Inside waited a narrow insulated case, its interior lined with suppressive sigils layered so densely they seemed to drink the light. Gunther lifted it with care and set it on the auxiliary stand beside the table.
"The cooler's prepped," he said evenly. "Once you've cleared the tissue, I'll take over."
Rogier moved in without comment.
He took position at the crown of Dusty's head, scalpel resting lightly between his gloved fingers as he studied the glowing incision line along the temple. The blade hovered there—patient, exact, waiting for permission that no longer needed to be spoken.
Neuman adjusted the console, eyes locked on the cascading readouts. "You're green," he said. "Motor cortex is quiet. No resistance."
Rogier nodded once.
The scalpel descended.
This was where Dusty had died—and where something else, something some would later argue had always been waiting, was born in his place.
Eight years later, 29th Day of Fall, Year 13,499, Practum City, Planet Satsop
The evening sun spilled gold across the city, glazing rooftops and windows as the day prepared to bow out. Night rose to meet it—lanterns flickering to life along the streets, music pouring from open doors, laughter sharpening as drink loosened tongues.
Inside a tavern already thick with noise and smoke, three figures occupied a table tucked deep into the corner shadows.
The older man dominated the space without effort. Broad shoulders filled his chair, scar-lined hands wrapped around a chipped mug as his eyes drifted across the crowd. Dark green hair, unkempt and tied back with a bandana, framed a face that looked like it had survived long enough to stop fearing death—and long enough to start respecting it.
Across from him sat a young woman with her boots hooked casually on the rungs of her chair. Silky red hair was pulled tight to keep it out of her eyes, emerald green gaze half-lost in a rhythm only she seemed to hear as her fingers drummed lightly against the table.
Beside her was a young man with the same red hair, cut short, the resemblance unmistakable. He spun a single gold coin across the tabletop, watching it dance and wobble until it finally toppled.
"And you're certain this source of yours can be trusted?" the older man asked. His voice was rough, worn raw by years of shouting over crowds and chaos.
"I believe so," the young woman replied. "Not every runesmith working there supports the project."
"But if he was telling the truth," the young man cut in, "then we're already late."
"Normally, yes." She leaned forward, lowering her voice. "But they aren't transporting it by ship. They're doing it the old-fashioned way."
The young man stopped the coin mid-spin, pinning it upright with a fingertip. His gaze shifted to the older man. "Then why are we still sitting here?"
"You really don't think, do you, Carlo?" the woman muttered, rolling her eyes—though the edge of her tone softened with the familiar indulgence only siblings earned.
The older man set his mug down with a muted thud. "Cut him some slack. I've had him chasing down something else for me. Means he's been operating a little in the dark."
Carlo's jaw tightened. "How are you so calm?" he demanded. "You've been chasing this for twenty-three years, Barto."
The older man took a long pull from his mug, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Because if I let myself get worked up like you are right now, I'd miss the most obvious thing."
Carlo frowned. "Which is?"
"Why we're here." Barto nodded toward the table. "Look at your sister. She's just as calm as I am. If you let nerves run you, you'll make mistakes when it matters."
"Yeah, but we don't know if Cara's lead is real," Carlo shot back.
"All intel's a coin flip in the end," Barto said evenly. "Even someone you trust can decide you're more useful bleeding than breathing." He shrugged. "Humans are patient killers. It's in our bone marrow."
Carlo pressed his thumb down on the spinning coin, bringing it to a dead stop. He stared at it as if it had personally betrayed him.
Cara didn't bristle at the doubt. She didn't look pleased, either. Her fingers kept their quiet rhythm on the tabletop, steady and measured, her attention tuned outward.
Her emerald eyes drifted across the tavern in slow sweeps, catching details most people missed—the drunk who laughed a little too loudly, the barkeep who wiped the same mug three times, the pair of dockhands arguing with hands that hovered just a touch too close to their knives.
She listened to the room the way sailors listened to wind.
Then—something else.
A pause in the noise that wasn't really a pause.
The door creaked open.
And the tavern's rhythm faltered slightly. Laughter didn't stop—but it thinned, like a song losing one instrument at a time.
Cara's fingers froze mid-tap.
Carlo noticed instantly. "What?"
Barto didn't turn. He watched her face.
"A Flipad just walked in," Cara murmured. "A bounty hunter."
Barto's eyes widened, but he still didn't look. "Describe it."
"Small. Almost childlike. But dense." She didn't blink. "Its head is a skull. Not a casing—a skull. I've never seen a Flipad built like it."
Barto exhaled slowly. "What's your call?" His voice barely moved. "We keep moving, or we call it. It's your lead."
Cara didn't answer right away.
She watched the Flipad the way hunters watched thunderclouds—measuring distance, direction, the quiet math of what would happen if it decided to strike.
