Making Game: CH 157 – Capture The Void (Patreon)

Mizah locked the stall door behind her and leaned her forehead against the cool composite partition of the expo restroom. Her breath came in short, jagged gasps as she bit down hard on her thumbnail, gnawing at the ragged edge until a sharp prick of pain made her flinch.

She was on the verge of a full breakdown. Two whole days had slipped through her fingers, forty-eight agonizing hours where Round Table Studio sucked every scrap of attention from the hall while her own division stood by in suffocating silence. 

Even worse, every low-rent private eye and discrete snoop she had paid out of her personal savings had failed miserably. Some vanished from communication channels entirely, while others returned with blank expressions and incoherent excuses about getting lost in circles.

Out of pure desperation, she had reached into more unconventional effort, funneling credits to an unsanctioned Solar informant ring operating out of Luprime's darker alleys. 

They had promised decisive results before the exhibition floor closed today, yet the silence on her encrypted comm was deafening. Why was she trembling like a cornered animal? She told herself that justice was entirely on her side. 

Logan was the thief. He had stolen decades ago, and he had obviously built this miraculous Caliburn seat on top of the division's stolen research. Once the operatives pulled the drive cores or secured the design schematics, Senior Eevlas Zin would take control of the investigation and grind him down.

In the grand hierarchy of the Accord, Logan remained a disgraced Class F citizen. She held a spotless Class C researcher rank. No magistrate in the core worlds would ever side with a castoff against a verified Ministry engineer. 

It was absurd that an independent gaming studio even possessed enough security to keep her people out. She splashed cold water over her face, smoothed the creases of her uniform jacket, and took a slow breath. Step by step, she reminded herself. Everything would fall into place.

…

Down on the main thoroughfare of the convention center, Logan Kim strolled past towering promotional banners, completely unaware of the crosshairs centered on his spine. 

High above the polished walkways, nestled among the steel trusses and anti-glare light baffles, two figures crouched in absolute stillness. They blended seamlessly into the gloom where artificial floodlights created deep triangular shadows along the ceiling girders.

Both operatives belonged to an elite strike cell within an information syndicate, each trained along the elusive Scout path to varying degrees of discipline. The lead operative tracked Logan's steady gait through a magnified ocular lens, his jaw set in irritation. 

The mission had turned messy because their frantic client had hired amateur street spies first, putting the mark on high alert and forcing them to adjust their timetable. 

They would certainly demand a hefty hazard surcharge once this package was secured. Still, snatching a lone, unaugmented engineer was an excessive assignment for two seasoned operatives.

He gave a sharp hand signal to his partner across the beam. His plan was clean and fast. As soon as the distraction blossomed, he would drop from the ceiling, fold space around the target, and pull the engineer directly into his shadow dimension before anyone could shout.

Across the gantry, his partner jammed an overcharged diagnostic probe into a junction box, frying the internal logic gates and triggering a priority fire alarm.

Piercing sirens immediately shrieked across the sector. Strobe lights along the perimeter arches flickered into an urgent amber rhythm, drowning out the ambient chatter of the crowd. Over the automated speakers, a synthetic voice instructed all attendees to evacuate through the nearest pressurized blast doors.

Logan paused in his tracks, tilting his head back to glance toward the ceiling. He wondered which careless booth had mismanaged their power cell to the point of a thermal blowout. One thing was certain, the disaster had nothing to do with Round Table Studio. 

Shrugging off the inconvenience, he turned on his heel and allowed himself to be swept along with the dense stream of visitors heading toward the emergency exits.

At that precise heartbeat, a soft ripple bent the air beside his shoulder.

An invisible guardian flickered into position. Misdreavus snapped a shimmering dome of emerald force around Logan, deploying Protect with flawless timing.

Above him, the assassin dove into the open air. He plummeted like an iron weight, his hands wrapped in writhing tendrils of dark energy designed to swallow the mark whole.

He never touched the ground.

Instead, his face slammed violently into an immovable, glass-like barrier hanging in midair.

