Marshal paced through the thick smog, Voidium clinging to his tongue like powdered glass. He wiped at his lips, but the reflective dust refused to come off—seeping into his skin, merging like it belonged there. While Voidium was normally harmless on its own, what lurked in it was a different story.
The sounds, whispers, and shadows flickered like something living, crawling up the walls before disappearing as if they'd never been there. Plus, hair-tickling sensations of being watched. Was it the old ship creaking or something else?
He would know for sure if only his cold core could burn. But like dense muck that refused to scrub off, it blurred his sight, the edges of benches, light fixtures, and his fingers showing glimpses of fragmented rim glow—his hair rapidly greying as refractive dust latched on.
The junction split into two—no, three. The light flickered, stretching shadows where there should be none. The walls bent inward, the mirrored mist oozing toward him like liquid glass.
He blinked.
The world reset.
Or had it?
Honestly, he had no clue where they were; he just led them forward, hoping they would find a sign to tell them where on the ship they were. His boots rubbed the grated steel below. He frowned, but where was forward? Nothing made sense in the reflective Voidium fog.
A prime example was the light from the ship's dim lamps, which fractured in the fog and split into a thousand mirrored beams that bounced and twisted. Shadows formed where they shouldn't, shapes that loomed too large for the space. It was no wonder many void divers never returned. Even with his experience, it was all down to luck.
"Are we walking in circles or what?" the woman huffed.
Marsh glanced at the Valkar behind him, her lips pouting as she walked. She walked with the poise of a noble, but there was something tired in her step, her shoulders weighed down. She was like a beautiful glass vase—fragile but resilient, chipped and scorned by experiences he could only guess at. He refrained from prodding, but he wanted to know what life she lived.
"If I were in the lead, we would be out of this stuff already." She said.
Her tail flicked, and her expression scrunched at his gaze.
"I-" Marsh said.
He stopped; what could he even say to her? It was clear she wasn't fond of him. No doubt she had plenty of reasons to hate him. Who wouldn't? He continued his pace; he was fine being the villain; being condemned is what a monarch is about. He just needed to play his part; he needed her to be wary and on guard. She shouldn't trust him.
"What?" she said, "Don't leave me hanging like that. This silence is killing me."
"Does that mean I can talk now?" asked Fay. "Because I've been meaning to ask how you learned to handle a pole like that. I've had clients wanting a tug or two, and I can't quite do it right."
Then, as Fay mentioned, Marsh watched how her fingers effortlessly spun her spear. Her movements danced a flick, a spin, a twirl. Something was captivating about it, more than raw skill, an art. She had a trained fluidity, the weapon a toy in her grip, her body— He flushed and forced his attention away. Get a grip; now wasn't the time. He had to keep her on edge, keep her suspicious. Trust was a luxury neither of them could afford right now. Villain. Be the villain, Marshal.
"Next time you open that mouth of yours," She lay her spear to the man's throat. "I'll put this shaft right down it."
"I'll have you know, I'm used to swallowing things, long... or thick."
The woman rolled her tail, her eyes following. She looked at him, her silent expression, asking why he let Fay tag along. But her furrowed brow and emotive face pulled at him, making his fingers twitch with the temptation to scoop her up. He wondered what new expression she would make.
He smiled, and she snarked at him, blissfully unaware, her tail flicking wildly. The way she looked up, despite being just as tall as him, the bash of her lashes daring him to try his luck. It was just so—
"Cute."
The word slipped out before he could stop it.
Her tail froze mid-flick.
A single blink.
Crimson eyes, wide.
Lips parted—just slightly—like she almost had something to say.
Then—
Fay's voice shattered the moment.
"Hey, Sucki Lady," said the fairy, "Sucki, look at this. Sucki, hey."
Like a hammer closing on a nail, the woman's body snapped towards the spy.
"My name's Lorelai." She spat. "What do you want?"
