Might space these out just to avoid having the well run dry before I write any more actual chapters.

===Chapter 2===

"Why are you helping me?" the Knight asked sceptically, before taking the pill and studying it cautiously.
The figure laughed. "'Cause I'm such a nice guy. What are you doing this far from the camp, soldier?"
"I might look the part, but I'm not a soldier," the Knight said quietly. He licked the pill lightly to get a taste which would prove its intent. "Just a guy trying to get by."

The figure rolled his eyes before studying him, regarding his words and expression through the angry slits for eyeholes in his helmet. Despite the ominous appearance his armour adopted, he himself looked on with amusement.

"Okay, then, Mister "Not-a-Soldier". How's about you run on back to the camp and get your bearings? This place is too dangerous for a kid like you, and-"
"I’m not a kid!" the Knight retorted angrily. The man smiled underneath his helmet.
"Just get back to camp, rest up, get some better gear, do whatever the Hell you want, and get going. There’s a better place than this up north-west that’s safe from all this drek.”

He looked back in the direction the Knight had come from, toward the corpses he had left in the woods.

“Bandits,” he whispered. “Hasn’t even been a week yet.”

He took off in a seemingly random direction. The Knight stared curiously at him as he slinked off into the trees.

“Where the Hell d’you think you’re going?” the Knight called after him.
“I go my way, you go yours,” the figure called back. “Don’t follow me.”

With that, he disappeared into the foliage, rustling leaves as he put more distance between himself and the Knight, who scoffed. Who was this man to give orders like he was a figure of authority? The Knight waited for a few moments until the sound of rustling leaves and grass had died before moving off after him, swallowing the red and white pill the man had given him. If healing wasn’t its intended purpose, well… he probably wasn’t going to last long out here, anyway.

The Knight strode toward the bushes that the man disappeared into, peering through to see an indistinct dark shape taking off into the forest before following suit. The figure started running, and the Knight followed, breaking into a cautious run, moving faster when it looked like he'd lose sight of the target.

A thought occurred to the Knight as he reached sprinting speed to keep up with the man: why was he following him? He wasn't sure, but he sure as Hell wasn't going to take any more chances at the camp. All that really mattered was that his gut was telling him to move forward, if nothing else. He started to think on his decision, rationalising that following a man trained enough to disarm him after he'd killed several bandits was a better travelling companion than none at all, especially considering that bandits may still be present in the wilderness. Hell, maybe if he asked nicely, the masked man would let him tag along, at least until he built himself a new life.

Several minutes on and the pain in the Knight's ribs had all but vanished. The pill he had been given was indeed genuine in its medical properties, and he was silently grateful for that. He noticed that the figure had slowed down, and hastened to do the same as quietly as possible. The man seized a branch jutting out of a large tree and used his momentum to hoist himself upwards, disappearing into the leaves. The Knight approached the tree tentatively, steadying his breath and listening for movement in case the man was trying to ambush him.

When the rustling leaves sounded in the distance, the Knight thought it safe to climb up. Hoisting himself into the dense foliage, he saw the figure high above him, leaping from the tree onto the side of a mountain before scaling it with ease.

"Are you fragging kidding me?" he muttered to himself.

Having come too far to simply turn back, the Knight seized the sturdiest branch available to him and continued climbing. Every so often he heard a slight creak from the branches, leading him to either hasten his speed to avoid being caught by a snapping branch or stopping altogether to change his climbing pattern.

Once he reached the branch his target had leapt from, he crept along the bark like a forest animal before using it to springboard and leap into nothingness. Almost a full second of air-time passed before the Knight slammed into the cold, unforgiving rock, which gave way beneath him and sent him sliding backwards at an alarming speed. The Knight struggled to find purchase, barely managing to seize a nearby niche as his legs slipped over the edge and dangled uselessly. He gazed over the ledge and repressed a shudder at the sight of jagged rocks a lethal distance below him.

Some loose pebbles and rocks rolled by the Knights head, drawing his gaze up the mountain where he could barely see the masked man, who had almost reached the summit. With an exasperated breath, he dug his fingers into the rock, and pulled himself upwards.

He hadn't given much thought to how exhausting climbing a mountain was. He was never one for heights. Not that he was afraid of them, he just rarely used height as a means of escape from whatever threat found him as a teenager. Granted, he was glad to be away from it all, but being stranded on a foreign world was hardly an ideal vacation spot.

Several tense minutes passed, wherein each time the Knight made a particularly loud noise he stopped and simply clung to the mountainside like a tick on a rat. His arms were aching, and at one point he thought of looking down to motivate himself to move a bit faster in case he lost the target, but thought better of it. He could see the ledge the man disappeared over and got into a careful position before his body moved of its own accord, instinctively leaping into the air before his left arm shot to the ledge, seizing it. The Knight wiped some sweat from his forehead, silently cursing his recklessness before grabbing the ledge with his other hand and pulling himself up.

Once he got to his feet and looked ahead, the Knight was surprised to see a small encampment hidden away in the mountaintops. He quickly crouched to avoid being seen by its residents before getting closer, hiding behind a large boulder and focusing his hearing on the camp. He peeked around the corner and saw what looked to be three figures, two of whom were heavily-armed mercenaries. The third was wrapped in a cloak and was hunched over. One of them was busy conversing with the cloaked man, and the other, who appeared to be female, was sat nearby, inspecting a cartoonishly oversized firearm.

"...set to go?"
"Tell me again, where are we to go?" the cloaked man asked. His voice was raspy, and he sounded like a man who was past his prime. His accent was unidentifiable, and his speech seemed broken, as if he wasn't speaking his native tongue.
"Look, you little runt," the woman said irritably, pausing her inspection long enough to give the man a stern gaze. "You wanna be a part of this outfit you need to keep up with current affairs. The Order are saddling up for a mining outpost somewhere north of here, which means we are, too. Remember, you're gonna be our underground guide during this, so you'd better be up to it."

The Knight listened, remembering the mutterings around the Rescue Camp of a permanent base of operations. If that was where these people were headed, he may as well tag along.

Something else caught his attention, though. The woman referred to the group as an "outfit". His gut told him that these people weren't standard-issue Knights, besides the fact that they were, for the most part, armoured like he'd never seen. He hesitated for a brief moment, questioning himself as to whether this really was the path he wanted to go down. He had, after all, made some bad calls during his stint in another "outfit", and saw many suffer the consequences. Was this worth the potential trouble?

"You lost, kid?"

He froze. A gravelly voice barked at him harshly. He heard a sound not unlike the cocking of a gun.

"Stand up. Turn around. Slowly."

The Knight complied, keeping his hands apart from his body and his palms open. Once he was on his feet, he turned to come face-to-face with a pair of red eyes that told a thousand words about the man behind them: a cold, ruthless killer that would pull the trigger and dump the corpse without a second thought. The Knight had seen that same look several times in his life, but this man had it in spades. Five o'clock shadow decorated his heavyset jaw, and the Knight could spy a neat scar on his lip. This man was no novice to combat.

"You're a long way from the Order, boy," the man growled. "What makes you think you can come snooping around here and live to tell about it?"

The Knights eyes moved to the gun, and ornately-decorated revolver with purple markings and two purple wings on the top and bottom of the barrel. He could see the bullet sitting in the chamber. It wasn't a weapon likely to be used by the Order, but it was still a force to be reckoned with, especially at point-blank range. These things were instrumental in the development of firearms, and were the ancestors of the Order's preferred plasma-based weaponry, according to enthusiasts.

And one was being aimed directly at the Knight's face. Fortunately, he'd been here before, and knew how to remain calm in this situation.

"Like the gun, huh?" the gunman goaded, taking note of the Knight's eyes on his firearm. "Want one? This is my only one, sadly, but I can spare a few bullets if that's what you'd like."
"You flirt with all your guests or am I an exception?" the Knight retorted.

A smile flitted across the gunman's face, but his eyes remained cold and impassive.

"You have a mouth on you, boy," he said quietly. "I still keep the desiccated tongue of the last guy to talk to me like that in my coat pocket as a good luck charm."
"Tsk, bringing up your past dates," the Knight replied calmly. "Never a good idea in my experience."
"What's say we just skip the chit-chat and get to the good part?" the gunman said, pleasantly surprised he had stumbled on a man who can calmly stare into the barrel of a gun and crack jokes all the while.
"War, what the Hell are you doing?"

The gunman faltered for a brief moment, showing some brief frustration and annoyance at the game's apparent conclusion. The Knight could see a skeletal figure standing behind them, looking amusedly at the pair.

"Found this rookie snooping around," the gunman answered. "Think anyone'll miss him?"
"He told me he ain't a Knight, so it's unlikely," the other replied. The gunman, though birefly surprised at his superior's familiarity with his target, barely had time to grin before he continued speaking. "Still, don't kill him yet. If he can stare you in the face that long and not flinch, he's either really brave or really stupid."
"I was always one for natural selection," the gunman said. "Who's to say can't just take a chance and get it over with?"
"Me," the skeletal-clad merc said confidently. "I am your superior, and I'm ordering you to stand down."

With a look of indignation, the gunman lowered his gun and took a step back. The Knight lowered his arms, his eyes darting back and forth between the two.

"All due respect, sir," the gunman said, emphasising the word 'sir' with veiled contempt, "this will only serve to harm us. We can't have a goddamned rookie out here."
"I can vouch for his swordplay," the skeletal figure said. "Besides, we've already gained a new member in the last few days. One more won't hurt."
"You can't be serious!" the gunman hissed.
"Serious about what?" a voice sounded from the other side of the boulder.
"You two, follow me," the skeletal figure said, pointing to the two of them in turn, before walking around the boulder to the other side, where the other mercs stood, surprised at the sight of the novice Knight walking defiantly behind their superior.
"What the Hell's this?" the woman with the gun said, annoyance contorting her face.

The Knight studied her appearance. Her face was easy on the eyes, a fine visage that he could get used to looking at: A soft face accentuated by high cheekbones, a nose that, while large, was attractive nonetheless, and was framed perfectly by the rest of her face. Her eyes, however, were cold and predatory, and held much indignation in his presence. The Knight made a mental note to avoid any attempts at courting her.

The other, a man heavily built with a set of equally-heavy armour, stood beside her, scrutinising the Knight as he stood with piercing blue eyes behind a pair of rimmed glasses. He cocked his lantern jaw as he studied the novice before him. He raised one of his tree-trunk arms to adjust a strap on his shoulder plate, before silently nodding his approval of the Knight.

The one in the cloak stood back somewhat, shifting nervously. The Knight spent a second trying to catch a glimpse of the man's face, but saw only more cloth under the hood. It was only then he noticed the cold wind blowing gently against his face, reasoning that the man was utilising the robe for warmth, not anonymity.

"This is our newest recruit-" the skeletal figure said.
"No, it fragging isn't," the woman shouted indignantly. "I put up with it for this pipsqueak," she jerked her thumb at the diminutive man in the many layers of cloth, "but inviting every rookie you see to join us-"
"Famine," the man replied calmly, but clearly. "If you could see what this kid could do, you'd be recommending him to the higher-ups in the Order. However, since he evidently cannot follow orders," he said, shooting a pointed look back at the Knight. "I'll be taking responsibility for him. Don't worry, I know what I'm doing."
"Un-be-fraggin'-lievable," the gunman growled, striding past his superior back into the heart of the camp. The others followed suit. The heavy-set man scrutinised the Knight for a second or two longer, then broke off as well.

The skeletal figure turned to face the Knight, an indecipherable look beneath the helmet's mask.

"So, that's twice I've helped you out," he said. "War'd probably have killed you by now had I not come along."
"I thought we hit it off just fine," the Knight said sarcastically.
"Nevertheless," the man said sternly. "You owe me a debt. I've saved your life, taken you in, and if you cost us, I'll kill you myself."

Typical, the Knight thought to himself.

"I still don't know who the Hell you people are."
"And until you prove your worth, we'll keep it that way," the man replied. "As it stands, you may call us the 'Horsemen'. Now, what do we call you?"

He had gotten the strange feeling that the skeletal figure had expected him to follow, to defy his orders. He'd expected that gunman, War, to catch him, hold him at gunpoint and try his hand at intimidation. Then he could see how the Knight handled being held at gunpoint. A test he seemed to have passed. Now he was indebted, and he always strived to settle his debts as amicably as possible. Granted, things did not always go that way, but the Knight had little options now. However, it was just a feeling, and any truth behind it was irrelevant.

And what of a name? His old name was useless to him now, he thought to himself. He could feel his amulet pressed against his chest, the metal kept warm by his still-beating heart.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

"You can call me Cross."

----------------

And now we have our premise.

@LoN: Well, I'm open to any you might come up with. I need to be sure my 'skills' haven't dulled.

===Chapter 3===

The team spent several minutes packing their gear, during which time the Knight known as Cross stood uncomfortably, leaning against the rock. Every few seconds a contemptuous glance was fired his way, but he merely stood there, taking it all in. He took note of the heavy weaponry they had accumulated, none of which he had seen before.

War, the gunman, who looked to be wearing some form of jacket, likely a duster or slicker, was busy inspecting a large sword that split into two separate blades at the guard. Heat emanated from the split centre of the sword, where a mass of fiery red energy was cradled between the blades. A jet black Stetson sat atop his head, decorated by a piece of red cloth tied around the crown. A bandana was visible, tucked below his jawline for the time being, and affixed to the hat by metal bands of some sort. Satisfied with the sword's quality, he pressed a button on the handle, shutting off the heat source and locking the split halves together, before sheathing the sword.

