Amir stared, his mind a vortex of shock and panic. How? How could he possibly know? Does the
entire Inquisition know? Is this a trap? What do I say—
The Captain's laughter was a low, rumbling sound that cut through Amir's spiraling thoughts. It
wasn't mocking; it was almost… paternal.
"Relax, son," the Captain said, his voice a calming anchor in the storm of Amir's anxiety. "You don't
have to say anything. Not right now. Just… relax."
With a practiced, unhurried grace, the Captain reached for a polished silver teapot that sat on a
warmer at the corner of his massive desk. He poured the steaming, amber liquid into a second
porcelain cup that Amir hadn't even noticed was set out. The simple, domestic act was surreal in
the heart of this secret, arcane headquarters.
He slid the cup across the desk toward Amir. The faint, fragrant scent of bergamot and black tea
filled the space between them.
"Now then," the Captain said, his piercing blue eyes crinkling at the corners. "How much sugar
would you like?"
"Sir… I mean, Captain," Amir stammered, his voice tight. "I'm from Oakhaven. You must have
misunderstood."
The man's laughter was soft, knowing. "There is no misunderstanding, son." His gaze, sharp and
unwavering, locked onto Amir's. "Do you know about the Gear of the Unheard Echoes?"
"No," Amir admitted, the unfamiliar name sending a fresh chill down his spine.
"In the Gear of the Unheard Echoes," the Captain explained calmly, "one of the abilities is lie
detection. Although Demi-Gods can read minds, I am not that powerful yet… and I do not intend
to be." He leaned forward slightly, the atmosphere in the room shifting from congenial to intensely
serious. "So. What… do you want to do with your Tuner powers, young man?"
Amir felt a primal fear grip him, but beneath it, a spark of defiance ignited. He met the Captain's
gaze, his voice rough with suppressed emotion. "I want… to return back to my home. And maybe…
seek vengeance on the people who…" His voice broke. A single, hot tear traced a path through the
grime on his cheek, betraying the stoicism he was trying to project. "I just wanted to protect my
loved ones," he whispered, the admission tearing itself from a place of raw, recent grief.
The Captain's stern expression softened into a gentle, understanding smile. "Son," he began, his
tone paternal. "In my life, I have seen many Tuners—rough Tuners, disciplined ones. I was even
lucky enough to meet a Demi-God once. Most recruits have… peculiar reasons for joining. Pyotr,
whom you've met—do you know why he joined the Harmonic Inquisition?" He didn't wait for an
answer. "Because he fancied an officer here. Funny enough, it was the same reason he joined the
Cog-Watchers." He chuckled warmly before his eyes grew distant, reflective. "A good, different
desire… a unique personality… these things increase the chances of you becoming a powerful
Tuner. One who can truly protect this beautiful city."Beautiful city? Amir thought, a surge of bitterness cutting through his sorrow. This smog-choked
hellhole? Beautiful, my ass.
The old man laughed aloud, a rich, hearty sound. "Haha! You don't have to curse it." Amir stared,
shocked. Wait, can he read my mind?
"I do not know how to read minds," the Captain said, as if answering the unspoken question. "But I
understand people. I can guess what they are thinking, what they might say. And you are right. The
city does not look that good. Neither are most of its people. But there is goodness out here, even
in this pitch-dark world. And that… is worth dying for."
He leaned back, steepling his fingers. "I do not know much about your world, and I will not ask. Let
us make a deal, shall we, Amir Zen?"
Amir went still, every sense on high alert. "What deal?"
"You serve the Harmonic Inquisition faithfully," the Captain stated, his voice leaving no room for
ambiguity, "and I will dedicate the resources of this office to figuring out how you can return
home."
Amir's composure shattered. "And listen, kid," the Captain continued, his tone hardening slightly,
"vengeance… revenge… it will not bring any good—"
"THEY KILLED A LITTLE GIRL IN FRONT OF ME!" Amir shouted, surging to his feet, his fists clenched.
The memory of Reil's beheading played behind his eyes, sharp and agonizing. "They burned down
an entire village! They murdered her brother—a man who saved my life twice—and left him to die
in the dirt! They weren't soldiers! They were a little girl and a farmer trying to survive! So don't you
dare tell me vengeance won't bring any good! It's the ONLY thing that makes sense in this damned
world!"
He stood there, chest heaving, tears now flowing freely.
