The air in the Ashlands tasted heavy, like iron and something else that was probably eating up everyone's insides. A skinny looking teenager in ratty clothes crouched low behind a metal drum, the stolen box pressed tightly into his chest. His fingers were raw from climbing the twisted fire escape, his heart thundering so loud he feared it would echo down the alley.
The heist had gone smoother than he had expected. Too smooth. He had dropped through the tiles of the merchant's vault, avoided the sensor tripwires, and lifted the artifact clean-no alarms, no blood, just shadow and speed. Mordrek was sure to pay good money for it. Enough to get his mother a real doctor. Enough to maybe even get her some real meat and clean water.
Yet now, just as he approached the shack where Mordrek's runners waited, he paused at the edge of the alley. The door was ajar, letting light spill into the dust-clogged space as voices slithered out, low and thick with greed.
"…he's just a damn kid," one of them said. "Steals like a rat, thinks he deserves a cut."
Jax tensed, inching closer. His boots crunched lightly over broken glass, and he froze.
Another voice, colder, cut in. "We slit his throat, take the box, and say he never showed. Mordrek don't care who brings it in-long as he gets it."
Laughter followed, ugly, familiar.
Jax's blood ran ice. His knuckles whitened around the box. He backed up, slowly. One step. Two. Then…
Thunk.
His heel struck a rusted pipe.
The sound was sharp, ringing. Voices inside went dead. Then, scraping chairs. Footsteps.
"Someone's out there."
Jax bolted.
He did not wait to hear the rest or see their expressions. He turned on his heel and ran, dodging down the alley, heart thudding like a drum. The box bounced under his jacket, heavier with every step. Behind him came the crash of the door, then voices barking.
"There! Catch the little bastard!"
Bullets whined past his shoulder. Jax ducked behind a pile of scrap, leapt a wall, landed hard on the other side. Pain screamed through his ankle. He didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
He ran through ash dusted alleys of the Ashlands, twisting through sewer vents and crumbling back alleys known to him since he was old enough to be outside. Deep into the underbone of the Slums, they chased him, until he reached the Rust Market, which was empty at this hour; its tarp-covered stalls flapped in the air like dying lungs.
He dived into an overturned shipping crate and lay still, his chest heaving.
He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
They were going to kill him if they got the chance.
If they knew where he lived…
He swallowed hard, wiping sweat from his brow, smearing soot across his skin. He looked down at the box. Its locks were lined with strange symbols. Fluid, ancient, some glowing faintly blue in the dimness.
This had to be worth more than credits. Mordrek wanted it bad enough to murder for it. So why hand it over?
He pried the lid open with his pen knife.
Inside, it was small, black, and glimmering faintly in the dark. It pulsed.
A core perhaps. Or a relic. He didn't know. He didn't care.
But if they caught him with it…
His mind was racing. He couldn't destroy it, couldn't stash it. They were sure to tear the city apart hunting for it.
And then the craziest idea came to him.
He grimaced. "Sick bastard, you've finally lost it."
He stripped down behind the crate, clenched his jaw, and did what no sane person would do: he inserted the relic inside his body through his anus.
The pressure was awful, sharp, wrong. But at least, they wouldn't find it now.
He bit his own fist not to scream.
He was shaking, hunched over, dripping sweat when it was over.
He buried the box in a pile of debris, leaving a torn glove marking the place, and then stumbling into the shadows once more.
He waited.
Hours passed.
It was when night finally draped the sky in its endless bruise-colored shroud that he crept out. Every alley looked like a trap. Every shadow felt alive. He didn't go home. Couldn't.
His chest tightened at the thought of his mother alone in that damp apartment, cooking dinner and humming to herself.
Please be okay, Ma.
He didn't stop until he reached the edge of Sector Two.
The Inner Warrens border was hardly guarded at night: just a rusted checkpoint with a bored mercenary chewing on stale gum. Jax slipped past easily, skirting around into the quieter alleys where the not so miserably poor lived. Those just good enough to not starve, but not good enough to matter.
He stopped in front of one of the a crooked building with flickering lights. He rapped a pattern on the metal door: two short, one long, two short.
A window above opened. The girl leaned out, dark curls silhouetted against flickering blue light.
"Jax?"
"Open up, Liss," he rasped. "Please."
She blinked. "It's two in the damn morning."
"I don't have anywhere else to go."
There was a pause.
Then the lock clicked.
He climbed the stairs slowly. Every step made his bones groan. Liss was waiting in the doorway in oversized shorts and a threadbare hoodie, arms crossed.
"You look like hell."
"Feel worse." He tried to smile.
She didn't smile back. "You're bleeding."
He looked down. His jacket was torn, ribs purple-black with bruises. "Occupational hazard."
She let him in with a sigh.
Her flat was small, but warm. The walls were paper-thin and plastered with old posters of skyships and faded Praetorium propaganda. A kettle whistled softly in the corner. Liss grabbed a medkit and started cleaning his wounds.
"I take it Mordrek didn't say 'thank you'?"
Jax flinched as she dabbed at a cut. "They were gonna kill me. Take the loot. Cash in without me."
She froze. "Did they see you?"
"No. I ran before they caught me. But they're probably still looking." He dropped his voice. "I can't go home. Not until I know they are gone."
Liss sat back, watching him. "You should go to the Coppers. Report them."
He barked a bitter laugh. "Right. Tell the people who let Mordrek run almost all of the Warrens? That will go well."
She didn't argue. She never did when he got like this.
"So what now?"
He leaned back against the couch, eyes closed. "Lay low. Figure out my next move."
Liss hesitated. "Whatever you stole… is it worth it?" Jax didn't answer. She didn't press him. Instead, she pulled a blanket Instead, she pulled a blanket over his shoulders. The fabric was rough but warm. For the first time in hours, Jax felt his muscles begin to unclench. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes, the image of his mother's face the last clear thought in his mind. Then, a searing, white-hot pain erupted in his gut. It wasn't the dull ache of the wound or the ghost of the relic's insertion. This was new. This was alive. His eyes flew open, his back arching off the couch as a silent scream locked in his throat.
He didn't notice it but a faint, ghostly blue light began to bleed through his skin.