The woman, Famine, she was called, was busy collecting several short swords, carefully comparing them before selecting two of differing characteristics, which she sheathed, one on either side of her. On her belt Cross could see a Valiance firearm, one of the few Spiral-made weapons that were present at the camp site, as well as another, less identifiable gun. Her armour was not as bulky as the other mercenaries', and was in fact form-fitting, accentuating a slender and athletic figure. It appeared to be Proto armour that had been slightly modified, with lighter plating on the chest and limbs. A tank of red energy was strapped to the lower back of the suit. It took Cross a second to realise that this was the same type of suit that the bandit leader wore, albeit with slightly more durable plating. A mining helmet topped her head, and Cross spend many a minute deducing what her speciality was in the team. Since it probably wasn't heavy on firepower or explosives, stealth and recon seemed the most obvious, considering her body type.

The unnamed giant sat nearby, carefully scanning several sheets of worn paper with his HUD, his blue eyes flicking between words behind his rimmed glasses. His armour, of all of the mercenaries, was the bulkiest, sporting heavy plating that encased the torso like a steel coffin. Limbs like metal-plated tree trunks were supporting a pair of large hands as they picked up a colossal sword with delicate care, affixing them to a strap of some sort on the behemoth's back. The helmet vaguely reminded Cross of a stove, so pronounced was the grate covering the giant's face, so square and heavy-looking was the helmet as a whole. An impossibly large shield the size of a small door lay against a nearby wall, presumably belonging to the man.

The skeleton's armour was, to a layman, reminiscent of a typical Halloween costume, except it held a sharper and harsher tone. Now that Cross had time to study it, it looked far stronger than the armour the Order handed out. The helmet looked strikingly like one that a shogun might wear, with the maedate replaced by two very distinct horns. The armour was slimmer than it initially appeared, the main bulk coming from two sets of shoulder plates affixed to each other by bolts, which covered the majority of the arms and were strapped to the torso, likely because of their suspected weight. The ribcage-like shield was still issuing a black smoke, though what exactly it was Cross was unsure. A black-bladed sword rested in a unique sheath, with purple markings and an ominous presence. The sword itself resembled one of an iconic line of blades that originated from the Orient, the eastern hemisphere on the Homeworld. Cross could swear he felt something powerful in that sword. Something dark.

His eye was caught, however, by the cloaked man watching him nearby, wrapped in his many garments. Cross wondered why such a man would be allowed on the Skylark in the first place, let alone how he could survive the crash without any armour. Then again, Cross himself snuck aboard the late vessel shortly before lift-off, so that question at the very least was moot. What bothered him most about the way the cloaked man was staring at him was the fact that he didn't move a muscle. He was perpetually stuck in that hunched pose, yet made no noise of pain or discomfort. He almost seemed... inhuman.

"Alright, team," the skeleton shouted. "If you've all got your gear and valuables, let's get moving. We'll need to reach the settlement before sunset."

There was a collective murmur as the team turned to face their captain. They formed a single file line, which the skeleton scrutinised meticulously.

"Armour, check. Weapons, that's a check. I hope you've all stored your data safely in your HUD. That goes double for you two," he added, nodding at Famine and the behemoth.
"I have our travel route planned, sir," Famine replied confidently.
"And I have all relevant data copied and stored," the giant added.
"Good, good,” their leader said approvingly. “Horsemen, we move!"

Cross watched in amusement as the team turned in unison and set off on their journey. For a team of mercenaries, they were well-disciplined, almost like the Knights themselves. The skeleton turned to face him, fixing him with a stare that told him to move. Cross complied, taking note of the leftover gear, mainly tents and discarded ration packets.

“Who’s gonna pick up the leftovers?” he asked the squad leader.
“I don’t think it matters,” the skeleton replied. “If bandits move in then they’ll get some use out of it. If not, it’s no big deal. No Knight within a several mile radius will be coming here, anyway.”

Cross frowned at his words, but made no comment, instead following him and the rest of the team. The skeleton joined Famine at the front of the line, who pointed him in the direction the team was supposed to be headed. Cross’ eyes flicked between the other members, catching the eye, he assumed, of the cloaked one again. His gaze lingered on the shawl, drawn tightly over the man’s face, before looking back at the two in front.

“I’ve checked out that underground entrance the runt told us about,” Famine said. “It seems legit, no patrols, no security that I could see. We just have to hope it leads us where he says.”
“Very well,” the skeleton replied, before speaking up. “We’re heading to a mineshaft to the north-east. We take a shortcut through the forest we should get there within the hour.”

The climb down the face of the mountain was significantly easier than the climb up, considering the presence of an actual path this time around. The team moved rather quickly, as if sunset was a lot closer than it seemed. Cross repeatedly found himself jogging a short distance to keep up with their brisk pace, which was somewhere between power-walking and running. It seemed they did this a lot. Cross wasn't exactly overweight, but getting injured in a seven-on-one fight, sprinting through a forest to keep up with a shadow of a man and climbing a mountain had left him a little worn out.

“I can hear you panting all the way over here, kid,” War growled from a few metres away. “Right now you're reminding me of just what’s wrong with your generation.”
“And you’re a reminder not to have a mid-life crisis,” Cross shot back. “I take it you bought a nice, big gun for your birthday to compensate for something?”
“Lock it down, both of you,” the skeleton called back to them. “Save your energy. We might run into something down underground. I need both of you primed.”
“And let me guess, the kid’s gonna ball up and cry?” Famine spat.
Cross frowned. “So shrill,” he commented venomously. “You know, with the right technology we could weaponise that your bi-“
“Enough!”

The team fell silent as the giant voiced his concerns. His voice was loud, and carried a soothing bass tone that helped calm the others. It seemed aloof, as if he naturally developed a clear and reasoning voice that showed no emotion so as not to pick a side.

“Son,” he spoke to Cross. His voice carried a smooth southern drawl. “If you want to fit in here, you gotta make an effort. Keep your emotions under control."

Cross scowled, yet remained silent. They had reached the foot of the mountain and had begun their walk along the even ground. Almost an hour passed as the team headed along the path, before their leader abruptly stopped in his tracks, turned on his heel, and began walking off to the right. Cross stood perplexed for a brief moment as the team followed dutifully, shooting a quick glare at War as the latter deliberately shouldered him as he walked by. Glancing quickly up and down the beaten path as if he would be rescued from the team, he sighed heavily and followed them.

The trek through the forest was significantly more comfortable. The lack of direct sunlight helped Cross to stay cool, only becoming aware of just how hot it really was from the feeling of sweat running down his back. The ground was softer, too, but this merely allowed the pain in his feet to kick in faster, like a muscle that only finds time to ache once it stops exerting itself.

The sounds of snapping twigs and shifting dirt was all that could be heard as the team slinked through the trees. Cross silently grumbled at their pace; walking quickly would only tire them out faster, and if there were any ambushes waiting up ahead, they'd have that bit more stamina to spare. Besides, sunset shouldn't be any less than a few hours. They'd be there and back in that time, if the Rescue Camp gossip was to be believed.

"Famine," the leader suddenly spoke up. "Is this what we're looking for?"

A large platform sat in the centre of the clearing, with a large screen just behind it. Some unknown symbol was displayed on the screen in a resolution that had been surpassed by Spiral technology by a decade or two. Unseen gears and pistons were moving within the machine, generating a sound not unlike a steam engine. A lowered guard rail outlined the perimeter of the platform, likely triggered by one of the large buttons on the archaic control panel.

"Yes, sir," Famine answered. "This is the elevator that will take us to the underground expanses. With the rat's help we should reach our destination in a few hours, maybe less."
"I am taking offence to your words," the cloaked man said.

Cross scanned the man. A rat? He'd known a few during his time in the 'outfit'. His first kill had been when his 'employer' put a gun in his hands and commanded him to shoot a rat at gunpoint. The memory was particularly painful, as said rat was a high-ranking member of the group Cross was a part of, and the two were on good terms before that whole fiasco.

But that was almost a decade beforehand. Cross shook his head. Gotta focus, he thought to himself.

"Doesn't look too stable," War observed, scanning the elevator intently. "What's the max weight it can hold?"
"We always use four as safety," the cloaked man replied. "It may use seven at a... what is the word?"
"Push?" Cross offered. "Seven at a push?"
The man chuckled, a noise that would have sounded like a cough had anyone else been making the noise. "Your language is very amusing to learn. So many more words than ours. And with meanings that are very different at times."
"Hmm," the skeleton frowned, rubbing his chin. "Four for safety, but can hold up to seven? Why's that?"
"We are sometimes with heavy loads. Some of the Constructs are more heavy than other Constructs."
"Hold up," War said. "Four of what, and seven of what? Because I get the feeling you're not just talking about you and yours."

Cross was getting more and more perplexed by the minute. He was starting to suspect more about the cloaked man than was rational. Then again, given the last few days, rationality can hardly be expected.

"So how many of us can fit here?" the skeleton asked. "You know, the six of us?"
"I do not know. I have not weighed you."
"How about we take the rat with us and leave the child here?" Famine spoke up with a pointed glare in Cross' direction, who responded in kind with an obscene hand gesture.
"Just make an educated guess," the skeleton told the cloaked man. "Based on our size and gear."

The cloaked man stood still for a moment, a gloved hand scratching at the top of his head. It was a few seconds before his response came.

"I am thinking we would be pushing it a bit. Perhaps we will be fine. Yes, I am certain we will be. Er... perhaps... no? Yes. Yes, this shall work."
"Good a response as any," the skeleton said. "Team, all aboard."

There was a sigh from someone as the team moved in unison toward the elevator, which was more spacious than many on the Homeworld, but was still cramped with six humanoids, four of whom were heavily-armed mercenaries.

The cloaked man slid past the others to reach the control panel, whereupon he pushed a large, blue button in the centre. At once, the lift's guard rails shot up, boxing the six in, and a jet of steam issued from the machine. Several tense seconds passed, before the lift dropped like a stone.

Cross made an attempt to look casual as he leaned against the guard rail, his arms resting along it to allow him to discreetly clench the rail with his hands as tightly as he could without anyone taking notice. When he glanced around, he saw the team with expressions of varying degrees. War was frustrated, his gaze shifting between people as he tried to maintain his own personal space. Famine was nervous, having entered uncharted territory with little room for scouting out traps. The giant was stoic and analytical, keenly observing the smoky void that lay beyond Cross' line of sight. He could barely see the skeleton through the crowd, but made no effort to read his expression.

The atmosphere in that square area was palpable enough to last the entire elevator ride, tripling in intensity when the elevator itself hit what the cloaked man called a "junction", whereupon it docked to another track and sped into a seemingly random direction. Cross closed his eyes in as calm a manner as he could, attempting to pick a nice memory to relax himself, only to stop when he realised he had few of those.

After what seemed like an hour of stomach-lurching rail travelling, the elevator finally docked, or rather, slammed heavily into the ground, causing the six inside to stumble and fall against each other before painfully rising to their feet. One the docking station finally detected the elevator and connected to it, the guard rails dropped into their respective slots rather quickly, almost catching Cross' foot in their rush. The team stepped out rather haphazardly, with Cross stepping away to get a good look at the platform the elevator had docked into: a large, square hole cut into a floor of unidentifiable metal and stone. He could see the control panel connect to what reminded him of a plug socket, which would likely draw in external power to recharge whatever powered it, assuming that the rails themselves weren't doing so.

Recovering slowly from the sudden change in altitude, Cross attempted to find his bearings, only to be greeted with a far flung series of corridors with few walls, no ceiling and a low wall running along either side of every path, doing little other than indicate where the ground ended and where oblivion started. What walls there were, were merely large bronze-coloured grates put up for no discernible reason, and while it certainly added to the 'hazardous construction' aesthetic, it did little to alleviate Cross' concern of what lay within the halls.

"Remind me how you can fit seven of anything in there," War grumbled.
"We do not carry enough technology to power a small city," the cloaked man replied with a small chuckle. "That does help with making space."
"Keep it together, people," the skeleton spoke up, studying the damaged elevator. "I don't think anyone'll be using this elevator now that we're through with it, which means that the only way out is forward."
"After you, runt," Famine said, pointing to the only visible way forward.

@Soulstaker: I had thought about including apps, but chose not to for a few reasons. The first reason is that I'm not sure I could work with characters that are not my own, and second being that I've already planned out these stories without the need for character apps. Besides, I'm not interested in a ton of comments, just a few helpful ones.

===Chapter 4===

The cloaked man hesitated briefly before shuffling his way into the open corridors. The team followed, keeping their weapons ready and their wits sharp. Cross drew his pistol, keeping it pointed skyward while he peered over the edge of the walls blocking him off from the void below. He could see many more of these halls, with twisting passageways of stone and steel, rising inclines and falling slopes. He could see crates stacked high with unknown items of unknown quantities.

His attention was grabbed by the team, who had stopped walking upon arriving in a large room filled with numerous automatons. Around the edges of the room were small changes in floor panelling, going from 'tiled' to 'spike-trap' every few metres. In the centre of the room sat several glowing blocks, each made of a transparent material that looked like red-tinted glass, containing a glowing orb of yellow energy. Since they were colour co-ordinated, Cross assumed that these were volatile explosives.

