A bitter wind blew through the empty streets of Outcrag, the rundown outer slums of the Nova node proper. When the node came into being many cycles ago, the surrounding nyxlands writhed in the throes of cold. Since then, the resets had ceased, and the area was locked in a never-ending winter—a frozen purgatory.
Quora thumbed the pill-sized cylinder in her pocket, checking again to make sure it was still there. Why that creep wants this data, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter so long as it holds up its end. That’s all I need. That, and to never have to deal with Lazarus again.
Digging through her father’s past had taken months, but Lazarus’s offer was worth the effort. The damned architect and his folding bridges. May his soul rot. She wouldn’t even be in this mess if it weren’t for the architect and his nonsense scheme to connect the core with the outer nodes.
She had never traveled to the Core, but she knew it from tales, and it scared the hell out of her. She didn’t care for the wealth and technology. Fool’s gold. Not in Nova. Not on my watch.
There was something unsettling about the Weldakin architect. His plan almost felt personal, as if he were doing it just to spite her. She didn’t trust him—not only because he represented the Core—but because something deep within her clawed for recognition or understanding. Like trying to pick up soap in a murky pond, it kept slipping through her fingers. The surprised look of ecognition he gave her when they first crossed paths still chilled her.
It was enough to bring her to Outcrag, to this building. The once-proud structure now sagged under the weight of neglect, its cracked facade revealing glimpses of the rusted metal skeleton beneath.
As she crawled through the collapsed doorway, she dusted herself off and checked the valves on her thermal gear and air scrubber. Quora navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the old building, her boots crunching on broken glass and debris.
The air grew heavier with each step, the musty scent of stale air clinging to her like a second skin. Shadows danced around her in the dim light filtering through boarded-up windows, and the occasional groan of settling metal sent shivers down her spine. She passed rooms filled with overturned furniture and scattered belongings. Each step was a gamble, as the floorboards creaked and threatened to give way beneath her weight.
Finally, a set of rickety stairs descended into the darkness, leading her to the basement’s gaping maw. Why does it always have to be dingy basements? Why can’t these data harvesters have nice apartments with catering? And fresh fruit. I haven’t had fresh fruit in so long.
The air in the basement was thick with dampness. Water dripped from exposed pipes, echoing in the cavernous space. Layers of peeling paint hung like tattered shrouds from the walls, revealing corroded metal beneath. She followed her directions to a dead end. This is the entrance, right? It must be. Slow and steady, it said… It’s the only way through.
That didn’t feel right. She hit the wall with her fist to test it. It feels hard. Is it really supposed to yield? Laying her hand flat against the wall, she pressed against the surface. She pulled her hand back in shock as the wall turned smooth and liquid. Her face lit up with excitement. She had never seen anything like this. Here goes nothing. Hand outstretched, she stepped through.
Opening her eyes again, she looked across the nest, as Lazarus called it. Every surface before her was covered in putrid flesh. She had to fight not to vomit; the smell was overwhelming. This abomination of creation was an assault on the senses. Blood, decay, and other bodily fluids permeated the space, unlike anything she had ever seen.
Her eyes watered from the stench as she fought to focus her vision. Keep your shit together. Don’t give anything to this freak. Don’t give him the satisfaction. She tried to focus, but it was too much. In that moment, she was thankful not to share her adopted father’s dark vision. An eerie bioluminescent glow emanated from multiple points around the room, highlighting sickly yellows, greens, and reds. Flesh covered everything—muscle fibers stretched, convulsed, and undulated; lifeless, emotionless faces stared endlessly.
Hands, arms, and legs, like stalactites, hung from the ceiling. Blood and gore dripped and pooled onto the squelching, ever-moving collage of flesh.
Against her will, she moved forward, her steps uneasy in the unsettling atmosphere and uneven, shifting ground. The sloshing sounds underfoot made her feel as if she were trudging through a bog.
Quora cleared her throat. “Lazarus? Hello?”
She hadn’t noticed the shape that clung silently to the back wall. The figure shifted forward, and the wall stretched like something stuck to silk by static cling. The creature moved again and pulled its limbs free; she heard a dull ripping sound like the tearing of wet fabric. Yellow, viscous fluid connected the figure and the flesh wall for a moment before gravity pulled it to the ground with a plop. As it moved closer, she could see what she assumed was Lazarus. She nearly let out a shriek of surprise— a faceless form, not quite solid but not soft, rippled towards her. It glistened like thick oil.
“Ah, the Meldling,” it said. She ground her teeth at her childhood nickname, given by her father and his crew. They had found her as a baby out in the Nyx shortly after a resetstorm, cocooned in the heart of a derelict shell. They hadn’t discovered the baby until they brought the machine back and took it apart. The nickname was a reminder she never truly belonged, thrown out to the mercy of the resetstorm as she had been.
“Forgive us for losing track of time, dear. We haven’t had time to put on our face.” Lazarus turned away, and behind him, small bones rose from the floor, snapping, popping, and grinding together to form a long, thin pillar. The bones slowly doubled backward toward Quora, reaching toward the floor from where they came. The pillar stabbed downward violently before tearing loose a chunk of flesh she recognized as a human face. The bones slowly dragged the face upward—face upside down, mouth open in a silent scream. Lazarus held the face reverently and laid it upon its formless head. The flesh stitched itself together so cleanly it was as if it had always been there.
“I’ve told you before—don’t call me that.” “Very well. So, Quora,”—if its tone weren’t so dry and emotionless, she would have sworn it was mocking her. “Did you bring it?”
Quora knew Lazarus was a Necrosite. Once, these beings had been like any other sentient creature, until they ventured too far into the Nyx. They came back bound by something unknowable. Necrosites didn’t walk by their own will; they were dragged back from the edges of oblivion, animated by forces ancient and strange, their bodies turned into vessels for something else. Like the dead being marched to a place of rest, they moved with a purpose not entirely their own. Whatever governed Lazarus, whatever kept his twisted form moving, remained a mystery to her.
“Yeah, I got it,” she said, pulling the metallic seed from her pocket. She knew Lazarus wouldn’t hurt her, but it knew many who could. Its reach extended into places most data harvesters couldn’t reach. It thrived on chaos, dealing in data, unsettling order herever it could. What Lazarus wanted with a trove of religious dogma; she didn’t care to ask—so long as it kept its side of the bargain.
She held the seed between her thumb and forefinger. Just as she began to approach, one of Lazarus’s limbs shot out with a sickening snap of bones. It snatched the device before she realized what had happened. The arms on the ceiling went from slowly swaying back and forth to greedily reaching for the device, passing it from one hand to the next until it made its way to Lazarus.
“It’s all there,” she said. “Now for my stuff.” The sooner I can be out of this hellhole, the better.
“So impatient,” it said, producing a similar-looking device. The unsettling assembly line of hands reversed the process, sending the seed to Quora. “And with that, our business is concluded. Use that in good conscience. Or don’t.” It bowed with a flourish before stepping back and fusing itself with the wall again.
Quora was only too glad to get the hell out of there. She used the last of her composure not to sprint out of the hive she’d already spent too much time in. Leaving the flesh cavern and entering the icy basement, she quickly rounded the corner, out of sight of the false wall, and collapsed. She shook from the experience and almost wretched, her clothes still smelling of bile and viscera.
She collapsed, lying face-up on the ground. Breathing in the cool air, she began to laugh despite herself. Nothing can be worse than that, right? Comparatively, the rest of the plan is going to be smooth sailing.
Fuck the architect and fuck the bridge. They’re both going down