A loud, hollow thunk echoed through the immediate corridor, resembling the sound of a heavy projectile bouncing off reinforced starship plating.

Logan heard the sudden impact behind him. In the midst of blaring horns, shuffling boots, and anxious shouts from hundreds of tourists, the noise simply blended into the background chaos. 

He assumed someone had dropped an equipment crate or stumbled on the stairs, and he kept walking toward the daylight without turning around.

The operative bounced backward off the emerald shield, crashing hard against the tiled floor behind an ornamental pillar. His vision fractured into a kaleidoscope of dizzying spots. A heavy smear of blood leaked from his broken nose, and his skull pounded from the concussive whiplash.

He struggled to push himself up on trembling arms, trying to weave his shadow cloak once more, yet his eyes could not focus.

Floating directly in front of his face was a tiny, ethereal nightmare.

The entity had a rounded, dark bluish body with no discernible limbs. Its hair drifted around its head like locks of smoke, and a necklace of polished crimson pearls sat against its chest. Glowing red eyes with bright yellow sclerae stared down at him with unrestrained amusement.

The operative opened his mouth to warn his partner, but his vocal cords seized.

Misdreavus tilted its head playfully. The crimson pearls around its neck flared with a deep, malevolent violet radiance as it unleashed Hex.

Because the assassin was already reeling from the physical shock of the impact, the curse hit him with doubled ferocity. A wave of bone-chilling, phantom agony washed through his nervous system, paralyzing his muscles and pinning him helplessly to the cold floor tiles.

The little ghost let out a silent, gleeful giggle, flashing a mouth full of sharp teeth. Satisfied that the threat was completely neutralized, it faded into thin air and floated swiftly through the crowd, resuming its invisible watch at Logan's side.

Or at least, that was what the little ghost was supposed to do.

When Misdreavus drifted back down to resume its post, the empty floor tiles offered no sign of Logan Kim. The crowd of evacuees continued shuffling past, yet the engineer was completely gone.

Misdreavus rose several yards into the air, its glowing yellow sclerae darting frantically across the sea of heads. It searched left and right, scanning every jacket and shoulder in the vicinity. There was no trace of Logan anywhere.

A sharp spike of panic hit the small creature. With a low, worried whine, it spun around and began zipping above the heads of the crowd, weaving between overhead banners and directional holoscreens in rapid succession. It needed to find its master immediately.

Weaving through a secondary corridor, Misdreavus spotted Arthur walking near a set of outer glass doors. The ghost plunged down, skimming just inches above the carpet as it rushed straight toward him.

Arthur caught sight of the dark bluish shape darting through the air. He instantly knew something had gone wrong. He had placed ghost companions around his team specifically for emergencies. Reacting smoothly, Arthur pulled his Pokégg from his belt and held the small device up in front of his chest. 

To the surrounding attendees hurrying toward the exits, he merely looked like another obsessive player checking digital pet statistics on his toy. It was a common sight across Luprime during the expo, so nobody gave him a second glance.

Misdreavus pressed close to the device, using the psychic link to flood Arthur's mind with frantic impressions: an ambusher dropping from the ceiling, the emerald flash of Protect, the sudden burst of Hex, and then an empty patch of floor where Logan had stood just seconds prior.

Arthur's eyes widened. "Someone snatched Logan. Shit."

Before he could take another breath, the overhead public address system crackled to life. A brisk, professional voice echoed through the speaker grilles.

"Attention all attendees and exhibitors. The thermal alert was a false alarm. Booth personnel and licensed exhibitors may re-enter the main hall immediately to secure their displays. General attendees are requested to hold in the concourse for ten to fifteen minutes while safety checks conclude."

Arthur did not hesitate. He pocketed the device and leaned down. "Where did you see him last?"

Misdreavus gave a sharp chirp, spun around, and led the way back toward the inner exhibition ring. Arthur broke into a sprint, pushing his way through the returning trickle of corporate staff.

