❖ The Gears of Humanity I ❖
The military van hummed steadily beneath the pale glow of twilight. Rain speckled the windows in rhythmic patterns as it rolled through the suburban outskirts. Rowan sat beside Alina, his back slouched slightly against the metal wall, while her gaze drifted outside.
For a moment, neither said a word. Silence had a weight, and they both carried enough of it to sink into the steel floor.
"You know," Alina finally murmured, "you're insane."
Rowan glanced at her with half a smirk. "You're welcome."
Alina sighed, turning her head slightly. "But thank you. I mean it."
Rowan just nodded, gaze falling again to the rain-specked glass. Somewhere between the quiet roads and the low hum of the engine, a strange melancholy crept in.
They arrived. The van came to a halt before a modest, three-story residence reinforced with military plating. Alina stepped down first. She waited for Rowan before unlocking the door.
Inside, the house was warm. Clean, minimalist furniture; photos on the shelves; dim lights casting gentle shadows. It was too normal. Too peaceful.
Alina turned at the base of the stairs. "Get some rest, Rowan.
She gave him a tired smile, then climbed the stairs. Her bedroom door clicked shut a moment later.
Rowan stood alone in the living room. The silence felt louder now. His eyes drifted around the space—the framed photos, the clock ticking, the soft sound of wind against the windows.
Then, from his coat, he pulled out a matte-black pistol. Military issue. Stolen back at the camp, just in case. He studied the weight in his hand, the cold metal pressing into his palm. No safety switch. A loaded chamber.
He flipped it once, checked the magazine, then tucked it back into his pocket.
The couch was old but soft. He lay down, eyes staring up at the ceiling fan spinning slowly. Thoughts came uninvited—flashes of the void, blood on stone, Alina unconscious, Serah's unblinking stare, the weight of the Keris in his hand. The world felt like it was trying to break him, over and over.
What am I even doing?
He didn't realize when his eyes closed. Sleep came not gently, but with weight, like slipping underwater.
Then came the pain.
Rowan's body jerked upright—but he wasn't on the couch anymore. He was falling. Dragged. Yanked back by some invisible chain. His limbs convulsed as glass-like structures slammed against him, fracturing with every impact. He spun in a kaleidoscope of pressure and cold and shattering sound.
Again. Again. Again.
He gritted his teeth, refusing to scream. Cosmic light flickered around him like tendrils of starlight and bone. Then, with a thunderous CRACK, he slammed into solid ground.
Darkness.
He opened his eyes.
The alleyway smelled of oil and rain. Mist curled upward from a nearby manhole. The walls—grey slate and riveted metal—were slick with grime and time. Pipes hissed and clanked above, and steam curled from the sides of the buildings like exhaled breath.
Rowan pushed himself up. Boots scraping against stone. His breath fogged in the cold air.
Not the real world. Not the void either.
Something in-between?
The alley opened onto a broad avenue teeming with people dressed in thick coats and soot-stained boots. Some wore brass goggles, others strange timepiece-like devices ticking on their wrists. Horse-sized mechanical walkers strode slowly down the road between steam-powered cars and gear-driven trams. Lanterns flickered with a gas-fed glow in their bell-shaped glass.
He stepped out, blending into the crowd as best he could.
Then he stopped.
Out of the corner of his eye—down a narrow alley—a woman stood. She was tall, her coat billowing slightly in the wind. Blonde. Her back was turned.
"Wait—"
But she was gone. Just like that.
Rowan's boots tapped against the slate floor as he hurried down the alleyway. Nothing. No trace. Only fog and the sound of distant machinery.
He turned back toward the main street and paused.
A poster, faded and yellowed, hung from the wall. Torn at the edges, damp with moisture.
MISSING – Eloïse Marchand
Last seen near Bastille Alley. If found, contact the City Guard.
Rowan's heart sank.
It was her.
His eyes scanned the street again, searching for anything familiar. Something moved toward him.
A man—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark trench coat and a rust-brown vest. An intricate pocket watch dangled from his waist. He had an intelligent gaze beneath a curved-brim hat, the kind worn by detectives in old noir films.
Beside him walked a girl—early twenties, wild auburn hair tied up in a messy bun, notebook clutched tightly to her chest, eyes scanning everything like a hawk.
The man raised an eyebrow. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Rowan blinked. "I… I saw her. The woman on that poster."
The man's expression didn't change. "Describe her."
Rowan hesitated. "Tall. Blonde. She was standing in the alley just now. Then she vanished."