He forced his gaze back to the automatons, recalling that the cloaked man referred to them as Constructs. There were several kinds here. A tall, shambling humanoid that resembled some hideous hybrid of a typical robot and a zombie, complete with a dysfunctional walking pattern, large, lethal-looking hands that bore claws, and carried the aesthetic equivalent of death in a robotic sense: paint peeling off its battered head, exposed wiring blocking the joints, forcing them to move in a very limited way.

The other Constructs were more polished, and significantly more functional. One resembled, vaguely, an insect that scuttled around on only four appendages. Its 'head' was almost animal in nature. Despite having a cuboid-shaped head, a slope at the front accentuated the mammalian qualities it possessed, taking the sharpness away from its appearance. The markings around the bottom part of its 'face' looked like a mouth of some sort, and the large, glowing circle in the centre appeared to Cross as a single eye. When Cross looked closer, he could see a bolt affixed to the side of the head, giving the impression that the ‘mouth’ was able to open.

Positioned, or rather stationed nearby were several mounted turrets that were fixed to the floor, the only clue that they were turrets being the obvious cannon protruding from the mouth of what looked like a canine-modelled statue. Large brightly-coloured bolts were affixed to either side of its ‘head’, giving the appearance of big bright eyes. The sharp pointed edges along the top served to resemble pointed ears, but their functionality remained ambiguous.

Cross looked nervously at the team, who turned to the cloaked man in turn. He himself seemed still and unperturbed by what lay ahead, but stood upright and spoke with a tone of urgency.

“These are some of the early models of Constructs we have made,” he said. “They may not be our strongest, but be on your guard.”

He pointed a finger to one of the automatons.

“The tall ones are old and decrepit machines we used for security. They have stopped making them because of efficiency, but the claws are built to last. Their heads have a beam cannon built into them, so be careful.”

Cross blinked in disbelief. Laser beams?

“The small ones,” he continued, “are not very quick, but they can zap you if you are slow. Be fast and strong and you will beat them easily.”
“Just like every bad guy in everything ever,” War huffed, checking his gun.
“The sentries,” the cloaked man pointed to the canine-turret, “can only turn on a fixed point, so they should be easy to destroy. Just make sure they do not hit you while your back is turned. Many stories have been told about the poor souls that-“
“Alright, yeah, yeah,” War said impatiently. “What’s the plan?”

The skeleton did not answer immediately, but placed a hand to his chin and thought for a moment.

“Famine, you draw the fire of the ranged bots,” he pointed to a spot off to the side. “War will flank them,” he pointed to the other side, “and pick them off from a distance. I’m going up the middle. Big guy, you’re with me,” he added, pointing to the giant.

Cross noticed that he hadn’t been picked, but made no attempt to point it out. Not only was he reluctant to combat mechanical contraptions, he was a little curious as to what these four could do. The cloaked man, on the other hand, was as new to the experience as Cross was, and seemed to only be able to contribute with information, though Cross was still perplexed as to how he managed to obtain it in the first place.

Famine took off like a bolt of lightning, running in her chosen direction. As planned, the turrets and shamblers swivelled to get her in their sights. The lasers that erupted from the ‘+’ shaped lenses on the shamblers’ faces travelled along the ground to where Famine was less than a second before, scorching a path to it as their heads turned upward to look. The turrets shot yellowish orbs of energy that travelled significantly slower and were easily avoided by Famine.

War took off once the first shots were fired, heading to the other end of the area and taking pot-shots at the turrets with a rather large handgun. The bullets impacted with the turrets with enough force to shatter the steel plating protecting their ‘heads’, punching a hole clean through them and rendering them utterly useless. Then, taking a step back, he executed a single fluid movement wherein he pivoted on his heel, holstered his larger gun, drew his ornate revolver, and double-tapped the trigger as he spun to send two bullets straight into the lenses of the two shamblers that turned to face him. Their heads exploded, causing them to collapse into heaps of scrap metal.

The skeleton charged the frontlines, drawing his jet black blade before twirling it in his hand with a stylistic flourish. The four-legged crawlers took notice of him and began moving forward. Cross saw one open its mouth, releasing a trifecta of energy bolts not dissimilar to what the turrets shot at Famine. The skeleton, however, dodged the attack easily by somersaulting over the Construct, using his momentum once he touched the ground to pivot and slash upwards, bisecting the robot. As another closed in, he spun on his heel and drove the blade through the glowing lens on the front of the Construct, which collapsed in a heap.

A shout caused Cross to look toward Famine, who had been cornered by two of the shamblers, one of whom had gotten hold of her while the other was preparing his laser to fry her at point blank. A colossal sword cleaved through the former as the giant finally made it to the fray, who adjusted his weight and bashed his shield into the latter Construct, whose beam bounced off uselessly. The Construct fell to the ground, where it met its end with a heavy great sword to the head.

With all the Constructs down, the team regrouped in the centre. The cloaked man shuffled towards them, and Cross decided to follow.

“Famine, you okay?” the skeleton asked, helping her to her feet. She winced once she put weight on her left leg, as though she injured it when she was caught.
“Yes, sir,” she replied meekly, dismissive of her injury. “I should’ve been more careful-“
“Yes, you should have,” War scoffed. “If these things actually posed a threat you’d be killed twice over. Do that again, maybe we’ll let the kid take your place.”
She glared at him, before turning a softer gaze to the team leader. “One of those things got my leg. I don’t think I’m up to running.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine,” the skeleton said, running a quick look along her injured leg. “Hey, kid. Gimme a hand here.”

Cross grimaced in protest, but a stern gaze from the skeleton forced him to back down. Famine, shooting a quick look at her superior that suggested that she’d prefer him to help her, reluctantly put her arm around Cross’ shoulders, who supported her equally as reluctantly. He could almost feel her anger emanating from her head, which was inches from his own.

“I do not wish to impose,” the cloaked man piped up, “but we do need to keep moving. These floors will change soon.”
“What do you mean, ‘change’?” Cross asked.
“He means these floors are on a timer,” the giant answered. “I take it you weren’t briefed,” he added with an idle glance at the squad leader.
“We’ll explain once we’re in the clear,” the skeleton said. “C’mon, let’s move. More of those things could show up at any time.”

With that, the team moved on, albeit a bit slower due to Cross having to support Famine. Hardly anyone said or did anything noteworthy since they had resumed their travels. The giant gave Cross a quick look every now and then, but his expression was difficult to read, and never lingered long enough to give Cross pause. Perhaps he was merely making sure that no hostility was bred between Cross and the woman he was carrying.

After a long while, after several corridors and dead-ends, the team came upon a rather large square room. Up ahead, Cross could barely see the light of an elevator terminal through the smoky haze.

“Oh, finally,” the skeleton said. “Hopefully we’ll be on time for HQ’s debriefing.”
“Don’t count on it,” War said. “If our navigator’s right about this, one missed time slot is enough to send you to places that don’t care much for schedule. If we make it in time, I can almost guarantee someone won’t.”
“Assuming they make it at all,” Famine replied. “If these were the weakest Constructs here, we’ve got a serious problem on our hands.”
“So long as we don’t fight like you, I guess we’ll be fine,” Cross remarked snidely.

Famine fumed, but caught sight of the giant, who was projecting a stern gaze at both of them, and fell silent. Cross shot a quick look of apology at him before focusing on the terminal.

“Hmm, this is not right…” the cloaked man said.
“What isn’t?” the skeleton said sharply.
“At the end of each trial, there is usually a-“

The gate leading into the room shot upwards like an inverted portcullis, blocking off the team’s entrance. The gate acting as their exit route did the same. A current of purple energy surged through the bars, projecting an image not unlike a force field with malevolent eyes watching the intruders.
The team reacted with instinct as Constructs were dropped in to the room, which had on a moment's notice turned into a makeshift arena. Among the Constructs, Cross could make out several brown-furred mammals, with long, protruding noses and a set of sharp fangs. Each wore a pair of goggles, and a uniform jacket with an emblem on the shoulder. The mammals seemed intelligent, and Cross could guess that they were the natives of this planet.

“Friends of yours?” War asked the cloaked man.
“Hardly!” he answered spitefully. “Once you are exiled, you are a friend to no-one!”
“Horsemen!” the skeleton called. “Evasive manoeuvres!”

Cross looked around as War and the skeleton drew their weapons and charged forward. The skeleton took the lead as he attacked the rat-creatures, slashing at them with his black blade, which Cross noticed left scorch marks on their bodies, and those who did not die immediately fell to the ground clutching their smoking wounds in agony. War was whirling around, somehow managing to hit the weak points of all the Constructs with pinpoint precision. Each time he exhausted a clip, he’d perform a stylish spin wherein he ejected his spent ammunition, before reloading when he stood back upright.

The giant was busy defending Cross and Famine from the Constructs and rat-men that got through, but was being helped by the cloaked man, who was dispatching several of them with two similar looking guns that contained minute energy tanks on them. One gun was a greenish yellow, and the other was purple, and the energy that erupted form the barrels hit the Constructs and rat-men, respectively. He was having trouble shooting them, though, frequently missing shots. Cross suspected he wasn’t used to gun-toting.

Cross watched in amazement as War and his superior battled, performing each feat flawlessly, syncing up their attacks with precise timing and finesse. The giant was crushing the smaller Constructs with ease, and the larger ones were battered away, where they were met with a swift shot by the cloaked man. Perhaps it was easier to hit a still target. When some larger Constructs dropped in, carrying swords, Cross saw the cloaked man whirl around and shout warnings to the others.

“Be wary! Those are our robotic militia! They are far stronger than the others!”

War turned just in time to dodge a flurry of sword strikes by one of the robotic knights, whose sword glowed with the heat running along the edge of the blade. Cross shuddered at the thought of being struck by it. War managed to draw his own sword, which lit up at the prospect of fighting, and began slashing away, parrying blow after blow, taking time in between to get a shot off on another Construct across the room. The skeleton was moving so fast he was practically a blur, managing to hold off one of the shamblers as well as one of the robot knights, using his scabbard as well as his sword, bashing with his shield when they got too close. Several more foes were advancing on the pair, forcing them to change their tactics.

A large crash forced Cross to look away from the spectacle, seeing a colossal monstrosity that was stuck between nature and machine: a pair of sturdy legs, on which sat numerous gears wrapped around a warped tree trunk that stretched from waistline to head, with no breaks or segmentation. The only indication of a head were the three glowing green eyes near the top of it. Branching off to its right was something that vaguely resembled an arm, but was almost as thick and heavy-looking as the torso it was attached to.

It shuffled towards the giant, who was forced to bat the other Constructs away in order to block an incoming blow, which struck his shield with such force that he was brought to his knees. He managed to push the monstrosity back, and prepared for a strike.

Cross’ attention was diverted by a couple of robotic knights that were headed straight for him and Famine, as well as some of the rat-men. Thinking quickly, he turned to Famine.

“I’m gonna need to put you down!” he shouted over the chaos. “Will you be okay here?”
“I have my gun, I’ll be fine!” she replied. “What are you gonna do?”
That’s an excellent question, Cross thought to himself.

He dropped Famine as quickly as he could without injuring her further. He ignored the sharp gasp of pain she made as she hit the ground before running forward, drawing his sword in his left hand and gun in the other. As he closed in on the oncoming forces, he remembered the bandits he had fought, and a faint voice in his head sounded its hopes that this fight would at least turn out as well as this one.

He feinted right, before backing up and dodging a strike from a robot knight, whirling around and slicing some wiring at its knee joint, forcing it to sink to one knee. He moved straight into a pistol whip on one of the rat-men, stunning it before turning around and shooting another, hitting it in the arm. He rolled out of the way of the other robot, who attempted to stab him in the back with its heated blade. He appeared upright in front of another two rat-men, one of whom was the one he had struck with his pistol, and chopped the one on the right in the neck with his sword, before shooting the other in the face with his pistol, killing it.

The rat-man he had shot in the arm was upon him, and attempted to strike him with a large wrench, but only succeeded in shattering the skull of his comrade as Cross ducked out of the way, slicing his sword from the neck of the latter before pivoting and driving it into the torso of the former. The robot that he had dodged earlier was upon him again, forcing him to block with his shield. The strength of the attack was enough to throw him sideways, causing him to hit the ground. He managed to use his momentum to roll onto his back and aim at the Construct, firing off a shot in desperation that hit the chest plating uselessly. The robot aimed a strike at him, forcing him to roll to the left to dodge. Once the attack hit the ground, he instinctively drove his sword into the ‘+’ shaped lens in the Construct’s face, causing it to collapse. He barely managed to roll out of the way before it hit the metal floor with a crash.

As he jumped to his feet he noticed the other robot, which was crawling towards him, having been deprived of one of its legs. It seized his leg with its free arm and slashed at him with its sword. Cross gasped as the red-hot steel raked his flesh, before he was dragged to the ground. As the Construct clambered on top of him, preventing his sword arm from defending him, it prepared to drive the sword into his chest. Having determined their weak point with the last one, Cross reloaded his gun with a quick jerk, before blasting the Construct in the face with bolts of green plasma, which pierced the lenses and fried the circuitry within. The robot's sword arm clattered uselessly on the ground, as it slumped against Cross, who, with great effort, pushed the Construct off of him before getting gingerly to his feet.

