Location: Scrapper's Cove — Disposal Yard — Night
The blade arced toward Elijah's chest.
Time seemed to slow—not literally, but in the way that moments before violence always stretched, always thickened, always became something that could be felt between heartbeats.
Nico's face was twisted. Rage. Humiliation. The desperate hunger of someone who had been told he was a predator and had just learned he was prey.
Elijah's perception expanded.
The aetherflux around Nico's necklace surged—not in a controlled wave, but in a jagged, spastic burst. The energy that erupted from the blade wasn't aimed. It was vomited. A convulsion of unstable frequency that took the shape of something almost like wind.
But not wind.
Wind moved. This twisted.
It spiraled outward from the blade in gale-like streams—invisible, but Elijah could see them. Faint ripples in the air, like heat shimmer over summer asphalt, but colder. Sharper. Each stream carried a frequency that made his teeth ache.
Lower vibrational spectrum, he thought. Intent to harm. Intent to tear.
His body moved before his mind caught up.
He ducked.
Not a dodge he had planned. Not a decision. His knees bent. His spine curved. His head dropped to the level of his waist as if pulled by invisible wires. The gale passed over him—close enough that he felt the pressure of it, the hunger of it, the way it wanted to unmake the flesh it touched.
What the hell? he thought.
The blade passed through empty air where his chest had been.
Nico's momentum carried him forward. He stumbled, caught himself, spun around. His eyes were wide.
"You—"
Elijah straightened.
His mask—Nathan Drayke's punchable face—was still in place. But behind it, his own expression was something else. Surprise, yes. But also... recognition.
That wasn't me, he realized. I didn't think about moving. I just moved. My body knew where the attack was going before I did.
The Mandate? Or something else?
He didn't have time to answer.
---
Emberdown charged.
His massive frame ate the distance in three strides—shoulders low, arms pumping, his necklace glowing through the collar of his jacket. The aetherflux around him was denser than Nico's, heavier, but just as unstable. It clung to his fists like fog, trailing behind him as he moved.
Silver-tongue came from the left.
She was faster. Her movements were sharper, more controlled, but her aetherflux flickered in the same jagged rhythm. It curled around her hands like smoke, then solidified into something closer to claws.
Behind them, Lenz and DJ Blowhard raised their hands.
Their necklaces pulsed in unison.
Gales of twisted aetherflux erupted from their palms—not aimed at Elijah directly, but at the space around him. They were trying to box him in. To limit his movement. To turn the disposal yard into a cage of hungry frequencies.
Elijah's perception screamed.
Left, right, center, low—
He moved.
Not fast. Not dramatic. Just... efficient.
His left foot slid back. His torso twisted. A gale passed where his shoulder had been. He shifted his weight forward. Another passed where his hip had been. His head tilted. A third screamed past his ear, close enough to ruffle his hair.
They're not aiming, he thought. They're spraying. Like children with fire hoses. No control. No precision.
Emberdown reached him.
The massive man's fist came down—not a punch, a hammer. His aetherflux condensed around his knuckles, turning them into something that looked almost like stone.
Elijah stepped inside the arc.
His body folded at the waist again—not a dodge, a lean. The hammer fist whistled past his back, close enough to tear a strip from his coverall. Emberdown's momentum carried him forward. His feet tangled. He crashed into a stack of old buoys, sending them clattering across the gravel.
"Too slow, mate," Elijah said.
The Australian accent was lazy. Disinterested.
"You telegraph like a semaphore tower."
Emberdown's face went red.
---
Silver-tongue came at him from the side.
Her claws—aetherflux condensed into sharp, flickering edges—slashed at his throat. Elijah stepped back. She followed. Slash. Step. Slash. Step.
Each attack was faster than the last, but her aetherflux was growing more unstable with every strike. The claws flickered, dissolved, reformed. The frequency spiked, dropped, spiked again.
She's losing control, Elijah thought. The necklace is burning through her.
He ducked under a slash that would have taken his head off. His body moved in a tight circle, his shoulder brushing against her arm. She stumbled. Her balance wavered.
"My, my," Elijah said.
He made his eyes wide behind the mask. Made his lips curl into something that was almost a pout.
"You know, you could ditch these losers and come to my side."
Silver-tongue's eyes narrowed.