It moved through the tavern like it belonged to the floorboards. Not weaving. Not rushing. Just drifting—patient—letting bodies part around it without asking. A server took one look at the skull-face and suddenly remembered something urgent elsewhere. A drunken laugh died halfway through a breath.
Lanternlight slid over its metallic dome.
Bone-pale. Hollow-eyed. Mouthless.
The vents along its face made it look like something designed to inhale smoke and never cough.
Cara swallowed.
"It isn't scanning like a standard bounty unit," she whispered.
Barto's voice stayed low and even, like he was counting steps. "Don't freeze. Decide."
"Cara," Carlo hissed under his breath.
The Flipad drifted closer.
"I'm… not sure," she said, then steadied herself. "Let's call it."
Barto nodded once.
"Breathe," he said gently. "Think. It's probably here for me." His tone was calm—too calm. "I can draw it off. You two finish the job."
His eyes didn't share the reassurance in his voice.
"I've been looking after you both your whole lives," he continued. "I know you're capable of seeing this through. Stop the device. Don't let it get finished."
He kept his mug in hand, knuckles white around the ceramic, like it was the last normal thing left in reach.
Cara's throat tightened. She nodded—sharp, final. "Alright. Stay safe, Barto. Let's go, Carlo."
Carlo's fingers clenched around the coin until it bit into his skin. "Finally."
Barto pushed his chair back with one hand and slid two small disks onto the table.
"Teleportation rune disks," he said, almost casually. "Linked. Hold one and say Teleport: Other."
Cara's hand hovered over them, hesitant, like they might burn.
Barto didn't look at her hand. He looked past her—toward the slow, skull-faced advance.
"Take the ship and go," he said. "No arguing. Leave before the window closes."
Carlo swallowed. "And you?"
Barto's mouth twitched—a smile without warmth. "Just because I got old doesn't mean I forgot how to survive."
Cara closed her fingers around one disk. Carlo took the other. The metal felt heavier than it should—like a promise condensed into matter.
They rose from the table and vanished into the crowd.
Barto didn't watch them leave.
His eyes never left the Flipad.
He circled the tavern in the opposite direction from the twins, slow and unhurried, careful to keep distance—never closing, never fleeing. Just orbiting.
The Flipad took a seat at the bar.
It didn't slump like the drunks.
Didn't fidget like the nervous.
It settled as if the stool had been built for it, and the room had simply forgotten to reserve it.
The bartender's smile faltered when the skull turned his way.
"W–what can I get you?" the man asked, forcing casual into a shape it didn't want to hold.
The Flipad angled its head slightly, as though tasting the question.
"Water," it said.
The bartender blinked, then nodded too quickly. His hands shook as he poured.
Barto waited three heartbeats—long enough to look like he wasn't stalking. Just wandering.
Then he slid onto the stool beside the skull-faced machine.
"Bold move," the Flipad said, voice cold and level, "sitting next to someone with a hundred million gold on their head."
Barto's smile stayed in place.
But it stopped being friendly.
It became armor.
"Corruption's an old word," he said mildly. "People use it when they don't want to say greed."
The skull dipped, almost amused.
"Greed is a symptom," the Flipad replied. "Not the disease."
Barto's eyes flicked once—to the empty glass, then back to the vents in the skull.
"I'd say greed's what keeps the machine running," he said. "Hard to call it a symptom when it's doing all the work."
The Flipad tilted its head again.
Listening—not to the words, but to the spacing between them. The restraint. The absence of fear.
"Are you saying your crimes were driven by greed?" it asked.
A pause.
"Or do you believe the greed came later—after something older. Something you don't like remembering."
Barto's hand tightened into a fist.
"Careful," he said quietly. "You don't know what you're—"
"Or what?"
The Flipad's arm clicked.
Metal folded. Components slid. A revolver assembled itself with soft, mechanical certainty.
"Like I said," it continued calmly, "I'm not here for you."
Barto stood so fast the stool screeched across the floor.
The smile was gone now.
No mask.
No humor.
"Leave them out of this," he said. "They haven't done anything."
"That," the Flipad replied, "is incorrect."
Its hollow optics fixed on him.
"The girl received the information from me."
Barto froze.
Then—
"Damn it," he breathed.
"I assure you," the Flipad added lightly, "the information was accurate. If you thought you were stalking me, you were mistaken."
It rose from the stool, the revolver already gone, the arm reconfiguring with a series of quiet internal clicks.
"I was stalking you," it continued. "I want them to reach it. Once they do, you won't be able to step in and protect them."
It turned to leave.
"I'll be seeing you soon," it said. "Take care."
At the edge of the counter, it paused. The skull angled just enough to be deliberate.
"Oh. And the name's Ray," it added. "In case you were curious."