As he caught his breath and checked his leg wound, which was not as bad as he thought it was, he noticed that all of the noise had ceased. Panting lightly, he looked up, seeing, among the scrapped Constructs and dead rat creatures, War, who was looking surprised, and mildly impressed, and the skeleton, who was looking on with an expression of satisfaction. Looking back towards the giant, whose eyes betrayed his stoic façade with a look of shock, he saw Famine, who was still lying on the ground, speechless. The cloaked man holstered his weapons, before fixing Cross with a stare from beneath his hood.

Cross stood up, before sheathing his sword and holstering his pistol. He saw the others do the same. The giant bent down and seized Famine by the shoulder before gently lifting her to her feet. War and the skeleton regrouped with them, prompting Cross to do the same. The skeleton approached Famine, inspecting her injured leg.

"You know, you didn't have to drop her, kid," he said.
"It's okay," she replied. "If he hadn't we'd probably both be dead. That was actually pretty impressive," she added with a glance at Cross.
"Indeed," the giant said. "Where did you learn to fight like that?"
Cross hesitated. "You pick these things up, I guess."

The answer, he could tell, did not sate the giant, who merely scrutinised him further.

"Guess you weren't kidding about this one, huh?" War's gravelly voice sounded.
"You should know to trust my judgement by now, War," the skeleton replied, taking Famine's arm around his shoulders and supporting her weight. "You hurt, son?"
"No," Cross said, glancing idly at his leg. He could feel a trickle of blood running down his skin beneath the armour, but was under no real threat. The skeleton noticed the wound, but said nothing.
"Well, we're nearly out of here," he said. "Best not to take any more chances. C'mon, team, we're moving."

As they all set off towards the elevator, which was now no longer blocked by the security gates, Cross felt a tug at his shoulder. He turned around to see the cloaked man, who leaned in close to whisper something.

"We share something in common, young one," he said. "I was once like you when I was younger. I only hope you remember this when the time comes."

With that, he moved after the team, leaving Cross among the scrapped and the dead, before he too walked toward the elevator.

===Chapter 6===

“Good job on that mission, kid,” Maarv said
“Thank you, sir,” Cross replied. “I’ll be honest, I didn’t think I’d be able to handle-“
“Nonsense,” Maarv said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “If I didn’t think you could handle it I wouldn’t have picked you.”
“Gotta say, this job sure beats my last one.”
“This job beats most,” Maarv chuckled. “Challenging work, you get out a lot, stay at the top of your game. The pay’s great, and we get free dental," he added jokingly. "What was your last job, out of interest? You’ve never gone into details.”
“I, uh…” Cross hesitated. “With respect, I'd rather not get into that, sir.”

Maarv regarded him with an once-over, studying him meticulously.

“Right,” he said after a few moments. “Well, at any rate, good work. Now, you’d better get going. I’m late for a mission report.”

With that, he motioned Cross to leave, which he did, opting to head back to his bunk. The Gate the Horsemen were allowed control over had become their permanent residence over the last few weeks, an underground base that offered them asylum as well as a way to keep out of sight. The entrance point was sectioned off by the Spiral Guard, who declared the Gate derelict and unsafe to ward off intruders.

The amount of space the level offered was tremendous. After moving in the necessary equipment, Stoyk managed to build a lab to keep up to date with the planet’s technology, Aldway received a shooting gallery out of old Constructs and painted targets, Adeena devised an obstacle course, and Maarv got himself a training room, complete with blunt training swords for sparring and a group of repurposed Mecha Knights for combat. Spacker had been spending plenty of time tinkering with Stoyk in his lab when not on duty, designing various bomb types after combining tech from both species. It gave them something in common to talk about. Each of them also got their own sleeping quarters, though Cross’ was still taking some getting used to.

“You know, I didn’t think you had it in you, kid.”

The gravelly voice snapped Cross out of his reverie, bringing him back to the present. A familiar pair of red eyes accompanied the man leaning against the jamb of a doorway as Cross walked by.

“Come again, War?” Cross wasn’t going to chance his real name.
“I gave you a lot of drek when you first showed up,” he said. “But I know when to admit fault. You got potential, kid. Don’t get yourself killed and you’ll make it far in this business.”
“I don’t know about that,” Cross replied. “I like the thrill, but sometimes the gunshots and explosions just blur together after a while. Maybe I should get a desk job, get a change of pace for a bit.”
Aldway laughed. “Well, if you change your mind, I have a few contacts who are always looking for some talent. Speaking of, your aim during that last run was a bit sloppy. I counted at least four misses. Report to me tomorrow for training. We’ll be working on your focus.”
“What, so I can do that spinning hurricane-of-ballistic death you’re rocking every run?”
“It’d help if you didn’t outshine me,” he answered. “But yes. Be here at dawn tomorrow. Now get out of here.”

Cross walked off as Aldway slinked back into the room he was standing outside, probably to practice a bit more. He’d managed to round the corner up ahead when he heard another voice, this one female.

“He likes you.”

Cross tuned around to see Adeena watching him.

“Don’t you guys have better things to do than follow me around?”
“I’m serious,” she replied. “Aldway just giving away his signature move? I’ve been bugging him for years and he still won’t give me a training slot. Hell, I’ve only been on first name terms with him for the last year or so.”
Cross shrugged. “Maybe you’ve already hit your peak.”
She fixed him with a hard look. “Be that as it may, I’ve got more of a right than you. I’ve earned my place here.”
“Never said you didn’t,” he shrugged. “Word of advice, though: Might just want to keep doing what you’re doing. Let War do his thing.”
“And what about you? You’re just sucking up to the others instead of finding your spot in the team, if you even deserve one,” she added bitterly.
“I’m sensing a little hostility. Maybe even jealousy,” he said.
“Why’d I be jealous of some kid who got a lucky break?”
“First off, I’m not a kid. Second, I’d say I’m earning my stripes at the moment, and third, if you’re not jealous, why’ve you been mouthing off since I ran your course last week?”

She pauses, her pupils shrinking to tiny pinpricks of fury. Cross smirked.

“Look, I won’t say a word,” he said, throwing his hands up in mock salute. “Let’s just do our own thing and keep out of each other’s way. Alright?”

She turned on her heel and stormed off towards her obstacle course without another word, presumably to take her mind off things. Cross headed back to his bunk to call it a night. It wasn’t too late, but he was tired and was having trouble sleeping, not only because of how uncomfortable the mattress was, but of how difficult it was keeping up with the pace of the team. Besides, he need to be up early, and he didn’t want to test Aldway’s patience.

He set his helmet down next to the bed and turned off the lamp on the bedside table, before laying down on the lumpy mattress. He didn’t feel like changing out of his armour. He began thinking about the last few weeks, the events playing back in his memory over and over until his eyes fluttered closed and he drifted off to sleep.

--------------

“All right, good job!”

Cross reclined in his chair, dripping sweat as the tablet he had been hacking lay open, fully unlocked. He’d been at it for almost an hour, with Stoyk watching him like a hawk since the beginning. The big guy sure was patient.

“First hurdle’s been passed,” he said, looking over the tablet. “Soon we’ll try cutting down on the time frame. This is novice level stuff, after all. Still, not bad for a Luddite.
“Now,” he said, rising to his feet. “I think we’d better take our minds off this stuff, give you a breather.”

He sidled over to one of the many desks in his lab. All around lay various instruments and gadgets, as well as stacks of paper with notes, equations and all sorts of technical jargon scrawled on them. Vials of coloured substances decorated one table, as well as a black box whose contents issued an ominous hissing noise. Cross watched intently as Stoyk picked up a large notebook, before walking back to where Cross was sitting and dropping the note book in front of him before sitting down.

“I've been spending what free time I'm getting researching the planet. I know HeadQuarters are doing the same, and they've certainly got the manpower, but I've got both passion and skill. This little notebook contains all the things I've theorised, seen, and heard from various field reports from Knights that have either returned from the field or have been discovered by those who came after.”
"This is supposed to take my mind off of this crap?" Cross muttered bitterly.
"Hush. Now, as you know, there are elevators that take us into these subterranean landscapes-"
"The Clockworks," Cross interrupted. "Look, at this point this is all common knowledge. HQ's been shoving all this down our throats for days. Hell, maybe even weeks at this point."
"Don't interrupt me," Stoyk said, his eyes flashing dangerously, before flipping open the notebook and turning pages, eventually settling on one. "The Clockworks are what make up much of what lies beneath our feet. Impossibly large expanses with artificial skies, floating islands, and suspended walkways. Bet you can't tell me what they're suspended by?"

Cross remained silent.

"Exactly," the giant smiled. "A very advanced form of technology, I must say. We could've used this during the breakout of the war back home. Apparently, the little fuzzballs that built this place discovered a way to suspend matter in midair at a fixed height. This had been used in various engines on the undersides of walkways, islands, and more.

"Now, Spacker's told me about a chemical compound that his Gremlin 'buddies' have come up with for use in powering the engines, as well as Constructs and the like. Really interesting stuff; neither of the parent elements are found in the Periodic Table. I've been looking into it, and I think I can replicate it to make some useful weapons for us, too. You won't find that in HQ's database, will you?"
"I won't have to test drive it, do I?"
"Not unless you want to."
"Then I'll pass," Cross replied.
"Anyway, not only that, but there's just so much I've been studying about the Clockworks, the creatures that live there. Just look at this."

He flipped open a page, on which was a diagram of a short fat creature with stubby limbs and tiny bat wings on its back. Two horns sat atop its head, and its jagged mouth was stretched across its cartoonish face. Cross thought it looked vaguely like a child's depiction of an imp.

"These creatures have a society that combines the dark rituals of the occult with the mundanity of ordinary office work. They have a hierarchy not unlike the corporate food chain on the Homeworld."

He flipped open another page, this time on what looked like a graveyard. One of the graves had what resembled a humanoid skeleton standing next to a freshly-dug-up grave. The skeleton itself was definitely not human; it was far too tall, at least seven feet in height, and its cranium was almost flat and cylindrical. An indistinct humanoid figure lay beyond with the note 'ghost/extra-planar being?’. It was easily the most distinct image on the page, as Stoyk had taken the time to colour it purple.

"I know we like our undead in all sorts of fiction," Stoyk said. "But this is incredible. Actual undead creatures! Mad scientists everywhere will be after their secrets of undeath."
"I hope you don't count yourself amongst them?" Cross asked dubiously.
"Thankfully not," the giant replied. "It may be science, but it is also a perversion of nature. Also, you see here I've marked what looks like a phantom of some description. I've heard reports of Knights that crawled through these areas, and these things are prominent."
"Drek," Cross said in slight amazement. "Office demons, zombies and ghosts, robots, a race of sentient fuzzballs, this planet has everything. What's next, magic?"

The corners of Stoyk's mouth threatened to curl into a smile as he flipped open a page showing cat ghosts and sketchings of owls. Various notes detailing arcane sets of clothing bearing an owl-like theme left Cross feeling a little sceptical.

"Alright, I'm calling bull on that one."
"We were taught from an early age to believe in rationality, kid," Stoyk said. "Seems to me like this planet wasn't."

Cross considered his words in silence, wanting to believe the notes, but just not being able to. Stoyk got up from his seat and set the notebook back on its desk, before resuming his work. Cross interpreted that as his cue to leave, but did so slowly, thinking about Stoyk's findings all the while.

--------------

"You cheated!"
"You need to expect this if you are to survive, Cross."
"You have claws, for drek's sake! And I'm pretty sure you shot me in the back!"
"Be calm, it was a non-lethal charge."

They had been at it for half an hour. Spacker was busy teaching Cross about the kinds of dirty fighting tactics that his people were known for. He'd gotten the drop on Cross at the start, and Cross had only been getting worse as time went on. His ribs were bruised, his legs were cut, and he was sporting a gash on his cheek. Spacker had denied him the use of any weapons, leading Cross to assume it was a hand-to-hand exercise, only to show up with a training sword, a stun gun, and a pair of claws. One shot to the chest was all it took to set Cross on a downward spiral into pain and embarrassment.

"Can I just take a breather for a second?"
"Very well," Spacker said impatiently. "Be quick."
"Don't rush me, 'Conquest'." Spacker had earned his codename after intel he had provided saved a lot of Knights who were sabotaging a Construct fabrication facility in the Jigsaw Valley, an isle of floating islands in the Clockworks. Maarv had decided on the codename just after the two met, but before Cross was brought into the equation.

Cross put his hands on his knees and took a few heaving breaths. He was just starting to catch his breath when he heard footsteps coming at him. He instinctively guessed that Spacker was about to shoot him before he could even raise his head to register the threat. He somehow mustered the strength to side step out of the way of the shot. Spacker drew the weapon back to prepare a swing, but Cross managed to grab his hands and knee him in the ribs.

Spacker grunted in pain before sinking his fangs into Cross' shoulder and digging his claws into his arm. Cross managed to pick him up, holding him over his head as a wrestler would, before falling backwards and slamming him against the cold hard ground. Spacker's mouth opened in shock, freeing Cross' shoulder from his fangs, and his arms fell slack.

The pair was silent for a while as they recovered from the fight. Spacker was the first to speak up.

"You should fight like that more often."
"What?" Cross panted. "With wrestling moves?”
"No," Spacker replied. "I saw you avoid my shot without even looking. You need to hone your instincts, but that... that was not bad."
"I didn't break anything, did I?"
"No, but I think I may take a break for now. That hurt a lot."
"You... bit me," Cross panted, exhausted, "and you have the nerve to complain?"
"You will be fine. Those wounds should not scar with the medical aid in the box over there."