"Your appearance is barely average," he continued, tilting his head, "but I suppose you could be among my maids."
Her face contorted.
"You barbaric fiend!"
Her voice cracked across the yard. The aetherflux around her hands flared—bright, jagged, hungry.
"You are just like all men! All lose their tongues when they see skirts! All think they're so full of themselves!"
She lunged.
"I'm going to tear that tongue out of your mouth!"
Elijah sidestepped. Her claws tore through empty air. He caught her wrist—not hard, just enough to redirect her momentum. She spun, off-balance, and he released her.
"If you put it like that," he said, "aren't you dissing your buddies? They're men too. Most of them, anyway."
He glanced at Lenz and DJ Blowhard.
"Hard to tell with those two."
---
Emberdown had recovered.
He stood among the scattered buoys, his chest heaving, his necklace glowing so brightly that the symbols carved into it were visible through his jacket. His eyes were bloodshot. His teeth were bared.
"Easy there, little man," he growled.
His voice was low. Threatening.
"You're quick. I'll give you that. But quick doesn't mean—"
"Little?" Elijah interrupted.
He looked down at himself. Then back at Emberdown.
"You're calling me little? You're the size of a refrigerator, mate. And about as graceful."
He took a step forward.
"Let me show you something."
His leg swept low.
Not fast. Not powerful. Just... precise. The side of his foot caught the back of Emberdown's knee. The big man's leg buckled. His weight shifted. His arms pinwheeled as he tried to catch himself.
Elijah's other foot came up.
His kick wasn't aimed at Emberdown's body. It was aimed at his backside—right in the center, right where the tailbone would be if he had one.
Emberdown lurched forward.
His face met the gravel.
The impact was loud—a wet, meaty sound that echoed off the broken boats and rusted barrels. Emberdown groaned. His hands scraped at the ground, trying to push himself up.
Behind him, DJ Blowhard's aetherflux gale went wide.
The twisted energy slammed into Emberdown's back.
It wasn't aimed at him. It was aimed at Elijah, who was no longer there. But the frequency didn't care about intent. It only cared about contact.
Emberdown screamed.
His body arched. The aetherflux seared through his jacket, through his shirt, into his skin. He coughed—once, twice—and blood spattered across the gravel.
"You—" he gasped. "You—"
He collapsed.
---
Silver-tongue was still coming.
She had recovered from her stumble. Her claws were back, brighter now, more stable. Her eyes were locked on Elijah's mask.
"You think you're clever," she hissed. "You think you're untouchable."
"I think I'm standing," Elijah said. "And you're not."
She lunged.
He caught her wrist.
Not the one with the claw. The other one. His fingers wrapped around her forearm, and he pulled—not toward him, but past him. Her momentum carried her forward. Her shoulder passed his chest. Her back was to him now.
His other hand found her other wrist.
He crossed her arms behind her back—one over the other, a lock that forced her shoulders back and her spine straight. Her claws dissolved as her concentration broke.
His left hand moved.
It wrapped around her throat.
Not choking. Just... holding. His fingers pressed against the sides of her neck, feeling the pulse of her carotid artery, the warmth of her skin, the way her breath caught.
"That's enough," he said.
His voice was quiet.
The Australian accent was gone.
---
Nico stopped.
His blade was still raised. His eyes were wide. His necklace pulsed in uneven, frantic rhythms.
Behind him, DJ Blowhard's hands dropped to his sides. Lenz's sharp face went pale. Their gales faded, their aetherflux retreating back into their necklaces like wounded animals.
"Let her go," Nico said.
His voice cracked.
"Let her go, you bastard."
Elijah did not move.
His hand remained on Silver-tongue's throat. His other hand held her wrists in their lock. Her body was pressed against his, her back to his chest, her breathing shallow and furious.
"You're in no position to give orders, mate," Elijah said.
The accent was back. Thick. Obnoxious.
"You came here to kill me. You failed. Now you want me to be merciful?"
"I said let her go!"
Nico's voice rose. His blade trembled.
Behind the mask, Elijah's expression was unreadable.
But his eyes—visible through the eye holes—were cold.
"Make me," he said.
The yard fell silent.
The waves sighed against the beach. The distant lights of the Portside flickered. And five figures stood frozen in the yellow glow—four of them afraid, one of them waiting.
Waiting to see who would blink first.
---