Near the threshold of the primary hall, Kasavin and Liseli were walking side by side, heading back toward the Round Table Studio booth. Kasavin raised a hand to hail his boss, his mouth opening to ask what the commotion was about.

Arthur blew past them like a gale of wind. "You two go on ahead to the booth first!" he shouted over his shoulder, never breaking his stride.

He rounded the corner and skidded to a halt in the deserted section of the walkway where Logan had been strolling moments before. A few distant technicians were wandering toward their displays down the central aisle, leaving this specific corridor quiet.

Arthur concentrated, activating Eagle Vision.

The bright fluorescent lighting of the hall drained into a muted, monochromatic palette. Luminous trails of residual energy flared to life across the floorboards. Arthur instantly recognized Logan's calm, steady footsteps. Intersecting that path were two distinct crimson signatures.

High above, an afterimage of the first assailant hung suspended from a support girder. The phantom trajectory showed the operative diving downward, only to violently rebound off a translucent spherical dome before crashing against the tiles.

Arthur looked at the floating Pokémon beside his shoulder. "Did you use Protect?"

Misdreavus nodded vigorously.

Arthur shifted his focus back to the floor. The second crimson silhouette told the darker half of the story. While the first attacker was reeling from the bounce, the second figure had liquefied into an ink-like pool of living shadow directly beneath Logan's feet.

The visual echo showed shadowy arms surging upward, wrapping around Logan's ankles, and dragging him straight down through the solid flooring into a pocket realm.

A few feet away, the lingering aura of the first operative climbed up from the floor, clutching his skull and dragging his left leg in a heavy, uneven limp toward a service corridor.

Arthur clicked his tongue in pure frustration. "Shit. I can't detect their trail while they stay folded inside their shadows."

His only viable lead was the physical operative who had limped away on foot. Arthur sprinted toward the rear service door, tracking the heavy, dragged footfalls glowing in his vision.

As he ran, he glanced back at his companion. "Did you hit him with a curse?"

Misdreavus gave a triumphant, eerie chirp.

"Hex, huh," Arthur muttered. That explained why the man was moving so slowly. The lingering agony of the ghost attack was actively tearing through the operative's motor functions.

Arthur drew upon the boon collection, calling upon Hermes' boon to supercharge his kinetic output. A sudden surge of divine acceleration surged through his legs, nearly doubling his sprint speed in an instant. A bright flash of golden feathers fluttered beside him as the messenger god materialized in midair.

"Whoa!" Hermes shouted, adjusting his winged cap. "What in the world is happening right now?"

Arthur ignored the question, his mind entirely focused on the hunt. With a mental command, he swapped his active identity, shifting his physical parameters and muscle memory into the seasoned frame of Ezio Auditore. His posture smoothed out, his center of gravity dropped, and his footsteps became completely silent against the concrete floor of the utility tunnels.

His Eagle Vision pierced through the heavy reinforced exterior doors ahead. Out on the rear perimeter of the convention grounds, beside a row of industrial waste compactors, a bright red figure was stumbling blindly toward an exit platform.

Pure, unbridled fury burned in Arthur's chest.

He slammed his shoulder into the emergency crash bar, bursting into the cool Luprime air. The limping operative heard the metallic crash and whipped around, his face pale and slick with sweat from the excruciating effects of Hex.

Seeing an enraged hunter closing the distance at terrifying speed, the operative panicked. He thrust his trembling hands forward, tearing open a jagged, pitch-black tear in the fabric of space. It was a doorway into his personal shadow dimension, his final escape route.

Arthur dropped his hips, gathered every ounce of momentum granted by Hermes, and pounced like a predatory hawk.

The operative tried to throw himself backward into the dark rift, but he was entirely too late. Arthur slammed into his chest with bone-crushing force just as the man crossed the event horizon.

Hermes threw his hands up in alarm. "Uh oh!"

The unstable portal snapped shut behind them, dragging Arthur and the ambusher straight into the suffocating darkness of the shadow dimension.