The Captain didn't flinch. He didn't reprimand him. He simply… smiled. A sad, profound smile that
reached his eyes.
Amir stared in bewildered fury. Has this old man lost his mind? I'm describing a massacre, and he's
smiling?
"You remind me of my son," Captain Rustof said softly, his gaze looking through Amir, into a
memory etched in pain.
The simple statement deflated Amir's anger, replacing it with a confused emptiness.
"I will immediately dispatch a team to Oakhaven to investigate the attack and recover any…
remains," the Captain stated, his voice returning to its professional cadence. "But you have not yet
cleared the most important point. Will you agree to our contract?"
Amir took a deep, shuddering breath, the weight of his few, terrible options pressing down on him.
This was a path to power, to knowledge, to maybe, just maybe, setting things right.
"Fine," he said, his voice hoarse but firm. "I will work for you."
Captain Rustof's smile returned, warmer this time. "Good. And do not worry. Your secret is safe
with me." He extended a hand across the desk. "And you should call me Captain Rustof."
Amir took the hand. The grip was firm, solid, like shaking hands with a mountain.
"Okay… Captain."Captain Rustof gave a firm, satisfied nod. "Very well. Let's get you into business real quick. Since
you are already a Tuner, we can skip the boring procedures and basic training." He steepled his
fingers, his eyes assessing Amir. "To start, given your… unique entry and current ability, your rank
will be Probationary Inquisitor. You will be working and training directly with a senior officer."
He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Now, which officer should I assign you to…? Ah, I know just the
perfect one."
He picked up the receiver of the brass landline on his desk and dialed a short number. "My office.
Now."
After a short while, a sharp knock echoed through the room.
"Come in," Rustof said.
The door opened to reveal Johnathan Blake, his expression one of dutiful readiness. "Hello, Captain.
You said there was a new—" His sentence died in his throat as his eyes landed on Amir sitting in
the chair. The realization of what the Captain was asking him to do dawned instantly.
His face darkened with immediate, unbridled fury. "You have got to be kidding me," he seethed,
his voice low and dangerous. "I have to train this… this scaly wag?"
Captain Rustof merely laughed, a rich, unconcerned sound. "Looks like you two know each other!
That's good. It makes the learning process more efficient. And believe me, learning through real
mission experience is far better than normal training."
Johnathan looked as if he'd been forced to swallow something vile. He took a sharp, steadying
breath, visibly clamping down on his rage. "Fine, Captain," he bit out, each word clipped. "Just tell
him not to be annoying."
Rustof's smile was placid. "Very well." He turned his gaze to Amir, who had watched the entire
exchange with a mix of apprehension and grim acceptance. "Amir, you will follow Johnathan's
orders. He is aware of the current mission status. Good luck."
Amir nodded silently, rising from his chair. He could feel the heat of Johnathan's glare as he
followed the furious potion-user out of the office, the door clicking shut behind them with a sound
of finality.
Alone once more, Captain Rustof leaned back. He pulled a long, dark cigar from a wooden box on
his desk, clipped the end, and lit it with a slow, deliberate motion. He took a deep, long inhale, the
end glowing a fierce orange, and exhaled a plume of smoke that wreathed his head like a crown of
ghosts.
The silence in the corridor was thicker and heavier than the sewer muck they'd just
escaped. Johnathan Blake walked with a stiff, purposeful stride, his back a clear
message of displeasure aimed at the world in general and Amir in particular. Amir
followed, the new title of "Probationary Inquisitor" feeling like a cheap suit that didn't
fit.
After a full minute of oppressive quiet, Johnathan spoke without turning his head, his
voice clipped. "Since you're Frequency One, your power is a flickering candle in a
storm. You can't rely on it solely. You need a weapon. Something solid that won't
vanish when your focus wavers or your sacrifice runs out."He took a sharp turn, leading them away from the administrative chambers and
deeper into the operational heart of the headquarters. They arrived at a reinforced
vault door, which Johnathan opened with a key and a complex series of clicks from a
mechanical lock. The door swung inward with a pressurized hiss.
Amir's breath caught in his throat. The Inquisition Armory was not a simple rack of
rifles. It was a gallery of calculated violence, an archive of ways to end lives both
mortal and otherwise. The air was cold and smelled of gun oil, ozone, and treated
leather. Light gleamed off polished barrels, razor-edged steel, and the unsettling, non
reflective surfaces of artifacts he couldn't name. There were rifles with spiraling barrels
and crystalline foci, swords etched with glowing runes, and gauntlets that hummed
with contained energy.