He gestured to the nearby cupboard. A red heart was painted on its door, and beyond lay health kits so plentiful as to patch up enough people to populate a small village.

"You wanna get those?" Cross asked lazily. "I'm really tired."
"I think I shall stay here," Spacker replied.
"Damn..."

A few long moments passed, during which time Cross thought of something.

"Hey, Spacker?"
"Yes?"
"What do you think of the term 'Gremlin’?"
"A term associated with a fictional race of beings known for their mischievous and careless nature who tinker with machinery with no regard to safety protocol? I think it sounds accurate."
"So, you're not offended by it?"
"Not particularly," he answered. "Your people needed to find something pronounceable and descriptive."
"Okay, then."

Another few moments passed.

"You sure you won't get those health kits?"

--------------

Maarv looked up as Cross entered his office. A large screen sat behind him, likely recently deactivated after he'd given a mission report.

"You familiar with the Liberation of Isora, Cross?"
"Yes, sir," Cross answered.

The Liberation of Isora was the counter-offensive to the Moraian occupation of the Isoran Kingdom back on the Homeworld. After the Fall of Isora, many assumed that the Homeworld, and the bulk of the Spiral Order, would be crushed. However, the Morai had difficulty expanding their reach any further, and it was only a few short years before The Order conducted the Liberation. It was the first real victory the Spiral Order had achieved in the Spiral-Moraian Wars, which is what spurred the launch of the Skylark in the first place. Cross wondered why Maarv would bring this up.

"You've heard about all the major players in that particular scene of history? Euclid of the Alpha Squad, the Knights of the Rose, even that bandit clan in the nearby forests that helped pull off the Night of the Red Fang?"
"Yes, sir. Why would you call me here to discuss this?"
"Because you haven't heard everything yet."

Maarv motioned for Cross to sit down. He complied.

"Around fifteen or so years ago, a couple years after the Fall of Isora, some higher-ups in the Spiral Order thought to assemble a squad of soldiers that would strike the Morai where it hurt. Political assassination, sabotage of weapons development, you name it. However, this squad would be kept a complete secret. That is to say, no celebrity Alpha Squad to parade around after a victory, giving speeches and the like to eager schoolchildren. No, they thought to get the very best and brightest to stick to the shadows and slice the Achilles Heel of the Moraian militia. This, Cross, was the birth of the Horsemen.
"The naming of the squad was partially due to one of the Captains in charge of the team's formation; I won't disclose his name. He was a fan of the divine, so they borrowed the name from an age-old tome from centuries past. This would inform ally and enemy of who and what they were dealing with: the Harbingers of the Morai’s personal apocalypse.
"Death was to be the leader of the group. As such, he needed to be fast, strong, and deadly, as the name implies. Death in itself is indifferent to its victims, so empathy was strongly discouraged in favour of cold rationality. I found that to be very difficult to deal with, to be completely amoral and apathetic to the lives you'd be ending by the dozen."

He was silent for a moment, before regaining his composure and continuing.

"War was to be the second in command, the one-man-army with knowledge and expertise with every weapon known to man. His aim was to be pinpoint accurate, and his hand steady and calm. I find Aldway pulls off the apathetic killer much better than I ever did. Sometimes I wonder if he actually enjoys it.
"Pestilence was to be the master of cyberspace, technology and all things mechanical. He needed to keep calm under pressure as he virtually guided his team through certain danger from simple hardware. Computer viruses to short out enemy devices were a must, as well as the reasoning behind the name choice. Stoyk wasn't always with us, you know. Before him we had another who was just a shade less skilful. I guess it came down to age. Stoyk also had his size on his side, and I've never seen a Guardian like him in all my years in service.
"Famine was to leave the pockets of the enemy as empty as their databases. It was decided that this would be the Recon Scout as well as the team's thief. Adeena fits the position well, but her predecessor was born for the role. He was a former pickpocket that routinely got into trouble with the Spiral Guard, and was known for bypassing obstacles at great speed in his attempts to escape arrest. The one time he was captured, we pulled some strings and landed him a job with us.
"Conquest was thought of last. After careful thought on what a team was missing, it was decided that perhaps it would be a spy from within the ranks, someone who would work from the inside to bring it down on the heads of our enemies. This is why I considered Spacker for the role. His predecessor was a Moraian soldier that had been, let’s say, ‘dishonourably discharged’."
"This is interesting and all, sir, but what's that got to do with me?" Cross interjected. "And why am I even here if all the positions are filled?"
"You owe me a debt," Maarv replied with the barest hint of a smile.
"Sir, I think we both know that's not true."

Maarv sighed, regarding Cross' annoyed and sceptical expression. His composure slipped, and for a moment he looked like an ordinary man.

"Look, after watching you take out those bandits, I saw myself when I was your age, young and able, and that made me think. We're all getting older. Soon, our reflexes will slow down, and if we're not out of the game and back with our families by then, then what? We just die like dogs out in the rain. I look at you, kid, and I see a cynical upstart, sure, but one with potential."
"So, you want me to replace one of you when you go back to your families?"
"I suppose I do," he replied. "Maybe you could lead the next generation of the Horsemen. I know Adeena's been giving you grief, but she's worried you'll replace her at some point. To be honest, she's the only one of us I'd rather see go home safely."
"What, you don't have family?"

His expression darkened, silencing Cross. He realised he had said too much.

"Look, I didn't mean-"
"Don't worry about it," he said dismissively. He sighed.
"You know, I never thanked you for giving me a shot with you guys."

Maarv looked quizzically at him, shaking him out of his moment's pause.

"If it weren't for you guys I'd have become a bandit myself, or something worse. I was on my way to becoming a sociopath, and at least now I have a cause to follow."
"That's not true," he said. "The way you fight you'd have landed a cushy Warden job. I still don't get why you wanted to join us in the first place. Don't you have a family?"

Cross was silent for a second before answering.

"When I was growing up it was just me and my dad. He wasn’t the best at taking care of children, you know?"
"Hmm," Maarv replied, scanning Cross with his eyes. He realised he wouldn't get much more information out of him.
"Well, I guess you can go. I hope I didn't bore you to death with this history lesson."
"Not at all, it was actually very informative," Cross replied. "Lets me know which spot on the team to shoot for."

--------------

"No! Please!"
"You need to learn, plain and simple."
"No! I'm sorry! Just don't-
"This is how I learned. You'll thank me one day!”
"NO! DAD! PLEASE!"

The child plummeted into the lake, the ice cold water enveloping him. He writhed in agony as the chill raked his skin, like a thousand knives had pierced every inch of him. He held his breath as long as he could, knowing that one intake of breath would seal his fate. He opened his eyes, making a muffled sound of pain as the cold stung his eyes. His vision was blurred as he whipped his head around, trying to find the way out. All around was blackness, but a desperate gaze skyward showed a light that was quickly fading as he sank deeper into the water.

He kicked his legs, trying frantically to move upward, but the cold had left him weak, and all he managed to do was slow his descent. He moved his arms, but with no knowledge of swimming he merely tried grabbing at the water, vainly trying to claw his way to the surface. As his lungs threatened to give out he opened his mouth and screamed as loudly as he could. Then water filled his lungs, and the light faded completely, and he saw no more.

...

Light flooded his vision as cold air swept across his face. He gulped it down hungrily, retching and coughing up water all the while. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw a head swimming hazily in front of him. A large bald head with a thick black beard, which was sopping wet. Once the child had shown signs of life, the worried look on the man's face turned to vague disappointment.

"That was terrible. We're doing it again."

The child had barely enough time to register the man's words as he was scooped up by his tree trunk arms, placing him firmly on the man's shoulder. The child rocked back and forth sporadically as the man's irregular footsteps plodded to the lake edge. He heard the cane hitting the dirt, stabbing into it like the chill from the lake still fresh on his skin.

"Now, this time, kick with your legs, and swim upwards!"

The child opened his mouth and screamed as he plummeted downwards again, into the icy embrace of the lake.

--------------

Cross woke up, sweating and shaking. He sat up, looking around wildly as the dark surroundings petrified his vocal chords, making him unable to scream. After a few seconds, he realised that he was just sitting on a lumpy mattress, in the dark of his room. He reached for the bedside table and switched on the lamp, which bathed him in a warm glow of light, He relaxed.

"Just a nightmare," he laughed to himself. "Just a nightmare... I'm okay."

He glanced at the digital clock next to his bed. It was still a few hours 'till dawn, and Cross still needed sleep for Aldway's training. He sighed in frustration and lay back on his bed, hoping to go back to sleep again despite the now-cold sweat soaking his head and body, as well as his still-thundering heart. He waited for sleep to take him again.

He waited until dawn.

===Chapter 9===

"I am gracious that you have allowed me to join you on this assignment," Spacker said, biting into his shank of cooked Wolver meat. A small duffel bag was lying beside him.
"You're the local expert," Cross replied, warming his hands over the Heater Shield they had been using as a stove and primary heat source. "Plus, it'd be a bit dull without your furry mug around."

Spacker paused to decipher the words Cross had used, but did not respond, merely going back to his food. Cross noticed Adeena perched near the ledge overlooking the abyss below. She seemed unperturbed by the cold air sweeping across the suspended walkways that made up the frostbitten Deconstruction Zone they were currently squatting in. Frost had formed on her shoulders since she had set herself down to observe their primary target: a Factory that the Order had sent them to investigate, mostly cloaked from the synthetic blizzard.

The data that Maarv recovered was revealed to have been a small piece of a large assembly line, the details of which were still unknown. Spacker managed to identify the Factory as a major staple in the Empire's industrial sector, and had ties to the Crimson Order, the nine Gremlins who enforce their mad king's will on the colonies and beyond. Within the data lay co-ordinates and times, corresponding to where the Factory would be, and at what times during each day. Helpful, since the Clockworks were an ever-shifting enigma.

His thoughts coming back to the present, Cross stood up, feeling obliged to talk to Adeena after what had happened between them. Spacker let him leave, turning his full attention back to the shank of meat.

"You getting cold?" Cross asked, kneeling down next to Adeena on the cold steel.
She remained looking at the Factory. "No."

Cross took a beat to decide whether to ease the topic in or outright confront her. He decided on the blunt option.

"About what happened that night-"
"I don't want to talk about it," she replied coldly.
"This isn't about what you want," Cross retorted, noting his ironic echo. "This is a concern. You've been the resident ice queen ever since I joined up. We've been at each other's throats for months. Then, when I'm drunk and you're in mourning, this happens. This doesn't just happen, Adeena."
She looked at him. "When on an assignment, we are to use codenames, 'Death'."

She spat the name at him, like it were venom in her mouth. Cross frowned.

"It's clear we both have issues," he said, trying his best to remain calm. "Especially with each other, but you can't ignore this. This is kind of a big deal."
"'This' was nothing. Pent-up stress and an act of grief. Nothing more."

She seemed to have meant that as an emotional sting. Cross wasn't affected, as he did not form any emotional bond with her after that night. Indeed, things got somehow worse. Awkwardness and a refusal to talk made their resentment of each other a lot less tolerable. If anything, it only made him dislike her more.

"I don't care about what you think it meant. I want to know why you thought this was a good idea."
"You're saying this is my fault?" she asked sharply.
"We loathe each other," Cross replied. "To the point where you accused me of killing Maarv personally. Grief or not, that line was a clear indication. Then, one night after I've been drinking, you decide to-"
"I didn't 'decide' anything!" she rebuffed, her tone icy. "You just can't stomach the fact that what happened was nothing. I don't care what you think, but 'this'?"

She gestured between the two of them.

"'This' doesn't exist. Now go away."

Cross had half a mind to press further, to explain that he didn't give a damn about what she was suggesting. He wanted to let her know that she had made the first move, on a man under the influence, no less. He wanted to tell her a great many things about how this incident was her fault.

So it surprised him when he remained silent. He reasoned that she was in denial, that her mind was in turmoil over the whole affair, so he would let her subconscious tear itself to pieces on its own. After all, she did tell him to drop the topic. It wouldn't be his fault, like it wasn't that night.

He stood up and walked back to where Spacker was sitting, feeling the need to warm up by the Heater Shield until something relevant to the stakeout occurred.

Almost an hour passed before anything happened. Cross had sat in silence by the warmth longer then he cared to note by the time Adeena called back to them.

"We got movement. Some sort of cargo shipment coming up on the main entrance to the Factory."

Cross reluctantly stepped away from the warmth, stepping over to Adeena to see what the fuss was about. He brought up his HUD's telescopic scan, and, sure enough, saw several enormous crates being wheeled along the suspended paths by numerous humanoid creatures: Gremlins.

"We can sneak in while they're busy checking the shipment," Cross said, keenly studying the situation. "Those vents look promising. Then we can split. If this place is as volatile as HQ thinks, you two can use that new toy of Stoyk's to take out the engines keeping the place afloat, while I head to the core terminal and see if I can find anything interesting."
"And what makes you think you can sneak your way in there?" Adeena questioned.
"Well, it'd be easier than having you around to get me caught," Cross retorted.
"Please," Spacker interrupted before Adeena could open her mouth to protest. "Enough of this. You are both professionals. You cannot compromise your roles on the team with petty arguments."
"You're right," Cross conceded. "If you two agree with what I've come up with, then we can go. Otherwise, voice your concerns now."

To his pleasant surprise, neither spoke up. He noted his own tone of voice, his confidence, his posture.

So this is what it's like to be Maarv, he thought, suppressing a twinge of guilt as he did so.

