"Oy white haired brat!" A voice called. "Stop leaking will you?"
Nerith's pupils narrowed at the sound of the voice as he took in the crisp air like a revived corpse. The caller turned out to be a woman, though she was not the ordinary type; her exposed body was marked with scars and healed scratches, resembling trophies inherited from battles fought.
"Get yourself together and grab your gear," she urged. "You need to get ready for what lies ahead, or you'll be monster fodder before we reach the GhostTown borders."
Nerith's eyes sparkled, the woman's words hardly registering as his mind drifted back to the shadow creature he had encountered. His body felt limp, as if the sensation was still gnawing at him in reality.
To reassure himself, he glanced toward where he had discarded the crumpled can earlier. And there it remained, a testament that he wasn't losing his mind. A wave of relief washed over him as he began to heed the woman's say, who had already grabbed her required items and was preparing to leave.
Had the others gotten ready and moved outside?
Along the cell's sidewalls were several military lockers, most already emptied of their contents. After a few moments of hesitation, Nerith finally approached the last locker, forcing the handle open with little effort, causing its contents to spill onto the ground like rejected refuse.
'Tch! The previous owner of this locker must have deserved a death sentence,' he mused.
Among the clutter on the floor were military uniforms, a helmet with a light attachment, batons, chisels, and multiple access cards. The access cards instantly drew his attention—a vital means of escape. Why had they been left behind? Yet, he was conscious that the officers wouldn't be negligent enough to leave active access cards accessible to prisoners.
The military fatigues felt heavy, soaked in the scent of oil and the sweat of previous users. Nonetheless, he put on the jacket, secured the helmet firmly, and pressed a small button on the headgear; its LED gently flickering to life.
By the Lights, it actually works.
Tension gripped his chest as he tucked a steel chisel into his pockets and picked up a baton—basic tools, yet in skilled hands, they promised potential. What if he could combine them with Essence? Inscribe runes into the metal, turning them into vessels for the departed?
The voice in his mind stirred, mocking and dismissive with a single word.
Foolish.
Disregarding the voice, he stashed the access cards into a concealed side-pocket anyway. Whether active or not, they might be beneficial in the coming chaos.
Nerith stepped out into the corridor, the bay doors looming in front of him. Other prisoners were gathered there, geared up and whispering. The scarred woman from earlier shot him a glare as he approached, her scars shifting like living tattoos beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. " Took your time, kid. Thought you'd dull through the fun."
Nerith met her gaze, the green glow behind his visor flaring faintly. " Fun?"
She scoffed, showing off teeth sharpened to points. " We're about to step into one of your worst nightmares. Name's Kira. Remember it while you're screaming for help."
Nerith nodded, filing her away.
Friend or foe? Only one place could reveal that.
The bay doors hissed open, releasing visible clouds of air to unveil the transport truck—a massive vehicle of reinforced armor and humming engines, its tires caked in mud from previous missions. Guards surrounded it, their stun guns raised, but Donna stood at the ramp with her arms crossed. Her eyes scanned the group, evaluating every last one of the prisoners she'd assembled like pieces on a board.
"Get on board. Intel updates will come en route. Keep in mind your freedom lies within your grip."
Nerith climbed in last, the truck's interior a crowded cage of bolted seats and emergency restraints hanging from the ceiling. The signal lights turned green, and he took a moment to scrutinize the fellow prisoners he would need to survive alongside.
There were a total of fifteen prisoners, himself included. Three women and eleven intimidating-looking men, each armed with some type of defense, or rather offense, just like his baton. However, during the Anchor's accession hours ago, the numbers seemed enough he hadn't bother to count. Did most of them give up already?
One of the prisoners, a scruffy-looking man with a jagged scar across his jaw, caught Nerith's eye and grinned, revealing gaps where teeth used to be. "What's wrong, pretty boy? Afraid of the dark?"
Nerith's grip tightened around the baton, his eyes radiating pure irritation. How long would he have to endure these cold-hearted freaks? Just two minutes in, and all he could feel was his nerves urging him to swing the steel baton against someone's skull.
The truck surged forward, its engines roaring to life as it rolled out of the bay onto whatever path they were meant to follow. In that instant, Nerith questioned how such a truck could possibly take them all the way to Ghost Town. If his theory was correct, Ghost Town was situated in the far southern region of the Aurelian continent. Furthermore, it would be a journey spanning days without a break.
"Pay attention," Donna's voice crackled over the intercom, her face appearing on a small screen affixed to a steel wall. "The Anchor is five klicks away. Scans indicate low hostility for now. So you need to act quickly, retrieve the artifact, and—"
"—Excuse me?" Nerith didn't realize he had spoken aloud until the crew turned their gazes toward him, and it was too late to retract his words. He continued to speak:
"How... how do you plan to reach Ghost Town in just minutes? Or am I the only rational one here?"
"Clever for someone so early in," Donna replied, a faint smile appearing on her lips.
The truck rumbled again, prompting Nerith to grip the overhead bar pole.
A low whine began to emanate from the engine core, cutting through the thin air. The scarred man laughed heartily, gripping the bar as if his life depended on it. "First time on a Rift Jumper? Strap in, everyone."
Nerith's eyes widened. Rift Jumper? The cursed portal technology they used for transporting goods?
Before he could ponder any further, the air thickened, becoming barely breathable as the world outside the truck warped like a wavering heat mirage. Donna's hologram flickered as if malfunctioning. "Engaging—jump transfer in three… two…"
Reality shattered.
Nerith's stomach flipped as the colors around him inverted into emptiness. His eyes caught glimpses of moments too fast they seemed no different from darkness staring back.
Then, an abrupt silence.
The truck hit the ground with a jolt on rough terrain. Nerith concluded it was soil as the tires struggled to regain balance once again.
"By the Light!" someone shouted, their voice filled with terror, exhaustion evident in their expression.
Finally, it screeched to a stop, the doors hissing open to unveil twisted ruins beneath a blood-red sky.
Ghost Town.
Decaying structures loomed in front of them, and the twin moons Nerith had often envisioned gazed down from the horizon, casting their crystalline light over the area.
Being closest to the door, Nerith was the first to step out, cautiously scanning the hazardous landscape he had once called home. He felt his spirit reluctant to leap off the rails, but he had no option.
Before long, a sudden shove caught him off guard, causing him to tumble headfirst into the thick sand.
"Move aside, white-haired!" someone shouted from behind.
Feet hit the ground mere inches from his buried face as the sound of men's screams filled the air, the truck groaning with each of their efforts to zoom out.
What is happening? He wondered, slowly lifting his head, sand trickling off his face.
"This is our chance. Beat the life out of them and make a break for it," another yelled.
His eyes landed on a group of guards in black being ruthlessly attacked with the very tools they had received from the cell, their stunguns taken from them in the process.
Nerith's fingers sank into the sand, which felt warm to the touch. The moons couldn't possibly be generating heat, yet the ground throbbed beneath his hand like a heartbeat. His dark blood coursed through his veins toward his palm, making contact with the earth.
Nothing occurred except for the triumphant cheers of the other prisoners.
Just then, the earth exhaled. Perhaps a response to a call.