"Don't gawk. Hurry up," Johnathan snapped, leaning against a rack of conventional
looking, though heavily modified, rifles. "Pick something that suits you. We don't have
the entire day."
Amir moved through the aisles, his eyes scanning the overwhelming options. Heavy
weapons were out—he lacked the strength and training. Swords felt too medieval, too
honest for the deceptive fighter he was becoming. Then his eyes landed on it, resting
on a velvet-lined tray in a glass case Johnathan had already unlocked.
It was a Repeater Hand-Cannon.
It was a masterpiece of brutal, steampunk engineering. The frame was forged from
blued steel, worn in places to a dull silver. It featured a six-chambered, side-loading
cylinder, but the barrel was unusually long and thick, fluted to dissipate heat, with a
cluster of tiny, intricate resonance crystals set just behind the muzzle. The grip was
checkered ebony, and its most distinctive feature was the firing mechanism—it lacked
a traditional hammer. Instead, a heavy, knurled iron wheel, like a miniature gear, was
positioned where the hammer would be, ready to be thumb-cocked with a loud,
definitive click-clack.
It wasn't a finesse weapon. It was loud, intimidating, and promised overwhelming
stopping power at close range. It was a tool for when illusions failed and something
needed to be very, very dead.
"This one," Amir said, pointing.
Johnathan looked from the weapon to Amir, his expression a mixture of contempt and
mild surprise. "The 'Iron Argument'? Figures you'd pick the loudest, most unsubtle
thing in the room. Fine. It suits your lack of nuance." He unlocked the case. "It's a .577
caliber. Hits like a runaway steam-wagon. The crystals are a cheap Aetheric amplifier—
gives the round a little extra 'punch' against things that don't like harmonic energy.Don't expect it to save you." He tossed Amir a stiff leather shoulder holster and two
boxes of heavy, custom-made cartridges. "Load it. Now."
Amir fumbled slightly with the unfamiliar mechanism, sliding the massive rounds into
the chambers and settling the holster under his arm. The weight of the loaded weapon
was a sobering, solid presence against his ribs.
"Anyways," Johnathan muttered, as if the entire exercise was a pointless diversion.
"Let's go. Your babysitting session begins."
They made their way out of the hidden headquarters, through the Cog-Watcher
station, and back out into the grimy daylight of Steelhaven. The transition from the
silent, arcane order of the Inquisition to the city's chaotic, industrial roar was jarring.
As they pushed through the crowded streets, Amir finally broke the silence. "Where
are we going?"
"To your first mission," Johnathan replied, not slowing his pace.
"What is it?"
"An infestation."
"Infestation of what? Rats? Wraiths?"
"Worse. People." Johnathan glanced sideways at him, a grim smirk on his face. "A cult.
Bunch of desperate fools who think they can buy power by chanting to things that
were better off forgotten. They've taken root in a tannery down in the Sump."
"And our job is to... talk to them?"
Johnathan barked a short, humorless laugh. "Your job is to watch, learn, and not get
killed. My job is to clear out the nest before their idiocy summons something that
would require more paperwork than I'm willing to do. They've already had one
'success'—a worker disappeared last night. The foreman found... parts of him...
clogging the main vat drain."
Amir felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. "So we're just going to walk
in?"
"We're not walking in. I'm walking in. You're my backup, stationed at the only other
exit. If anything that isn't me tries to come out, you use that fancy new noisemaker of
yours. And if you see anything with too many eyes or not enough skin, you don't try
to be a hero. You run, and you signal for real backup."
He stopped in the shadow of a towering factory, its walls weeping rust. He pointed
across a narrow, reeking canal to a low, sprawling building with a collapsed roof. Thesign, faded and peeling, read "Galloway & Sons Tannery." The stench of chemicals and
decay was overpowering.
"That's it," Johnathan said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The hive. Remember your
orders, Probationary Inquisitor. Don't think. Just do. And for both our sakes... try not to
be a liability." With that, he melted into the labyrinth of pipes and shadows, leaving
Amir alone with the weight of the hand-cannon and the gnawing fear of what
was
waiting in the stinking dark.