"Raw rye," the man grinned. "Sounds a lot like a cream pie."
Lorelai, like a flame, burst at full burn, "I'll fucking tear your wings off, you little shit."
"I can tell you it's not little," Fay stroked his bare leg, his fingers moving toward his not-so-effective underwear, "I can show you if you wish."
Lorelai scrunched her face, yet another face Marsh got to see, even if that prick created it. And before the woman could rip off the spy's wings, Marsh swallowed hard, pushing away the stray thoughts that tugged at him. Without a word, he stepped deeper into the thickening fog.
"Lorelai." he said.
She flicked over, the frown nothing like her wagging tail.
"What," she said bluntly.
He watched her tail sway, along with whatever she was thinking, the beautiful horns crowning her conflicted face. He bit his lip, stomaching back a grin; interacting with her was—
Out of nowhere, an ancient tower flashed through the fog, its dark stone rising against the mist, defying the ship's logic. It was a sight as old as the seven Monarchs themselves. His heart stopped—an impossible sight, an echo from another time. But just as quickly, it vanished, leaving only dust in its place. Then came the boots, distant at first, like ghosts marching on metal. The sound fired a jolt in his bones. His eyes scanned the fog, each angle greeting him with nothing suspicious than dust. Why was he getting antsy? It was just Voidium. He had been through worse.
"So, is anyone going to check this out, or shall I pretend there isn't a corpse over here?" said Fay.
He and Lorelai turned toward the Aviar man, Fay's stupid expression earning a sigh. A flutter of fog locked around them like a solidified bubble, as if controlled somehow. Marsh glanced at the spy's lazy expression; it couldn't be. He would have picked it up by now.
The man grinned, his lips ready to pounce on something stupid. So, blanking the pantless man's gesture, Marsh examined the Durg's body. Her buckled Exoskeleton lay cracked and broken, the eyes leaking Eitherite dust. It was all the tale-tale signs of cellular deterioration as her antennae fragmented into glassy yellow particles—the corrosive dust, like a powder, replaced the woman's skin.
Marsh kicked at it. She was just bone and dust now. It would have been quite a while for Eitherite to dissolve this much, so why did the walls look so fresh? The corrupting glass took much longer to break down organic matter than physical structures so that you would expect some level of decay in the steel, yet nothing, almost like she had been placed after death. Something didn't add up. How was Roselind related? How is this keeping him safe?
"Ooh, — wh— find," Lorelai said.
He turned, and for a second, the world seemed to jar his eyes, updating on delay as the room followed after the fact. But guessing the fatigue was at fault, he blinked, and turned his attention back to Lorelai, who had moved further into the fog and was now lifting an enormous crystalline rifle, the giant twin-barreled machine like a death synth in her grip.
"Hand it over," Marsh said.
The woman's bright smile warped to a growl as she regarded him. But ignoring her venomous stare, Marsh placed out his hand expectantly. But something felt wrong. As Lorelai's tail flicked in irritation and her lips formed a pout, Marsh's eyes caught something unsettling in the floor's reflection—a serene, almost tranquil smile, as if someone else entirely looked back at him. He blinked, and the expression snapped back, the reflection now mirroring her irritation.
"Fine," she said.
The weapon flew over like a spear aimed at Marsh's throat, his reflexes catching the projectile, moments before impact.
He shot her a look.
"I slipped." She said. The sly woman, not even masking her smile.
Marsh sighed, Lorelai's sass aside, he gave the reflective rifle a scan. And unlike most guns, it was made of steel, the only crystalline component at the stock where the Voltite gemstone sat. The ball of green glass was entirely out of charge. He hadn't seen one of these in years, a prototype anti-gemstone rifle, one of seven ever made.
Fay peeped over his shoulder. "That pre-war tech, rare; I had some clients mount them on walls like some common collectables. A waste of good firepower, if you ask me."