"Spacker, I assume you brought your new toy?"
"Indeed," he grinned, glancing back at the duffel bag nearby the Heater Shield, inside which dwelled a joint invention between him and Stoyk that would surely be put to use here; a bomb utilising Spiral and Gremlin technology. "It should prove effective."
"Excellent," Cross replied. "Let's move."

After saddling up and marching off, the team kept to the shadows as best they could, using the man-made blizzard to conceal themselves from the Gremlin guards and smugglers. The trio managed to slip underneath the crates, clinging to the axles as they were wheeled into the front yard of the facility. Minutes passed before they were sure that no guards would spot them, at which point they detached and slinked into the shadows. As the team went their separate ways, Cross turned his attention to the vent.

Cross managed to stealthily climb up to the vent, which was conveniently lacking a grate. The Gremlins were notorious for their lack of safety procedures. This also meant that Cross was taking a large chance by going this route. Any number of toxins could be manifesting themselves in these steel bowels.

As Cross crawled along the ventilation shaft, he could see holes in the steel, and used them to peer into the corridors below. It perplexed him just how well organised this place was, compared to the average Gremlin operation. Walled corridors, complete with ceilings, crates of parts being moved to and from rooms, and several engineers carrying schematics that Cross couldn't quite make out, not wanting to chance using his HUD's telescopic feature and risk being detected somehow.

Several minutes of silent crawling and he appeared to have found an opening that he could fit through, which came out through a wall. Peeking quietly, he noticed a few guards on patrol in the room. Smirking, he climbed out of the opening and dropped silently to the ground. The guards paid no heed. A tense couple of minutes of stealth and some quick cuts and bloodshed, and he was clear to continue on foot.

The corridors were as hazardous as could be expected: sharp bits of metal protruding from the floor, exposed holes in the walls that allowed the fabricated icy winds to seep through and rob the facility of what little warmth it could have retained otherwise. What little guards patrolled due to the cold were swiftly dealt with in Cross’ journey to the server mainframe. At some point Cross caught a peek into the abyss through a hole in the floor, which seemed to have collapsed under something extraordinarily heavy. Perhaps it was crushed by a large beam? Irrelevant. He kept moving.

After a long while, after sneaking deep into the bowels of the facility, far enough to notice the cold ebbing away from him and the mechanical ambience growing louder. Tension ran high when he stumbled across what may well seemed to be the core terminal: a huge server room with monitors lining three of the walls, some cracked, some broken entirely.

Engineers sat at their stations, working their respective magic on keyboards with far too many buttons to count. Cross spotted blueprints flickering in and out of focus on the monitors, depicting some form of Construct: a better-built, more advanced model than what the Order had come to refer to as 'Mecha Knights'. This new model bore what looked like a highly-advanced alloy, some sort of node-based energy weapon built into the head, and a hive-mind virtual intelligence. It seemed almost too good to be true.

“What the Hell are they up to?” Cross whispered incredulously.

He headed to the nearest terminal in the hopes of hacking into the central database. Running a hacking program in his HUD, he used what knowledge of Gremlin computer coding Stoyk had taught him to crack the terminal’s dismal defences. Musing on how poor their security was, he plugged in his datajack into the terminal console and began pilfering the database of its content. As he did so he flicked through the files to see just what he was stealing.

Numerous blueprints detailing the new Mecha Knights came into focus, highlighting their durability thanks to an alloy previously thought in Gremlin culture to be little more than a myth: a combination of primal ore, shadow steel, sun silver, and volcanic iron. This alloy was sure to be resistant to most forms of damage, barring the Constructs themselves, whose limbs seemed to be designed with the express purpose of rivalling a locomotive in their force. Cross shuddered at the thought of what it could do to flesh and bone.

“They really pulled out all the stops here”, he muttered. “Must have sunk a lot into this project once the Skylark fell.”

He noticed something odd happening with the datajack. Checking it, he was surprised to find the files encrypting themselves as he flicked through them. He scrolled faster, hoping to catch fleeting glimpses of whatever it was they were dealing with before it was all sealed away; this encryption was clearly advanced enough that even Stoyk would have trouble cracking it.

Cross moved his way into the data concerning the Construct’s weapons, which were also noteworthy, as it featured swords and the like made from the same alloy. Unlike standard swords, however, these appeared to use modified handles that transmitted an elemental energy signature along the blade for additional cutting power. Cross theorised that this was due to each individual metal in the alloy being conductors of Cradle's unique forms of energy. Also pictured was a blueprint for a node-based beam cannon, to be placed in the head of each Construct.

Eventually, Cross came across pictures of the Constructs themselves, grouped in the thousands, awaiting activation. Having assumed that the Constructs were merely in their design stage, it unnerved Cross to find proof of the mechanical army's existence. This was a matter that needed to be tended to urgently.

Cross snapped out of his reverie, noticing that the datajack had finished copying all relevant data, Cross used his HUD to contact the others.
"Famine, Conquest, this is Death. Come in."
"Conquest responding," Spacker whispered through the connection. "We have securely attached the explosive to the gravity engines and are making our way back. Estimated time before detonation is less than three minutes."
"That's a pretty narrow window," Cross remarked, musing on how long he'd been studying the data he had acquired. "Get clear of the Factory as soon as you can. I’m running. Death out."

After he hung up the call, Cross turned to the door he had come in through, connecting the datajack to his HUD and quickly searching for the building’s schematics as he started to run. He managed to merge the data with his minimap as he sprinted, giving himself a clear path to the exit. By the time his gaze refocused on what was in front of him, a handful of Gremlins had appeared, forcing him to weave his way around them while maintaining his speed. Alarms sounded from somewhere, giving him certainty that his escape would be all the more difficult.

Eventually, he found a dead end, realising that he had bypassed it on the way in by using the air ducts. Frantically searching for another way out, he managed to find a route circling back to the main entrance. He had lost count of how long it had been since Spacker gave him a ‘less-than-three-minute-warning’, but reasoned that he had little time to waste regardless. More and more Gremlins were flooding the hallways, forcing Cross to draw his sword and strike at them as he ran, using his speed to vault over those he could not quickly dispatch.

Once he spied the Factory’s entrance he almost let out a sigh of relief, but kept moving, not dropping his speed for a second. As he dashed into the front yard, an earth-shattering rumble threw him off: the bomb had gone off. As the Factory began to plummet, Cross made one last mad-dash for the front gate, tucking into a roll as the path was forcibly torn from the Factory, leaving Cross on a newly-created precipice overlooking the abyss. As the Factory was swallowed up by darkness, he heard movement behind him. He jumped to his feet, before relaxing at the grinning face of Spacker and the stony visage of Adeena. Her expression was unreadable, but Cross did not dwell on it.

“Quite the exit, my friend!” Spacker laughed.
“You took your sweet time,” Adeena said.

Cross noted her bitterness over his survival. He dismissed it and held up the datajack.

“I was busy looking over some of the stuff in here. Whatever the Empire’s planning, it’s big. And it’s bad news for us, so we need to get this back to the hideout right now.”

I'm back!

Of course, I never went anywhere. I just had to stop participating in the Vault for a bit. Here's an explanation:

So, shortly after my last chapter, by 'genius' brother practically destroyed my USB containing over two years of writing. I left it plugged into the side of my dad's laptop, which my brother failed to notice. He decided to use the laptop, and in his ignorance brushed the USB against the arm of the chair he was sitting in, bending the USB to the extent that the jack twisted off entirely. Here's the kicker: he failed to notice it even then. I had to discover a broken jack in the side of the laptop, and a broken USB sandwiched under the chair's cushion, and then tell him all of this, for him to realise it. Needless to say, I wasn't happy.

It took a while, but I managed to salvage the USB and transfer my files to a separate hard-drive. Hopefully it was not all wasted, however; I did spend the intervening time brainstorming story ideas. I look forward to adding more chapters in future.

That said, I'm still behind on my stuff, and it might take a while to get into the groove again. I'd rather play video-games, honestly, but I did vow to finish this.

See you around the block.

Scamall out~

===Chapter 12===

“Well, this is it,” Cross muttered, overlooking the floating dome.
“Nervous?" Stoyk asked, arms folded.
"Hardly," Cross said, fastening Stoyk's newest toy to his wrist. "I've done this song and dance a hundred times. I could care less about the Constructs. This goes well, we won't have to worry."
"Don't be naive, Death."

Aldway had walked up to the two of them, a mad look of excitement in his eyes. Cross was used to the look now, but as of late it had become more unhinged, as if Aldway's bloodlust was finally overcoming him.

"Trust me, this'll be a tough one. I've been around long enough to know the type of mission we're running now. This is the type where something can go wrong, really easily.”
“Yet you seem excited,” Cross observed. “What’s the plan?”
“’Course I’m excited,” Aldway grinned. “Haven’t felt this good in years! The plan is a slight modification to the last one: Famine and Conquest use the Harbinger to take out the engines at the bottom of the complex. Just in case something happens, I’ll be sabotaging the bridges connecting the main dome with the rest of the factory with a few bombs of my own. Then, I'll blast my way through and meet up with Stoyk as he reaches the core terminal with the virus. He'll be entering from the opposite area, attacking the fuel dumps and such. After we meet up, I'll extract him before the bomb goes off."
"And me?" Cross asked dubiously.
"You'll be taking a different path to the core terminal and meet up with the two of us. Once there, extract all the information you can with that datajack of yours. You'll be running with us once we make our escape. Try not to fall behind; we can ill afford to waste time as the bomb ticks down."
"And why doesn't Stoyk take the datajack and do it himself?"
"Because if I fail, you'll still have the datajack," Stoyk said. "And if you fail, I still have the virus. Our priority is destroying the Factory. Only get the data if you’re able."

Aldway grinned devilishly before moving on to survey the dome, leaving the other two to their devices.

"I don't trust him."

Stoyk spoke quietly, catching Cross by surprise.

"Aldway. He's been getting more... abrasive, I guess you could call it, since we landed here. I'd say I have a fair share of responsibility for that; we never did see eye to eye. Even so, I always try to keep my cool. He's been getting worse. I know you see it too."
"Look, whatever you two have going on isn't my business," Cross said.
"I think it is. If you recall, he decked you in the face not too long ago. Almost put a hole in that thick skull of yours, too."
"Your point?"
"My point, and forgive me for sounding so damned weary, is that Aldway's planning something. He's got to be."
Cross frowned. "All right, I'll bite. Convince me."
"I believe that Aldway must be after that data for his own ends. You know how often he’s been scratching his arm lately? My guess is its some sort of slow-acting poison or disease that’s slowly rotting him from the arm upwards. He’s looking for a cure.”
“Makes sense, in a weird, tinfoil-hat-wearing sort of way,” Cross rolled his eyes. “Why wouldn’t Aldway tell the Order about this?”
“Because they’d swipe the info, and lock him up in a lab somewhere. I’ve known Aldway long enough to know how much he hates letting the Order handle things.”

Cross took the big man's words into consideration. It did make sense, after all; Aldway did mention contact with something native to Cradle when Cross began training with him, and he certainly didn't seem the type to sit around and wait for others to act. He'd much prefer to find the cure, if there even was one, himself. It would definitely explain his increasingly agitated behaviour as of late, and his obsession with imparting his skills onto Cross just in case he failed to find a cure for his condition.

“Alright, not saying I believe you, but there’s some weight to this,” Cross said. “Why haven’t you said anything?”
“Because I don’t have enough proof,” Stoyk replied grimly. “Not enough to pin Aldway to anything that’s been going on, at least. And I know the Order’ll take his word over mine.”
“There’s still the arm thing.”
“Might just be a personal tic he’s developed. He’s definitely acting out more, but whether or not it has to do with his arm is up to speculation. He could just be a traitor.”
“As if that accusation is any less alarming,” Cross said sarcastically. “You said you didn’t have enough proof to pin Aldway. I’m getting the implication that you still have some proof after all?”
“Just a small bit, and a lot of it is just speculation,” Stoyk said. “The more I think about it, the crazier it sounds.”
“Look, just send it to me after the mission,” Cross requested. “We’ll review it together and see if this holds water.”
“Got it,” Stoyk replied. “I have a feeling I need a second opinion anyway. You’d better go and get ready for the mission. I need to plan out an escape route if things go south. I suggest you do the same.”

Sensing an abrupt end to the conversation, Cross decided to see what the other Horsemen were up to. He decided that talking to Aldway was a bad idea, so he headed to Spacker, who was busy checking his bombs with a grin on his face, his pointed teeth chittering with hissing laughter. He barely looked up as Cross approached.

"The Harbinger is ready to go," the Gremlin chuckled. "I only wish I could see the look on the Warmaster's face, once we rob him of his army."
"I take it you're looking forward to this?" Cross asked dryly.
"Of course! What kind of creature would I be if I wanted no part of this?"
"You wouldn't be a Gremlin, that's for sure."
Spacker paused for a moment. "A little prejudiced, but point taken. I assume you are checking up on the team before the assault?"
"Yep. It's a good way to kill time, at the very least."
"You would be surprised at how hard it is to occupy your time when exiled. It teaches you to be patient, though."
Cross smirked. "Is that a sly jab at me?"
Spacker reciprocated the smile. "Perhaps. You do need to use your time more efficiently."
"Maybe later," Cross joked. "I'll leave you to it. We'll be going in a few minutes, so finish up whatever it is you're doing."

