Chapter 3: Province 837
The rocks of Province 837 erupted from the ground like teeth, immovable and uninviting to the auroras that pulsed violet and green along the horizon. Their snarl vibrated in Bullet's chest, where it resonated with the scar over his heart in a manner at once familiar and wrong.
He stood there where the water block of Province 472 fell out of view behind him—that impossible cube of liquid disappearing in the heat haze, its strange creatures with their ember-like eyes now gone out of view too. But they were not forgotten, nor the pain of old and new injuries.
His shoulder hurt where the Dreadwraith had punched him, the wound crusted over with dried blood beneath Patch's repaired cloak. His calf burned from the spines of those see-through beasts in the block of water, their venom spreading through his muscle like slow-moving poison. His broken ribs in that fight with the liquid beast had every breath jabbing sharp lances of agony through him.
And always, always, the scorch across his chest blazed like a brand.
The pull drew him, deeper into this wild rock country. That fire in his chest, determination to continue on, refusal to allow him to rest. A hunger he could not define, could not fight, could not understand.
His pipe hung limply in his hand, its metal shell cracked and creased from breaking the Dreadwraith's core within the water block. The handle was slick with residue ooze that reeked of fried circuits—a smell that would never wash clean no matter how hard he scrubbed.
The air was dry here, nearly excruciatingly so after the thick damp of the water block. Dust clogged his throat with each gasp. A boulder tumbled in the distance, barely missing his foot as it went, and pebbles rattled off the stone in a clinking din.
Rapid rock shelves loomed around him like stone watchmen, mute. Most of them had curved into their faces strange veins of pulsing light— shards embedded in the stone itself, shimmering. Their resonance was different from the voice of auroras, more focused, nearly like words in a language he'd never spoken. Distant rituals. Lost meaning. A vocabulary of sacrifice etched upon the province's own bones.
No name but that given by strangers. No past he could remember. The pull and the scar alone, driving him across Province 837's unmapped unforgiven.
Bullet's cloak—Patch's cloak—flapped in the grimy wind, leather creaking against his frayed pants. Every step sent pain shivering through his shattered ribs. His feet still bled, ancient blisters bursting open with every step along the uneven stone.
His hand wandered into his pocket, finding the familiar shapes within. The scored fragment—that circle bisected by a serrated edge—lay against his leg. It warmed whenever his scar ached, which was often enough. A mystery connected to a past he could not touch, no matter how hard he tried.
Spark's shard beside it, unetched and softly glowing even under the cloth. A weight from Province 618's camp that grew heavier with distance.
And he carried other things too. Body and otherwise. Patch's cloak on his back. Thread's blade in his belt. Ember's words of caution echoing in his head. All of them leashes to people he'd left behind.
Shard's fierce determination. Spark's naively optimistic soul. Patch's gentle-handed talent. Ember's gentle eyes as Bullet left the dome far behind. Cowboy's final scream in the sand maw. Rivet's blood flowing in Province 618's red sand.
Had he left them all behind? Was going along with this pull an excuse to flee forever?
Was he a Maul—bitter and brutal, sowing death? A Veil—someone others were right to distrust, for he did bring on disaster?
Was he merely another drifter leaving death in his wake?
His shoulder continued to bleed, the wound slow to mend. His scar throbbed with his heartbeat. The pull drew him deeper into the stones, ruthless and uncaring of his growing guilt.
A glimpse of metal broke against his vision overhead.
Bullet's heart skipped a beat. He knew that sound—the high whine of folded wings, the hum that rang in his marrow.
The sentinel.
Its rainbow wings mirrored the auroral glow as it circled above its head, metal feathers flashing like honed blades. Red eyes shone like twin lumps of coal, casting a chill gaze over the stony landscape. It had pursued him out of the dunes of Province 618, over Province 472's water block, and now into these tunnels.
A ruthless pursuer stalking him for reasons he couldn't even begin to fathom.
Bullet ducked behind a boulder, pipe in his fist, dust spewing in his face. His heart hammered against his smashed ribs. He could hear the sentinel's beam sweeping across the boulder, that same searching light it had used out in the desert, seeking him.
The beam swept across the red-stained rock where he had been standing.
The tug roared in his chest, his scar burning. It would not let him wait, would not let him hide. It insisted on him moving, always in motion, forward into what was next.
Far from Province 837's stone outcroppings, within the Province 1 castle, shadow clung to gothic walls like a living thing. The robed man stood before his console, its pulsing light casting his empty face into stark relief, shadowing behind the emptiness of his eyes.
The holographic map throbbed in front of him, showing Province 837's network of rocks and tunnels. The tunnels were an area of blindness—the signal had conflict with the rock and dust, creating vast areas of doubt on the map.
The chief relaxed in his black metal throne, his charcoal suit crisp and clean amidst the prevailing gloom. His fingers tapped out a deliberate, measured rhythm on the armrest. His eyes reflected like burnished steel, cold and calculating.
"He's moved into Province 837," the robed man croaked, his voice as dry as paper. A flash of fear danced in his hollow eyes—fear he couldn't successfully hide after all those years of training. "The sentinel's cue is tentative. The stone and those tunnels scatter it, render it impossible to track him precisely. I'll have someone work on that immediately."
The leader's fingers froze. His shadow seemed to grow, swallowing up the console's light entirely.
"No mention in the Nexus," he repeated to himself, voice like ice given form. Every sentence selected, cutting through the buzz of the chamber. "No trace of him anywhere in our systems. And now the Dreadwraith has failed." A pause. "For the first time."
The robed man's fingers trembled slightly as they hovered above the console. "This anomaly is stronger than we estimated. Faster. He has that mark—the bullet on his chest. He killed the Dreadwraith, smashed its core with a single strike." His voice dropped with the sound of awe. "That ought to have been impossible."
The leader stood, his movement economical. His suit seemed to absorb the light of the chamber rather than reflect it.
"The Dreadwraith will reconstitute itself," he said. There was no uncertainty in his voice—it was simple fact. "But perhaps this shall not be allowed to continue. Draw the sentinel closer. Cut in on the chase. Find him before he eludes us further into those corridors wherein we cannot pursue."
The robes swirled, the hands darting across the console in a burst of color to life on the holographic screen. "The sentinel will charge," he declared. "Rock, water, dust—wherever it needs."
"Find him," the leader commanded, his voice absolute and final. "This anomaly ends. No matter the cost."
Bullet followed the pull, watching the stones grow heavier around him. Clefts fell into black depths, their mouths like lips into the throat of the world. The far hum from deep beneath stirred within his bones, nearly a music in its beat.
A crevice caught his eye—its edges worn smooth by the hands of countless people over what was surely years. Smoothed by use. It attracted him like the pull itself, and he started down.
Air cooled with him as he climbed lower. The aurorae's light faded to an emanating glow filtering down through higher realms. His shoulder wound opened again with the climbing motion, new red trickling onto black, earthy soil. The scent was heavy and loamy, clashing harshly with the iron stinging of surrounding stone.
Earth and rock gave way slowly to earth. The walls are carved here by design, written with veining of shard-light that beat like a heart. Twisted carvings were torn under the eerie light—symbols in that same lost language he had seen above, twisting and writhing as if alive.
The tunnels branched off infinitely. Some of the passageways were narrow, barely wide enough for one person. Others opened up into cavernous chambers illuminated by shards that glowed like tiny suns, casting greens and blues across the walls of the ground.
Whispering voices could be heard in the distance. Human voices, calling back and forth, coordinating jobs.
Survivors. Individuals struggling life from the earth itself.