The girl scribbled something down.
The man extended a gloved hand. "Detective Emeric Voltaire. This is my apprentice, Noelle Marchand."
Rowan slowly shook his hand.
Voltaire's eyes narrowed. "You're not from here, are you?"
"No."
Noelle leaned forward, curious. "And how exactly did you arrive in a locked sector of Garnelion without passing the checkpoints?"
Rowan's lips parted. He didn't have an answer.
Voltaire glanced at the crowd. "We'll talk somewhere quieter. And safer. There are things here you don't want to understand too quickly."
Rowan followed them into the mist.
They walk through a maze of buildings, the gears spinning, attached to the buildings and pipes everywhere. Then they finally reached the destination, the detective invites Rowan to enter.
The door creaked open, revealing a modest but orderly interior, lined with bookshelves stuffed with thick, weathered tomes and case files stacked like bricks. A single overhead lamp buzzed gently above a cluttered desk. The smell of coffee and old parchment lingered in the air.
"This is our base of operations," the detective said, stepping inside and hanging his coat. "Emeric Voltaire. And this is Noelle, my apprentice."
Noelle gave a curt nod, eyes sharp and assessing. Her short hair curled just above her shoulders, and she carried herself like someone who was always half a step from drawing a blade.
"Rowan," he replied simply. His voice was low, edged with a weariness that hadn't left him since the Void.
"You said you saw the woman on the poster," Emeric said, gesturing for him to sit. "Start from the beginning."
Rowan recounted the encounter—walking through the alley, catching a glimpse of her, then finding her face on the weathered poster. Voltaire leaned in slightly, hands clasped, listening intently. Noelle took notes in a leather-bound book with a bronze mechanical clasp that clicked with every page turn.
"A hallucination?" she asked, not unkindly, but direct.
"I know what I saw," Rowan replied. "She was there."
"Then we investigate," Emeric said. "Noelle, get the field kit."
The air was thick with fog as they returned to the alleyway. The oppressive weight of the city pressed down on them—high buildings looming overhead, gears grinding softly, steam hissing from cracks in the pipes lining the street. The cold, wet stones beneath their feet reflected flickers of dim light as lanterns swayed.
"This place is like a maze," Noelle muttered, glancing around. "How can anyone live like this?"
Emeric's eyes scanned the alley. He crouched by a metal grate, running his fingers along the jagged edges. "They don't. They just exist in the shadows. Look around. We're not in a normal part of the city anymore."
Rowan nodded, taking in the surroundings. The buildings here were older—creaky metal and rusted iron. The sound of distant clanging echoed through the streets, a reminder of the city's constant churn. Steam hissed from overhead pipes, clouding the path ahead. A shadow moved at the corner of his eye.
"Noelle, check that alley," Emeric said, his voice steady. "I think we've found something."
Noelle gave a sharp nod and moved quickly, drawing a slender device from her belt. The metal tool whirred to life as she pried open a rusty hatch on the side of a building. Beneath it, there was a steep stairwell leading downward into the darkness.
"Looks like the deeper they go, the worse it gets," Noelle said, half to herself.
Emeric was already descending the stairs, motioning for Rowan to follow. The air grew colder and heavier with each step, the faint smell of decay hanging in the air. At the bottom, the narrow corridor led into a damp room, its walls covered with old machinery—grinding gears, pipes snaking through the floor, and more rusted metal.
And then they saw it.
A skeleton, arranged carefully in a twisted pose. Its ribs were cracked, like they had been crushed under immense pressure, but there was something more chilling about it. Its arms were stretched, bones jutted at odd angles, and the skull faced the ceiling in a hauntingly ballet-like position. A ribbon of dried blood was the only trace of the woman's previous life.
Rowan stood frozen for a moment, staring at the scene. Noelle moved closer, inspecting the bones. "Not just murdered," she whispered. "This was deliberate. Staged."
Emeric crouched next to the remains, his face hardening. "It's not just a body—this is a message."
Rowan's brow furrowed. "A message from who? And why?"
Emeric stood, his eyes dark with understanding. "Someone wanted us to find this. Someone wanted us to know what they're capable of."
Noelle looked up from the skeleton, eyes narrowed. "But there's something off about this. The way the bones are arranged—there's a purpose here. It's almost… artistic?"
"A twisted kind of art," Rowan muttered, walking closer to examine the scene. The bones seemed too carefully placed, too deliberate. Whoever did this had a purpose beyond simple murder.