Spacker nodded in response, fiddling around with the bomb's wiring as Cross sought another way to kill time. After wandering the area for half a minute, he glanced in Adeena's direction, before shaking his head and going to have a look at the factory. Bringing up a telescopic app on his HUD, he scrutinised the floating dome, looking for an ideal point of entry, settling on a skylight in one of the hangars.

He heard Adeena loading her handgun behind him, and glanced back at her again. With a heavy sigh, he decided to bite the proverbial bullet. He shuffled over to where she was standing, trying his best to look tolerable. She glanced up at him idly as he approached.

"What do you want?" she asked. Her voice had an edge.
"Looking to kill some time before the mission, to be perfectly honest."
She raised an eyebrow. "I told you; that night was a one-time thing."
"Not that," Cross said with a hint of exasperation. "You want to talk?"
"What's there to talk about?" she replied.
"I don't know, just talk. Pick a topic."

She stared at him with a subtle glare. He felt foolish, and his neck burned with shame.

He sighed. "Look, I'm trying to patch things up between us. There's been some bad blood, and I want to just apologise for how I've been acting."
She looked at him as if he had two heads. "And what makes you think I want an apology?"
Cross frowned. "You've been pretty vague on what it is you do want, and all I'm asking is that you meet me halfway. The sooner we start patching things up, the sooner we can act like teammates. It's what Maarv would have-"
"You don't-!" she flared, before catching herself. She closed her eyes and exhaled. "Fine... Alright. I'm not saying I can just... forget about this little feud we have, but I can put some effort into acting like a team. Don’t make me regret this or I’ll toss you over the edge without a moment’s hesitation."
He smiled. "Wouldn't expect anything less."
"Horsemen! Front and centre!"

Aldway's gravelly voice carried across the area, drawing the others' attention easily. Cross turned back to where the Shadowsun-clad gunman stood, and courteously beckoned Adeena to move ahead of him. She rolled her eyes, hitting her shoulder against his as she passed. Cross sighed and followed suit.

Aldway was pacing back and forth, clearly excited and impatient with regards to his plan. As the team mobilised, he grinned widely and spoke with amusement and importance.

"It is time. Time that we walk into that factory and remind our enemies who we are and what we do. Time to show them that their precious little army will not stop us from laying waste to their plans. Time to show those rats what the Horsemen are truly capable of!"

He whirled around theatrically. Cross blinked; he had never seen Aldway so ecstatic.

"Horsemen!" Aldway shouted, pointing toward the factory. "Move out!"

Sorry it took so long. 'Kay thanks bye.

===Chapter 13===

Spacker slung his rucksack around his neck, taking care not to disturb the high-powered explosives within. Cross had to admire Spacker's intellect; for a borderline senile Gremlin, he was remarkably proficient with explosive engineering. Coupled with Stoyk's knowledge of Spiral technology, the two were unbeatable. Their Harbinger design was powerful enough to level a city block if placed in the right spot. And now Spacker had several.

Stoyk himself slipped the datajack into his pocket, checking his tech and generally mulling over his entrance strategy. If his theory on Aldway was true, Cross couldn't even begin to imagine how deep his treachery could go. Who would have the resources to convince the Order's best gunman to work for them?

Aldway checked his weapons again, licking his lips in anticipation. He was becoming more unhinged by the minute. A stray thought crept into Cross' head: what if he snapped during the mission? Screwed everything up in a brief bout of madness? Cross shook his head. Focus, he thought to himself. Hold the thought until Stoyk shows you his findings. Aldway's behaviour might be nothing. It could just be all in your head.

Adeena stretched her arms; no doubt she'd have to be quick and quiet so as to remain unseen. Cross considered her for a moment; did he regret the bitterness between them? Perhaps, taking into account his attempt to fix things. Regardless, during, and even before their feud, he found himself dwelling on her for far longer than necessary. At first he pretended to be indifferent, then it grew to an obsessive hate, an unhealthy fixation on her. Perhaps at some level he knew, which would explain his subconscious need to prevent it from progressing further. Nevertheless, his thoughts strayed to her frequently, which concerned him.

As the team went their separate ways, Cross moved to the edge of the platform suspended above the southern hangar. Studying the drop, he determined that it had a fair chance of breaking his legs from the fall, if not outright killing him. Taking out a small grappling hook, he attached it to a large bolt that he found affixed to the steel floor. Then, after testing its support of his weight, he descended, into the almost pitch-black void to the hangar below.

The tense quiet as Cross carefully fed the rope through his safety harness made his hair stand on end. While not quite fearful, he couldn't shake the thought of it suddenly snapping. Thankfully, it didn't, as eventually his feet touched the curved roof of the hangar. Disconnecting from his harness, he left the rope dangling from the area above as another way out in case things went poorly.

The trek through the hangar catwalks was quiet, for the most part. Cross seemed to be the only one present; all the guards were away, most likely due to safety reasons. If there was one thing he learned during his time in the Horsemen, it was that Gremlin infrastructure was hazardous to a nonsensical degree. Each Gremlin-controlled facility he had snuck, fought and blasted his way through had catwalks that had collapsed, their broken forms dangling over the abyss, or a lack of proper schematics, being either linear or labyrinthine in design. It was little wonder why Spacker was the most eccentric of the bunch until Aldway began slipping.

Once he made it to the inevitable break in the shoddily-made catwalk, he studied the gap cautiously. It was a few metres wide, so it was not unfeasible, but could he risk the noise of a running start, and if so, would the catwalk support the sudden shift in weight? As he began moving back almost automatically, he decided to just go for it. Action tended to work well for him, after all.

The run took only a few steps before he launched himself, and he took great care not to impale his hands on the jagged mesh that formed the lip of the ledge he was sailing towards. He managed to seize the ledge, using his weight and momentum to swing himself up on top of the catwalk, before instinctively looking downward to see the fate he had avoided.

Beyond the hundred-foot drop lay a mist of crimson, one quarter of the Construct army shuffling about in the comfort of their ‘home’. To Cross’ eyes, it looked almost like they were training, before he dismissed the idea. Nevertheless, the sheer number of soldiers, and the noises their metal footsteps made echoed throughout the hangar. If the fall didn’t kill him, Cross was sure that they would. He stood up, turned away from the edge of the catwalk, and kept moving.

A couple of minutes later, and he had reached the end of the hangar, which sported a bridge to the central dome as well as several cables as support. Along the bridge could be seen numerous guard patrols and cargo crates for transport. Cross tentatively took hold of one of the cables, and nestled his foot against another, before starting to shimmy across the bridge, taking care not to look down. A bead of sweat began sliding down his temple as he moved. his breath hitched in his chest as Gremlins began chattering loudly beneath him. A quick glance showed that they hadn't noticed him yet, which was good, but it did little to assuage his anxiety.

Once he made it across, he stumbled upon a large uncovered vent. The smell of carbon dioxide wafted from the steel maw as he gazed inside, looking for some source of light. No such luck. Cross rolled his eyes and affixed his armour's air filter; while generally unneeded for Cradle due to its compatible atmosphere, there were still benefits to keeping one handy at all times. Once he was sure that the mask would keep him relatively unpoisoned on the slog through the vents, he clambered inside.

The heat was unbearable. It was likely that the vent connected to a furnace, or was the exhaust pipe for some type of engine. Either way, he didn't want to meet what was on the other side of this thing. The heat managed to steam up the lenses on his HUD, preventing him from seeing what lay ahead. Not that it mattered; it was pitch black anyway.

His back was just starting to ache when he came to a vent. Again, uncovered. He was starting to wonder if the Gremlins were even aware that they could be used as an entry point. Then again, perhaps it was just inconsistency. He did remember coming across a few grates in some other facilities. Frankly, he was just puzzled about why it bothered him so much.

After peeking into the hole in the vent so see if there were any guards, he gently shifted his position and lowered himself in, before dropping into a corridor. Glancing up and down showed him that the corridor was completely deserted. He was getting nervous. Where were the guards? Standing upright, he drew his handgun, just incase he was walking into a trap. He walked slowly down the corridor towards the main portion of the dome.
A loud sound that could only be described as a 'screeching bang' startled him. A sound that was oddly familiar; it was the sound of the gun that killed Maarv. He broke into a run, dashing as fast as he could until he reached the dome's main chamber.

He paused to take it all in: a series of catwalks, stretching across a large abyss, beneath which were thousands more Constructs, and several Gremlin guards patrolling the perimeter. These Constructs were different in colour to the typical crimson that Cross saw in the outer hangar. Instead, they were jet-black, and seemed, at least from a distance, to be better built. Taking his eyes off the forces beneath him, he gazed across the catwalks, beyond which lay the core teminal, a large pillar-like structure with observation decks for the entire complex, server rooms, and likely more.

A second sniper shot took him by surprise, the noise echoing around the dome. He took off for the tower as an alarm sounded. He could spot a Spiral up ahead, clad in what appeared to be a Bombhead mask; a recent fashion statement that was sweeping Haven. The Spiral was holding the weapon that was creating all the noise and aiming at the top floor: where Atoyk and Aldway had planned to meet. The window was shattered, and an unmoving body lay on the ground, stained in scarlet. The sniper turned to leave, and spotted Cross running up to him. He pointed the rifle, and just as Cross' eyes widened, he fired.

The shot glanced off of Cross' helmet, but otherwise did no noticeable damage. Cross fired a few shots from his handgun, which the sniper deflected with his shield. Then, once in range, he holstered his gun and threw a punch. The sniper blocked, before hitting Cross with the butt of the gun, grabbing his head, and pulling him in, before sidestepping and tripping him up.

"Sorry, buddy," the masked man said. "Clock's ticking. Catch you later."

By the time Cross was back on his feet, the sniper was sprinting across the catwalks, but he had dropped something: a mechanical sphere, that was buzzing and ticking ominously.

A shock bomb.

"Oh, drek."

The pain was intense. His every muscle twitched and jolted as the static raked through his veins. It felt vaguely like he had been dunked in boiling water, which was likely his blood starting to boil. He fell to his knees and balled up his fists, trying to stay conscious.

Then, it stopped. Cross panted, trying to get his bearings. Once he regained his breath, he stood up, before a loud chattering called his focus to attention. A Gremlin was using the loudspeaker to notify the guards about something or other. Cross deduced that the sniper had likely given away their position, leaving the Factory on high alert.

His comlink chirped, and the voice of Spacker filled his ear.

"That's the Warmaster, Seerus. They know we're here. You'd better get a move on. War and Pestilence aren't answering my hails."
"I haven't heard from them either," Cross replied. "But I did just run into- nevermind. I'll find them. Give me five minutes."
"Very well. We shall set the bombs remotely. Five minutes. Conquest out."

Short sentences. They were likely fleeing the Factory. Cross glanced to the way he'd come in, the same way the sniper went, before turning back to the terminal. His mission was to gather data that would help the Order, and he could not in good conscience leave without finding Aldway and Stoyk.
He took off running again, gaining speed quickly. He was going to have to jump. Summoning as much strength as he could muster, he leapt onto the railing, before diving across the particularly wide gap, tucking into a roll and landing in the room. He looked around: the guards were all dead, scorched bullet holes in their heads. Aldway was definitely here, but where was-

"Good God."

Cross' insides turned cold. His stomach heaved, seemingly tripled in weight. The blood-soaked body he had seen on his way there, lying slumped up against the terminal, was none other than Stoyk. The sniper had put two holes clean through his chest, shattering the terminal monitor. The second shot was more likely to have been fired after he hit the ground, to finish him off. Cross stared for a moment at the giant's vacant blue eyes, before closing them respectfully.

Around the room, there was no indication of where Aldway had gone. Perhaps he had fled, leaving Stoyk to his fate. Was it possible? Could Aldway have become so unhinged? Or did the sniper simply leave Aldway alone? Cross shook his head; no time to think about this now. All that matters is the mission: the planting of the virus, and the extraction of the data from the terminal... the broken terminal.

Stoyk was dead, and, thanks to the shooter, the terminal was useless. Cross bowed his head, vowing to find the one who did this. As he did so, he noticed a datajack in Stoyk's hand. He took it, without really knowing why. Perhaps it contained the virus, which he failed to upload before getting shot. Cross plugged the datajack into the terminal and watched with surprise as the screens around the room quickly became corrupted, one by one. He smiled, content that Stoyk's virus had been planted. His satisfaction was cut short, however, once he noticed a Harbinger nearby, with a timer that was counting down. Less than three minutes...

"Oh, DREK!!"

Constructs burst into the room just as Cross made a break for it, leaping back towards the catwalks before breaking out in a flat sprint. A thud rocked the catwalk as a Construct followed suit, and gave chase. These things were nimble, he had to admit. He looked back to see if the Construct had somehow fallen off. Instead, it was running, and quite quickly, too.

Cross tripped on the now-defunct shock bomb left by the sniper. He skidded along the steel mesh, thankful his armour stopped him from getting cut up. As the Construct caught up to him, sword drawn, the rolled onto his side, looking up at this mechanical monstrosity. As he did so, he subtly moved his hand towards his gun holster.

"Surrender, Spiral." It's voice had an edge to it. Almost frustrated. Perhaps Cross was just hearing things. He thought quickly.
"Not a lot of time for legal procedures, big guy. There's a bomb with less than three minutes on it in that room back there, and your Uplink's been infected with a virus, so I'd suggest you get out while you can, if you can... tin can."

I need to work on my quips, he thought to himself.

The machine paused for a second before responding.

