Myth//OS - Chapter 68 (Patreon)

”Nyax.” Pursius dipped his head to me, though didn’t look away from the floating TV in front of his face.

“Pursius.” I slid into the seat from across from him and likewise watched the screen. It was a video recording of my time in the museum. I thought I knocked out all the cams with throwing knives, but it seemed some got by me.

He coughed lightly and the screen froze on a clip of me stabbing the shield Vanguard. “He’ll make a full recovery. Cathedral themself arrived on scene to heal them.”

”…?” Why would Cathedral show up for something like that?

”This woman—” he sped up the recording to when I drop kicked the sniper and she went flying. That was fun. “Is the daughter of a Stygian Solutions exec. Paid for the whole crew to get treatment.”

”That’s nice.” They should’ve also paid for her to get some proper training… or an actual weapon. Who the hell desecrated a sniper by painting it with sparkly pink like that?

He flicked to the scene of me setting the silver armored woman on the ground. “She’s a raging Moon fan, you know?”

”Yep?”

The TV flipped to a social media account. Almost every one of her posts was about me, or a repost of me. A little bit of guilt crept into the back of my mind. If I ever saw her again, I’d have to treat her a little better. I couldn’t just let my fans suffer like that.

“Listen, I’ve got another job for you.” Pursius set the screen down on the other side of the room and sat up. “This one’s… it's personal.”

”Oh?” Personal requests from the business cat himself didn’t come often.

”I’ve got a group of people. I need you to rough them up.” He floated over a file to me and it opened to reveal an elf. It was a mugshot of the guy with a nasty looking sneer on his face like he was better than everyone else. “This guy—cut his hands off and drop him over the wall. No parachute.”

”Sending message?” Must’ve reached for something he shouldn’t have. Amputating the hands was a time honored punishment.

“Something like that.” Pursius dropped the file into my hands. “They have a small gathering tonight. Remember, just rough them up a little. I’ll consider it a personal favor.”

“Got it.” I stood up and glanced through the file. It was on the other side of the sub-district of Quetzl from here. I stuffed the file into my hoodie, though paused just before leaving. I should mix things up. Always attacking the same way got boring. “Bullets?”

“You finally going to use an iron?” The business cat tilted his head to the side. “Go bother Francis. He’ll take you to the armory.”

I nodded and moved for the door. It swung open just as I reached it, and the glowering orc himself appeared. “Nyx.”

”Francis. Bullets?”

He glanced toward Pursius and then nodded his head. “This way.”

Ah, Francis. Our conversations were always so fun. As if to prove that sentiment, he led me down to a sub-level without saying another word to me. We passed by a dozen guards and then stopped in front of a room.

“Take whatever.” Francis raised his chrome hand—and his finger shifted into a metal key to unlock the door. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

”…” I stepped into the armory, finding dozens and dozens of different kinds of guns and weapons scattered around. I beelined it for the ammo crates and grabbed a handful of loose bullets without bothering with the guns. I skipped the small caliber stuff and went straight to the rifle rounds.

— - —

Was this the place? I looked up from the file and looked over the building a couple more times. Somehow I thought it’d be… I dunno, smaller? It was kind of a big venue for—ah, wait. I didn’t even ask how much he was going to pay me… damnit.

[Nighteye eyes the place. How many people do you think are in there?]

Ten—no, fifty? No more than fifty, surely. Pursius said it was a small gathering. I hesitated a moment and then pushed off the alley wall. I was still in Quetzl, but I was on the far south-eastern side right where Aegis jutted up against New Haven. This section was a weird mixture of warehouses and strip malls.

The place in particular was one such warehouse. Its windows were covered up, but light still bled out onto the dimly lit streets. My straw stabbed right through my mask and I took a drink of glorious coffee. Tonight was going to be a long night… or maybe it’d end quickly and I could go home. Somehow, I doubted that. Dragging this guy up to the wall would be super annoying.

I watched a passerby split off from the road and slip into a back alley. He pulled a bunny mask out of his pocket and slipped it over his head, looked up and down the street, then continued back to a group of bruisers at the door.

What a slag. He did know there were cameras all up and down this road, yep? Not to mention any form of tech he had on him would lead right to this place… at least, if it wasn’t filled with anti-trackers like my stuff was. And, to be fair, if anyone wanted to track me down they could just hit up the coffee shops around anywhere I went to as Nyx. I was the concussion queen, not the queen of the subtle touch.