The investigation led them deeper into the city's underbelly. The street lights flickered as they moved past abandoned factories and dilapidated buildings, each with the same eerie hum of gears turning, steam piping into the night air. Rowan was beginning to feel like they were being watched, though he couldn't see anyone. Noelle walked ahead, scanning every shadow with a hawk-like vigilance.
"This doesn't add up," she said, more to herself than anyone else. "First the woman, now this skeleton. It's like whoever's behind this is trying to build something… a pattern, maybe. But what?"
Emeric paused, hand on his chin. "We're missing something. The body wasn't just left here by accident. It's part of a bigger picture."
Rowan couldn't help but feel a deep unease creep into his bones as they continued through the alleyways. Something was off—something was too precise. And the city's dissonant hum only made it worse.
They reached a door marked with a faded symbol—a cog, surrounded by strange, archaic markings. Emeric stepped forward, pushing it open slowly. Inside, the factory was more like a workshop, with tools scattered across long workbenches, and strange machines—some half-built—lined the walls.
But the most disturbing thing was the sight that greeted them.
On a worktable, covered in a mixture of blood and grease, lay what appeared to be a robot. Its body was covered in torn pieces of human flesh—patches of skin, muscle, and even remnants of clothing. The face was eerily familiar. It was the woman's face, stitched together in a crude attempt to make it look human. But the eyes were wrong—too lifeless, too mechanical.
Emeric's eyes widened. "This… this is the thing that did it. The flesh. It's all from her."
Rowan stepped closer, feeling a deep revulsion. "How is this even possible? Who would—"
The robot's head jerked upward, its mechanical joints screeching as it struggled to move. For a moment, it simply stared at them, eyes flickering with dim, unnatural light. Then, it began to speak, its voice a low, distorted static.
"I… wanted… to be real," it rasped. "I wanted to feel. To touch. To live."
The sound was jarring, like nails on a chalkboard, and it sent a chill down Rowan's spine. The robot's hands twitched, attempting to move, but the flesh that covered its body was too thick, too unnatural.
"I tried to be her," it continued, its voice breaking. "I thought if I wore her, if I became her… I could be… human. But I failed. I can't… be real."
Emeric's jaw tightened. "This thing… It's not just a machine. It's mimicking life. It's trying to become human."
Rowan stepped back, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his blade. "But why? Why would it do this?"
The robot's voice grew more frantic, the static in its speech deepening. "I was made to serve… but I want more. I want to feel. I wanted her… her warmth, her voice, her breath… But I can't. I can't be her."
The robot's hands curled into claws, its eyes widening as it trembled. "I need… I need to feel something. Please… help me… help me be real. Help me live."
Its voice cracked one final time, spiraling into a jagged scream. The robot's body lurched forward, the pieces of flesh on its face cracking as it stumbled towards them, the screech of its joints louder now. Rowan's eyes narrowed.
Before anyone could react, it lunged—its hands extended, metal claws shining in the dim light, reaching for Emeric.
Rowan moved faster than he thought possible. He grabbed a nearby wrench and swung it into the robot's torso with all his strength, the metallic clang ringing out through the workshop. The robot faltered, momentarily knocked off balance, but it wasn't done. It turned on Rowan, its mechanical eyes filled with madness.
"I won't let you take her from me!" it screeched.
Rowan swung again, his movements frantic, his pulse racing. The wrench made contact with the robot's face, knocking off pieces of metal and tearing through the human-like flesh that covered its skin. The robot's arms flailed, its body jerking violently. It charged at Rowan, but he was quicker. He ducked under its outstretched claws, grabbed a jagged shard of metal from the workbench, and drove it into the robot's chest.
With a loud screech, the robot's body spasmed once, twice, and then went limp. Its head collapsed forward, its eyes dimming, the flicker of life fading from its form.
Rowan stood over it, chest heaving. The air was thick with the stench of burnt metal and decaying flesh. Emeric and Noelle slowly approached, their expressions grim.
Emeric knelt next to the robot's remains, his fingers running through the torn flesh. "This thing… was never meant to be anything more than a machine. But it wanted to be human. It wanted to live, to feel."
Noelle's voice was quiet, almost sympathetic. "It failed. It was never meant to feel. And now… it's dead."
Rowan wiped his brow, his eyes dark with understanding. "But who made this? Who made it think it could be human?"
Emeric looked up, his face hardening. "Whoever did this is playing a game with us. And we're only just beginning to see the pieces."