"You speak the truth, but your squadron has been a thorn in Project Legion's side. A thorn I will remove."
Cross blinked. "How do you know-"

It lunged. Cross rolled off to the side before drawing his gun, firing off a few rounds point blank, which did little. These things really were strong. The Construct swiped sideways, slicing through a cable that was keeping the catwalk tethered to the ceiling. The walkway lurched as its weight shifted, the Construct being too heavy to keep it balanced properly. Cross seized his opportunity and broke into a sprint. How long left, he wondered?
The voice on loudspeaker was back, chattering with such urgency that it was likely that the others had discovered the bomb. Hopefully the Warmaster got caught in the flames. It'd be one less thing for the Order to worry about.

After escaping the catwalks, he decided against going back the way he came; the vent was suicide. Instead, he continued down the corridor, seeing a large door blocking his path. With little time to waste, he drew and fired at the hinges, before slamming full-force into the door. His armour absorbed most of the impact as the door caved in. As both he and the door collapsed to the ground on the other side of its frame, Cross tucked into a roll and sprang upright, coming face-to-face with several Gremlins.

"Oh, good," he said dryly.

Fortunately, each one was more preoccupied with escaping than stopping him. He kept running, weaving through the crowds until they were out at the bridge to the hangar. The bridge was destroyed thanks to Aldway, which left Cross without an exit, and Cross himself could see Constructs on the other side flinging themselves into the abyss. With little choice, Cross glanced at the device on his forearm, Stoyk's last invention, and followed suit.
As he fell, the aimed carefully at the underside of the hangar before firing. A small device no bigger than his knuckle shot forward, sticking into the hangar's underside. The device's auto-tracking function then kicked in, and a solid beam of bright blue light appeared, connecting the device to the receiver that Cross had fired.

Stoyk had informed him of the functionalities of the device before they had come out to the Factory. The receiver had a tracking beacon locked to a particular frequency. The device then sought out the receiver and locked on, before using Energy to generate a hard-light 'Energy tether' of sorts and connect the wrist-mounted grappling gun with the receiver. To allow maximum mobility for swinging with the tether, the receiver had ample leeway to swivel around in its frame; as Stoyk could not work out how to bend solid energy as a rope would , this workaround would have to do. Once the receiver was ready to retract, it used the straight line of the hard-light cable to do so quickly and accurately.

Cross aimed himself for a giant axle; the same one he entered the hangar with. Fortunately, there was a lower level to the platform he descended from, but the distance was sketchy. While he was glad that the tether worked, his relief didn't last long. As he reached the apex of his swing, the remainder of the bombs exploded. As he was still connected to the tether receiver, the shockwave only propelled him forward, and thus higher. He hastily disconnected the tether, and the receiver shot back into place. As he flew through the air in freefall, he wondered if he'd survive the drop.

The ground flew up to meet him far too quickly, and then all went black.

Hey, guys. Been busy. Have a thing.

===Chapter 17===

The Arcade was bustling, as was the norm whenever Cross stepped through; there were always Knights running to and fro, Gate to Gate to get to their next pit stop, either heading to the depths in a bout of treasure hunting or depositing their collected minerals in the receptacles that called for them. Cross sighed at their ignorance, frustrated at their mindless routines, questing for wealth, completely unaware of what was going on outside of their little worlds. Despite himself, he felt a twinge of envy, knowing that they did not, could not, have any concerns for what Aldway was planning. He suppressed a smile; a mythical agent, of a mythical squad, keeping secrets even from his supposed comrades. Even if Cross could expose him, who would believe the story?

He kept walking, past the bright-eyed novices, the hardened experts, the bread and butter of the Order. He had but one goal: get to the hideout. He found the Gate, abandoned as always. Fortunately, he had his black level security pass in his HUD, so he could access it easily. Not too many people loitered at this end of the Arcade, so he slipped by more or less unseen.

The trip down gave him time to think. What would he do once he finally arrived at the hideout? How would the others react upon seeing him? He guessed Spacker would be relieved, though whether or not they knew Stoyk's fate was another matter entirely. Adeena would likely exhibit shock, with a touch of resentment. Aldway was an interesting guess; either he'd be happy his 'star pupil' made it out alive, or he'd be infuriated for one reason or another, perhaps to do with the mission as a whole. It was getting more and more difficult to gauge him.

The familiar caverns of the hideout seemed more like home than ever once Cross stepped off of the elevator. The dim, echoey corridors would unnerve some people, but the time he spent here had made him comfortable with the environment. Then again, he always liked the dark. There was a certain mystery to it that appealed to him.

Nevertheless, he had to move. Aldway might still be in the hideout. Cross would have to confront him quickly in case he left to inform the Order of his and Stoyk's death. Would there be time to talk to the others? Aldway might have already left. No, Cross thought to himself, Aldway took top priority.

He was crestfallen upon reaching Aldway's office, finding nobody within. He tried rifling through his files, his terminal, looking for something to go on, but found nothing. Perhaps Aldway had cleared it out once he returned from Darkfang. A stray thought came to Cross' head, and his insides turned cold at the thought of Aldway preparing to 'liquidate his assets' via the Order. All he had to do was say that there was a leak, one that left two members dead, and the Order would happily replace them all save Aldway himself. Then, a quick word of recommendation later, he would have his Moraian team; a squad of unstoppable elites through whom he could sow chaos.

Cross shook his head; he had to find Spacker and Adeena. If he was right, they would need to prepare for the worst. He left the office, heading in the direction of Spacker's quarters. He had to remind himself to keep calm, as he was still feeling the after-effects of the adrenaline rush from the trip back, and the oncoming panic was only exacerbating the problem. His thoughts came back to earth once he heard what seemed like singing coming from Spacker's room. Approaching the door, he could discern a few words of his native tongue, though his speech seemed... off. Opening the door, he poked his head through.

The room wasn't the smallest in the hideout; it was better than Cross', at any rate, but it was lacklustre. Spacker never had an eye for aesthetics, it seemed. Cross couldn't fault him for that. After all, his own room was bare except for his bed and equipment chest. Spacker's was larger, but still rather basic. A small bed, custom-built for his body structure, lay in the corner. Handguns and swords were dumped haphazardly in the one opposite. Next to the bed lay a pile of clothes in a crate, and next to that, the simple armour he always wore underneath his cloaks. The room was dim, Spacker evidently not having bothered to turn on the lights.

The old, half-blind Gremlin himself was sat in the dead centre of the room, hunched over in a recliner, a large bottle in his hand. Cross could spy several more littering the ground around him. His singing, Cross could now determine, was slurred; drowning his sorrows after losing a comrade. Hell, for all he knew Cross had perished as well. The sound of the door opening, as well as the light pouring in, made the old drunkard raise his head and turn his blind eye to the source of the noise.

“Issat you, 'Deena?” he whispered. “Finally come out of yer shell? Come t' join me after all...?”
“No, but I hope I'll suffice,” Cross remarked. “How're you holding up, fuzzball?”
“Cross?!” the Gremlin exclaimed. “By the Gear Sages! Yer alive!”
“You of all people should know it’ll take more than a Harbinger to stop me.”

Spacker barked a laugh as he rose from the chair. Cross suppressed a laugh as the Gremlin shuffled over to his comrade, knocking bottles over along the way, before tripping just short of him. Cross caught him before he could plant his face on the ground. As Spacker got to his feet, his nose caught a scent of something.

“You're cover'd in blood,” he muttered, taking another whiff. “That's not Gremlin blood, either. And your armour's in bits. Are you alright?”
“All things considered,” Cross replied, before thoughts of Stoyk’s corpse came flooding back. He bit back the clever remarks. “No… no I’m not, actually. I’ve, uh… can I come in?”

Spacker obliged, leading Cross into his hovel, where he plonked himself back into his recliner. Cross took a seat on the Gremlin’s bed. It was very uncomfortable.

He wondered how to articulate it. How do you tell someone their friend is dead? His stomach still had that sunken feeling, which he’d only now noticed. He thought back to his adrenaline-filled escape from the abyss, silently cursing himself for his stupidity; losing a valuable friend and ally, being informed of a betrayal in the ranks, and then what? Playing thrill-seeker in the Clockworks?

“Hey, uh… where’s Stoyk? D’e make it out, too?”

Damn it, he thought to himself. Damn it all.

“Look, Spacker… Stoyk, uh…” he avoided the Gremlin’s gaze, taking a breath, steeling himself. “He was dead before I got there.”

Alright, I'll be honest; I haven't really been up to writing for the last few months. I feel like my style of writing is changing, but I don't even know what it's changing to, and don't know how to adapt. It's an obstacle that, to be honest, I haven't felt like overcoming. That said, I did say I'd finish my stories and such, so here goes.

===Chapter 18===

The pair sat in uncomfortable silence for a long time. Cross had long since given up trying to count the minutes. Spacker was leaning forward, the look on his face an unreadable one, presumably still trying to process Stoyk’s last message. Cross wondered what he was thinking. Was he angry? Or just finally starting to mourn now that there was closure? It seemed like forever since the three were laughing together in a drunken haze. Cross was starting to think such times were long since gone.

How would they outwit Aldway? No doubt he'd been planning this scheme for a while, and simply jamming a wrench in the works seemed insufficient. Even if they did stop him, then what? No justice system would hold him, with or without Moraian spies, so a non-lethal approach was out of the question. All that left was murder. Then, a lifetime on the run for the execution of one of the greatest soldiers in Spiral and Moraian history; a target painted on their backs by both sides of a war spanning who-knows-how-long.

And it was still better than letting him go.

“’Think he was right t’ pick you,” Spacker mumbled from his recliner, leaning forward.
“Mm?”
“Stoyk. I knew ‘im as long as you. And he was a good judge o’ character.”
Cross scoffed. "Couldn't save him, though. Wasn't even close."
"No-one could've saved 'im, Cross. There's no use dwellin' on it now."
"Yeah," Cross sighed, unsure of himself.
"I mean it; Before you met up with us, you were a novice. Now look at you; one o' the strongest fighters in the Clockworks. If you couldn't save Stoyk, who could?"

Cross shook his head, disbelieving. Spacker wasn't there; he had no idea how close Cross was, and the mere concept of comfort only annoyed him more than anything.

"But I could have. Would have, if Aldway hadn't got the best of me. Of all of us!"
"We can get 'im, though."
"HOW?!" Cross bellowed, rising to his feet. "We don't even know where he is! He could turn up right this second with a firing squad, ready to paint us all as traitors!"
"Calm yerself, Cross! What's gotten into you?" Spacker cried, standing up in an attempt to quell his outburst.
"What the Hell do you mean, "calm myself"? Aldway's four steps ahead of us, he's thought everything through, and we're the only ones who know what he's even done! The Order's too goddamned stupid to see everything he's doing under their fragging noses, he's got who knows how many spies everywhere, and the only two people in the world who COULD stop him are fragging DEAD!"

His anger was pouring out of him now. His fears and frustrations had been mounting to the point where he was no longer sure if Stoyk was right; if Aldway could even be stopped.

"All the more reason not to lose hope!" Spacker shouted, as if he could read Cross' mind.
"Hope?! Hope didn't stop that sniper from killing Maarv! Hope didn't help Stoyk get out of Darkfang! If you expect me to keep my chin up and smile after everything that's happened, then you've lost your fragging mind!"
"Fool!" Spacker yelled, losing his temper now. "Yes, we are the only ones who know. Yes, Maarv and Stoyk are dead, but we still live and breathe because of the sacrifices they have made! If we lose hope now, then Aldway will succeed with his schemes and rewrite history to his own benefit! If you wish to wallow in self-loathing, and in doing so spit on the memories of those who put themselves at risk to bring you this far, then so be it, but I'm going to do something about it!"
"LET'S HEAR IT THEN!" Cross screamed, losing his carefully-crafted composure completely. "Let's hear the drunkard's brilliant plan for taking on a warlord with a private fragging army!"
"HOW DARE YOU?!" Spacker screeched, leaning in aggressively. "How dare you attempt to drag me down, just because you've given up on what you've spent all this time working towards?!"
"WHO SAYS I'VE GIVEN-"
"MAARV AND STOYK TAUGHT YOU EVERYTHING THEY-"
"... COULD DO WITHOUT SOME LECTURE ABOUT-"
"... IF THEY COULD SEE YOU NOW-"
"... HE'S GOT SPIES EVERYWHERE, FOR DREK'S SAKE-"
"... YOUR ARROGANCE IS YOUR GREATEST-"

"ENOUGH!"

The pair trailed off as Adeena stepped into the room, pale and livid. Cross' eyes widened, before he stepped back from Spacker, who himself looked rather sheepish. The air around them seemed to thicken; a tension that could be carved up with a knife. Adeena looked around the room, taking note of the mess Spacker had made since returning to the hideout, and Cross in his blood-stained glory, whose very presence seemed to relieve an invisible weight on her. She caught herself before speaking, squaring her shoulders to remain dominant in the moment of silence she had wrought.

"You made it out, then?" she asked Cross. Her voice shook slightly.
"Barely," he replied, his expression darkening. "We were set up."

Confusion clouded her eyes. "What the Hell do you mean 'set up'? Where's Stoyk?"

Cross brought up his HUD before sending a copy of the file to hers.

"There," he huffed. "Read it. I'm going to bed. We'll discuss it tomorrow."

And with that, he left the room, leaving Spacker looking on in enraged disbelief, and Adeena with muted anxiety.