…

Logan blinked against the blinding glare of a light swinging from an exposed ceiling truss. His skull throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache, and every breath felt shallow and tight against his ribs. He tried to shift his shoulders, only to find coarse, industrial-grade polymer cords binding his wrists and forearms securely behind the frame of a rusted folding chair.

He lifted his chin, surveying his surroundings. The space was hollow, cold, and long abandoned. Cracked acoustic paneling hung in jagged strips from moisture-stained walls, and thick bundles of dead fiber cables dangled like dried vines from the conduit tracks above.

Beyond the threshold of the open doorway, sharp, muffled voices cut through the heavy silence.

"Fine! We can call it even then!"

The voice belonged to a woman, shrill and frayed with frantic anger.

"You failed to secure what I actually paid for, and your operative was left behind at the perimeter!"

A low, grating male voice snapped back, dripping with venom. "I dragged the target out of a crowded venue during an active lockdown. Now you want to renegotiate the contract?"

"I have no use for him!" the woman hissed, her pacing boots scraping over loose gravel. "I needed his storage cores! I needed his hardware schematics, his design journals, his local code repositories!"

"Lower your voice," the man warned, his tone flat and cold. "He's awake."

The room outside fell silent for a long second.

"I will settle our business later," the operative muttered, the sound of his heavy combat boots shifting away. "I have to report an MIA specialist to my handler. Consider this our first and final contract together."

Panic immediately crept into the woman's tone. "Wait! Please, wait. It was a mistake on my part. I will authorize the hazard bonus. Just give me a few days to route the transaction through dummy accounts so the internal audit systems do not flag the payment."

The operative offered only a curt grunt before the heavy metal fire door at the end of the corridor slammed shut, leaving absolute silence in his wake.

A moment later, a shadow crept across the threshold.

Mizah stepped into the room.

Logan stared at her, feeling a shock of disbelief ripple through his chest. The composed, professional Ministry researcher he had briefly spoken to days earlier had completely dissolved. Her dark hair fell across her forehead in greasy, tangled knots. The muscles beneath her left eyelid twitched incessantly, and deep, dark hollows bruised the pale skin beneath her eyes.

"Mizah?" Logan croaked, his throat dry as sandpaper. "What... what is happening? Untie me, please. Help me out of here."

Mizah froze mid-step, her hands fluttering nervously at her waist before balling into tight fists. "Sen... Senior Kim. You see, this is complicated. Our virtual capsule and your studio's seat share far too many overlapping technical specifications."

She forced a thin, trembling smile and walked closer, her eyes glittering with manic intensity. "Seeing your machine on that expo stage brought back memories, don't you think? Back then, it was always the exact same pattern too, right? Anything I could do, you could do better."

Logan's eyes widened.

Mizah dropped to her knees in front of the chair, bringing her face level with his. "I cannot let your startup ruin my life. I refuse to let your machine drag my career into the dirt. I cannot become a Class F citizen. I simply cannot."

She reached up and pressed her cold, clammy palm against his jaw, forcefully turning his head so he had to look directly into her bloodshot eyes.

"You understand how ruthless Stellar Accord is to your class," she whispered, her voice cracking with desperation. "You know how hard it is to survive when the authorities strip your status and leave you with nothing. So you must understand my position."

Logan's brow furrowed, a heavy mix of pity and disbelief settling across his face.

"The Ministry directors are already drafting termination notices for our entire division!" Mizah shouted, her grip on his face tightening until her fingernails dug into his skin. "You walk around with that kind, hypocritical mask, pretending you care about your colleagues! If you have any decency left, confess right now. Protect the division you abandoned years ago. Go on, tell me."

With her free hand, she tapped the interface of her wrist communicator, bringing up an active audio recorder with a glowing red waveform.

She leaned closer, her breath hot against his ear, demanding, "Tell the record how you stole our department's proprietary research to make that machine of yours work."

…

The suffocating gloom of the pocket dimension offered zero light, yet the operative found himself pinned against the cold conceptual floor of his own construct. Dorian kept his arm locked tightly around the assassin's windpipe, holding the man's neck in an iron vice.