I stuffed my hands into my pockets and stalked across the street. Should I pull out my armor now? No… maybe I should blend in first and see what this place was about. My mask though—it morphed into a rabbit mask imitating Clover with dangly lop ears. I fell behind a group of three likewise coming to the warehouse.

The guards stopped us at the side door. He spoke in a language that definitely wasn’t common. It was familiar, in a way, though. All-Speech, ever useful, easily translated it to something I could understand. “Brothers and sisters, welcome, welcome.”

“—honor of—“ The three thumped their fists to their chests and whispered something I couldn’t quite make out. The guards seemingly recognized the place and let them through.

”Stop, sister.” A guard stretched out an arm to keep me from entering behind the trio. “Welcome.”

I stared at the arm. Should I just cut it off? Pursius asked me to just rough them up, but… no, I could totally get in here. What language was that, to begin with? It was definitely something I’d heard before.

“Sister?” The guard dropped a hand to his hip and watched me expectantly.

“Sorry.” I rasped out to buy some time. Where—ah! The Muffled Musketeer. Right. What was his name again? Zorkan? And he was from—“Honor. Tralles.”

“A survivor of Tralles?” The guard eased back and moved out of my way. “You’ve come a long way, sister. Not many of you left. Don’t worry—Desmon will rise again.”

”…” I nodded and slipped past the guards, entering the warehouse proper. Desmon must be some kingdom or something.

As I moved through a dimly lit section, I warped my clothing and added designs and signs like what the Muffled Musketeer had. I wasn't sure what it meant, but I didn’t need to know either. All that mattered was blending in with the rest of the crowd till I could figure out my game plan.

Inside the warehouse, hot air hit me like a wall. It was filled with the scent of sweat, oil, and something sharper just underneath—the familiar bitterness of resentment that’d been allowed to fester for far too long. Bastion, while it may look flashy and happy on the surface, was really just an illusion people used to fool themselves. All of us were refugees of lost worlds. Even the natives of this dimension.

[Nighteye sighs and slumps over. Don’t be such a downer.]

Sorry. I sipped at my coffee cup and looked around. There were way more than fifty people here. Easily hundreds, though might lean closer to a thousand. People of all races and species were packed into the place like sardines shoulder to shoulder.

Most of them looked homeless. They weren’t the hollow-eyed, broken sort of people that begged for food and utility chips, though. They looked united. People didn’t usually carry themself with this unity—not without someone giving them something to rally around. Based on the mood of the place, I had a feeling I wouldn’t like where this was going.

We were packed in tightly, and more people were showing up by the minute. Sound filled the air with a deafening volume. Heat pressed in from every direction. This warehouse definitely wasn’t meant for the number of people here.

Interestingly, there were all sorts of species here. Elves, humans, and even some kind of dwarf. Although they were all different species, they were clad in the same style. Weird.

[Nighteye lifts up a data pad. Desmon looked like a recently destroyed dimension. Not a nation.]

You use tech? I mean, I know you do, but actually seeing it is totally different. A shiver went down my spine. I tried to ignore it and focus on what the Miix Guardian Star was saying. Desmon—this was likely a gathering of the refugees then? There weren’t very many of them.

[Nighteye lifts her head triumphantly. Bet she uses tech, shawty. She stays plugged in f’real f’real. Got that Grid flowing through her veins, no duh.]

“Ugh—“ I gagged and ignored the rest of her messages. That felt like it did more damage to me than the last time I drank Dew.

All-Speech worked overtime to translate fragments of people talking as I tried to distract myself from her psychic attacks. “—can’t wait. Do you know what tonight is about?”

“—Sir Zortro himself is going to appear. I can’t believe we’re going to see the Knight of Night himself!” A cheerful looking girl in a deer mask bounced on her heels. She was in the minority, though. Most of these people had dark faces under their masks.

”—profiting off of us while we starve. Don’t even get me started on their demeaning refugee programs.” A noble looking man complained. His robes were tattered, though, and looked like they hadn’t been washed in months.

His companion, a man in a corporate suit that looked like an other middle-aged corpo, nodded along. “We won’t bend the knee. Who do they think they are—“

Everywhere I looked, I saw the same thing looping over and over—Desmon. Desmon and not Bastion. Someone had taken their anger from losing their homes and directed it at the very place that accepted them once everything was lost. A bolt of anger welled up in me.