Marsh nodded. Yes, it was a waste, considering that weapons like this could melt armour and whoever stood in its path in their heyday. It was perfect for anti-gemstone and would make goo of current inquisitors, melting them like any standard weapon couldn't.
He gripped the rifle, feeling his bones ache; his crystalline skeleton was no match for this. Nothing in this era would survive a shot. He looked at the corpse, so how did she die then? He blinked, noticing the woman's uniform; it was Imperial, a time he hadn't seen since the fall.
The fog tightened. His breath—too loud. Too fast.
Then—
Bootsteps.
One.
Two.
Gunfire cracked. Howls followed. Bones shattered.
The fog swallowed him whole.
He wasn't in the present anymore.
He was back in hell.
The day it all happened.
He turned to Fay and Lorelai, but the whispers in the fog turned into voices—screams— orders.
His throat choked on burned glass, the burning hellstorm slapping him as the corridor crumbled away.
His boots shattered dirt, the smog of his burnt fingers slamming round after round.
The monster's waves refused to stop.
His body, his very being on edge.
His will faded, his voice gone long ago.
The overworld was flooded, and the city swarmed.
The city of hell.
His home—
Thick with Voidium.
Marsh's fingers dug into his chest, clawing at the cold glass inside him. He couldn't feel it. His core wasn't there—no, that wasn't right. It had to be. He pressed his heart, the cold organ inside him fracturing by the second.
It isn't real. It isn't real. It isn't real.
He clenched his eyes, his vision flooded with reflective dust, and the fog swallowed him again. The war was over; he was no longer required to fight. He was on the airship. He wasn't an inquisitor anymore. Project Daemons March was over.
Stuffing it down, he glanced at his fingers. His nails dug in as if to tear his core out, his breath stabilising. However, expecting Lorelai or Fay to react, the fog eased, revealing Fay's amused, knowing smile.
'I'm not being racist, but honey… even for a vampire, you look pale.'"
Marsh irked the man; spy or not; he could at least have the decency to be serious. He scanned the man. There was something about how the fog avoided him and how he glided through it like it wasn't even there. Only one thing came to mind, but he would have shown symptoms by now. Surely, it couldn't be the case. The Daemons hadn't come back, right?
Then, with his breath held, he tilted his sight to Lorelai. But he stiffened as a tear ran down her cheek, her longing eyes staring right into the soul of the corpse.
"Did you know him?" Fay said, the man beating Marsh to it.
But most importantly, did he say him? Marsh examined the body—definitely a woman. Or was it? As he blinked, the curves of her exoskeleton seemed to erode and soften. Her face blurred, stretched. A flicker in the fog, and suddenly, his Imperial uniform warped into a plain, drab suit stained in a violent crimson. The Durg woman was now a Thalin waiter, his limp tail and lack of Eitherite eroding shifting to reality.
Marsh looked at the rifle in his hand, the steel warped to iron and the brush finish stained to grime. He squeezed the trigger and found only a metallic shaft; the heavy fuel cell was now a light and nimble spear tip. He fingered the weapon at the points where Lorelai held it, still warm.
He looked back at Lorelai, And for a millisecond, she let it slip. He saw it—the way her tail curled in, the way her lip tightened, just on the edge of breaking. But as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. She reset. Her eyes frosted, the fire stamped out and buried.
"Lorelai?" he asked, but his lips refused to open.
He tried to speak, to reach out, but his body refused. It was like watching a dam buckle, lock and remould the construction in real-time. And for once, the fog wasn't an issue, as his blood shot alive, but he was unable to move a muscle. His own legs appeared distorted, unnaturally elongated, like he was being stretched into the fog. Each step felt welded to the ground, limbs stretched and distorted, pulling him deeper into the fog's grip as if he were only a spectator in his own skin.
Lorelai looked up.
For a moment—just a flicker—her mask cracked.
Her tail curling inward, her lip quivering.
Something flickered in her gaze—something burning.
Then, like a light snuffed out—
She turned.
And ran.