The assassin gasped, his boots scraping frantically against absolute emptiness. His mind spun in raw disbelief. This realm was his personal fold of reality, an isolated spatial pocket woven from the fabric of his own path. 

Any intruder should have been paralyzed, crushed under spatial pressure, or frozen solid by the absence of physical coordinates. Instead, this stranger moved through the void with terrifying weight and fluid agility.

"Don't even try to fight back," Dorian growled, his voice vibrating directly against the back of the operative's skull. "Where is my programmer? You took a member of my family."

Hermes drifted through the pitch-black void, his golden aura casting long ripples across the ink. The messenger god scratched his chin, his winged sandals hovering an inch above the dark floor. "Uh, boss. This feels weirdly familiar."

"Not now, Hermes," Dorian snapped, tightening his grip until the assassin's throat let out a muffled wheeze.

"How..." the operative choked out, his fingers clawing at Dorian's leather-clad forearms. "How... can you... move... inside my... pocket dimension?"

"Start talking," Dorian commanded, completely ignoring the question. "I don't care about your rank, and I don't care what syndicate paid for your contract. Where is Logan?"

Hermes suddenly floated higher, his relaxed posture vanishing. "Dorian, pay attention. This is getting dangerous. Check your boons right now."

Without releasing his chokehold, Dorian called up his boon inventory. A translucent panel flickered before his eyes. Down in the deepest compartment of his active registry, one specific divine gift was vibrating with violent intensity.

The Chaos Boon.

The dark, swirling icon thrummed like a frantic heartbeat, sending jagged static across his interface.

"I think something is happening to the surrounding space," Hermes warned, glancing warily at the shifting boundaries of the void.

The operative shuddered, his eyes widening in pure terror. "What have you... done... to my... dimension?"

Dorian watched the perimeter of the shadow fold tremble. The conceptual walls were collapsing inward, shrinking at a visible rate. His own Resonance Points dwindled with every heavy pulse of the Chaos Boon, twisting the pocket into an unstable knot. The void was folding in on itself.

"Get us out of here immediately," Dorian whispered into the man's ear, his tone deadly calm. "Break the seal, or every single bone and muscle in your body will be compressed into dust."

The assassin was far too disoriented and terrified to wonder how an outsider had hijacked the stability of his personal domain. Driven entirely by raw survival instinct, he reached out with trembling hands. He clawed at the empty air, tearing a frantic, jagged rift through the fabric of the dark realm.

The vacuum expelled them both back into physical reality.

They tumbled onto a dusty metal catwalk, surrounded by massive insulated coolant conduits and climate-control pipes running high beneath the vaulted ceiling of the convention center. The vast utility space above the exhibition hall was quiet, lit only by dull amber safety strobes.

The assassin collapsed onto his hands and knees, retching dryly as fresh air flooded his burning lungs.

Hermes hovered beside an overhead girder, looking back at the spot where the dark seam had snapped shut. "That was genuinely bizarre. How can there be an empty void space in this universe with that kind of potency?"

Dorian stood up, rolling his shoulders to shake off the lingering chill. Back when he still dreamed of becoming a Solar, he had studied every public treatise, military manual, and academic archive available to the public. 

He knew how the Scout path functioned. Solars who walked the Phantom branch and its adjacent disciplines could manipulate darkness to slip into hidden folds of space, though each practitioner accessed the technique through unique personal formulas.

Experiencing the spatial anomaly firsthand had sparked a sudden theory in his mind. The raw essence humming through that pocket bore an uncanny resonance to the primordial void associated with Chaos itself. Still, it remained an unverified theory. Every branch and every Solar had their own distinct methods of channeling power.

Right now, abstract cosmic theory could wait.

Dorian pushed the thought aside and turned his full focus to the trembling operative on the grating. He took a heavy step forward, his shadow stretching across the fallen assassin.

"Tell me where Logan is."