I shifted my weight and moved back toward the pillar. I wouldn’t make a move yet. I needed to find my target first, and then I sure as hell was going to tear this place down. Pursius said to just rough them a bit. He didn’t tell me how much to do it by, though.

Thankfully, I didn’t have to wait much longer. With a sharp sound, the lights powered down and a spotlight lit up a stage near the back. A raised platform was welded together, and several people stood around in masks. They wore the purple shade of Bastion’s Arbiters, the rulers of Throne. It was a mockery as much as it was a challenge.

An man—no, an elf based on his ears poking out either side of his mask, banged on the railing of the stage. Conversations died all around me, replaced with a tense yet expectant silence that reminded me of vultures looking at a corpse.

“My brothers and sisters of Desmon.” The elf pulled off his mask, revealing the face of my target. Projectors on either side of the stage zoomed on his face, giving me the perfect angle to match my photo. “You may know me—Sir Zortro, the Knight of Night!”

Cheers and shouts erupted from all around the warehouse. He seemed to be a well loved figure among the refugees. I could see why at a glance. Objectively speaking, he reminded me of a charismatic cult leader. He had that kind of charm and guile to him that I’d seen plenty of times before. He lifted his hands and the crowd quieted.

“Look around you… see the faces and resolve of our people.” He didn’t bother shouting. He didn’t need to. His voice carried over the crowd like an inevitable tide. “We were meant to grow old under red skies, my friends. To die on soil that knew our names. To raise our children in our honored homelands!”

His gaze swept across the room with the unhurried approach of someone who’d done this kind of thing dozens of times before. When it passed over me, I swore he lingered for a moment longer than necessary like he recognized something.

“They told us we were lucky! That we were saved by the kindness of the OS and pulled from the ruined husk of a dying world!” A sad smile touched his lips, though didn’t get anywhere close to his eyes. “Truly, when someone sets a fire and drags you from your burning home, chaining us to the street outside, do you thank them for the rescue?!”

Low, bitter laughter answered him. Someone in the back screamed out. “NO!”

“They did not save us—they harvested us.” His voice dipped low and heavy. A bolt of discomfort flowed through me from Discerning All-Speech. He was lying. It was as clear as day even without the Trait helping. “They scattered us across the city, gave us numbers, permits, and curfews. They told us patience would be rewarded! How long has it been now?!

“They say we’re safe and accepted here! Then why do they flinch when we speak our own tongue? Why do their Enforcers watch us like rabid animals?! Their employers treat us as disposable goods. Their laws bend so that no one is punished for the abuse!

“This world is generous. This world is kind! This world is—full of lies! Their generosity demands obedience. It’s not mercy. It’s ownership!” His voice echoed with the resentment of the crowd. Every lying word made me feel ill. Maybe Discerning All-Speech wasn’t a good one to go for. “And when we our women are raped and men disappear into labor programs, what do they do? Nothing! When we demand protection and dignity, they tell us to be patient! To wait!

“We have been patient.” He raised his fist into the air. “I am not here to call for hatred. I am here to simply call for unity!”

He opened his hand so his palm caught the light. “For your memory! For your refusal to submit! They want us to forget who we are. To soften our names. To teach our children that Desmon was a tragedy, and we’re of Bastion now! I say that forgetting is death!”

Cheers broke out, louder this time. Angrier. It was like watching a rabid dog with a haunch of meat dangling just out of its reach. They could smell blood, and the mob wanted to chomp down. The chain of civility was about to shatter.

“We aren’t here for domination.” Zortro went quiet again, perfectly controlling the crowd. “We simply want sovereignty like the people of Rykon. We want the right to stand without bowing. To defend our own from the atrocities of this world’s peoples.

“And if they call that extremism? If they call us terrorists for defending our people?” He shrugged and a regretful look filled his face. “Then perhaps they should ask themselves why our survival frightens them so much. My kin, truly, have you had enough waiting?!”

I didn’t know if the crowd did, but I certainly had. If he spoke anymore, I might actually throw up all over the place. I pushed off the pillar and slowly started to work my way through the crowd.

— — —

AN: This chapter took way more effort than I expected it too… I blame the speech at the end. I had to rewrite it so many times to get it right. I’m just a little late, anyway… yep, just a bit late. Really, that’s like no time at all, right?

Ah! I’m so excited! I’m finally, finally digging into my pages of notes to start executing the major ideas, schemes, and plans I’ve been hatching since chapter one. I seriously can’t wait!