Then it walked away.
Barto stood there a moment longer, chest tight, staring at the space Ray had vacated—the subtle gap in the air where inevitability had passed through.
For the first time in years, he wasn't worried about himself.
That realization hit harder than fear ever had.
He was already too late to worry about the twins.
He turned and shoved through the tavern doors. Cold night air slammed into him like a wall, biting sharp and clean. The street outside was empty.
Ray was gone.
"Shit."
Barto yanked a small device from his coat—a pocket watch at first glance. He snapped it open mid-stride. The face bloomed to life, a screen replacing the dial.
"Hey," he said, already moving, boots pounding against stone. "He's on your tail."
A burst of static, then Carlo's voice—tight. "Who? The Flipad? What happened back there? Are you okay?"
"Don't worry about me," Barto replied, sprinting through the moonlit streets. "I'm heading back to base. I'll grab a ship and meet you."
He didn't slow.
Didn't look back.
Elsewhere
Cara held the Sunseeker steady while Carlo worked the sails.
"I've never heard him like that," Carlo muttered as he secured the rigging. "You think he's okay?"
"Yeah," Cara said. "Don't start doubting the old man now."
The words were steady. Convincing.
They didn't quite convince her.
The Sunseeker sliced through the cloud line, the world dropping away beneath them. Cara adjusted the yoke as the air thinned and cooled, clean enough to sting the lungs.
"Check the map," she said. "How long until Cora? Should be a small village south of the capital."
Carlo finished tying off the sail and crossed to the nav-table. With a few practiced taps, a holographic map bloomed above the surface. He pinched the projection, zooming in until the planet filled the space between them.
"About forty-five minutes."
Cara nodded. Her knuckles stayed white on the controls.
The Sunseeker held course. Below them, cities glittered like spilled constellations. Above, the stars watched back.
Carlo hesitated, then spoke. "So… what exactly are we taking? No one ever really told me."
Cara didn't look at him. Her eyes stayed fixed on the thin line where sky met cloud.
"Practum's been developing a device," she said. "Something that can imprint Prade-level runes into the past. Rune-smithing is supposed to be done by hand. This thing's a machine."
Carlo frowned. "That's… insane."
"They've been working on it for decades," she continued. "They're transporting the final component now. We intercept it."
"And steal it," Carlo said flatly.
"Yes."
He exhaled slowly. "Prade-level runes can level a city if you lose control."
Cara's mouth twitched—not a smile. "Exactly. That's why Barto's been watching this for so long."
Carlo glanced toward the rear of the ship, to the cargo bay where a chest sat strapped down beneath canvas and runic cord.
"And you're sure this is the final piece?"
Cara made a small adjustment to the yoke. Just enough to keep the nose steady.
"It's not the whole machine," she said after a moment. "It's the lens."
Carlo turned back to her. "The lens? Then why risk everything for that?"
She swallowed once.
"Because glass is fragile," she said. "And Prade-level engravings make it worse. They couldn't apply the runes properly. The material kept failing."
She paused.
"This lens is the most intricate engraving ever attempted."
Carlo stared at her. "So… it's not just a part."
"No," Cara said. "It's the part."
Silence stretched.
"Then why move it like produce?" Carlo asked. "Why act so careless?"
"They're not," Cara replied. "They're hiding it in plain sight. Flight logs are easy to track if you know what you're looking for. Cargo manifests. Airship lanes. Dock stamps. Patterns pile up fast."
Carlo leaned back against the nav-table, arms folding. "So they walk it instead. No sky trail. No registry."
"No official trail," Cara corrected. "Just people. Wagons. Villages that don't ask questions."
Carlo let out a dry breath. "That's insane."
"Effective," Cara said.
The Sunseeker dipped as a crosswind caught its sails.
Ahead, the horizon darkened—cloudbanks stacking like bruises, distant lightning flickering within them like something thinking.
Carlo glanced forward. "We're flying straight into weather."
"Cora lives in it," Cara replied. "Low clouds. Narrow valleys. Bad visibility."
Carlo nodded slowly. "Good place to disappear."
Cara didn't smile. "Good place to ambush, too."
Silence settled between them, broken only by the wind and the low creak of the hull.
After a moment, Carlo spoke again, quieter. "How long until the caravan arrives?"
"Around midnight," Cara said. "We'll have time to get eyes on it before it reaches the village."
Carlo pushed off the nav-table and moved toward the rear of the ship, leaning to peer down through thinning clouds. The terrain below was changing—rolling fields giving way to jagged stone, roads tightening into winding scars cut through the land.
Then he stilled.
"…What the hell," he murmured.
Understanding hit him all at once.
He turned sharply, worry etched across his face. "Cara."
She looked back.
"We're being tracked."