Not Yet, Not Here

The wind has quieted, but it doesn't mean safety.

Lyra trudges into the ghost town like a specter herself—tattered, bruised, barely keeping upright, the scorched remnants of her tactical armor hanging off her frame. 

Toxic dust clings to every fold of her body, her joints ache like shattered glass, and the dead weight on her back is both literal and emotional: the clone of her uncle, still tightly bound and wrapped in makeshift coverings, carried with care no battlefield can burn out of her.

The ghost town is a hollow skeleton of what it might have once been—structures half-eaten by corrosion, neon signs flickering without power, windows smashed into jagged mouths. The only inhabitants are wind and ruin. 

A derelict water-purification kiosk buzzes weakly as she passes it. The silence is a cage, pressing in close, never letting her breathe easy.

She ducks into a half-collapsed market stall and finally lets herself sag to her knees. Every joint protests. Her vision blurs. But she can't stop.

She will not stop.

"Just... a little more," she mutters, sucking in another breath—shallow, rattling. She reaches for her belt and pulls out a stim. The last one. She jams it into her thigh and bites her lip hard to keep from crying out as fire surges through her bloodstream. The pain fades into a dull hum. 

Her limbs move again.

Her mind, battered as her body, kicks back into motion.

They'll be coming.

The factions will not just leave her alone. She knows the protocols.

Track bio signatures. 

Predict desperation. 

Exploit escape routes.

So she has to be unpredictable.

She fumbles in the dust and salvages for supplies. Finds a half-used roll of military-grade masking tape in a dead courier's bag. No comms, no weapons—just tape and scraps. 

It will do.

With trembling hands, she begins reinforcing the bindings around the clone's body, just enough to keep him looking like a grim retrieval case, nothing too strange. 

In this world, moving bodies—dead or stasis-bound—isn't uncommon. For science. For trophies. For proof.

Let them assume she is a low-grade merc doing dirty errands.

That will bring her a sliver of camouflage.

Next, she spreads out the local map on a warped table and scratches out a plan. The obvious hideouts—military bunkers, lost depots, rescue zones—she will not go there. But she has to make them think she will. 

Think like Edric, she reminds herself.

Then go the opposite way.

Her thoughts stray to him, sharp and sudden—how he'd look if he sees her now. Haggard. Hollow-eyed. Shaking from exhaustion but too damn stubborn to fall. 

Will he reach out? Will he even be able to look at her?

She shakes the thought away violently. 

No room for that now.

She grabs a scrap of metal, catches her reflection in it—face sunken, lips cracked, blood dried along her jaw. A ghost among ghosts. But she is still here.

She stands.

Her legs threaten to collapse beneath her. Her hands are numb, wrapped in layers of pain. 

But she moves. 

One breath at a time. 

One step. Then another.

The wasteland still stretches ahead—hostile, poisoned, hunted—but Lyra moves through it like a survivor with fire stitched into her bones.

She will not fall.

Not yet.

Not here.

Not while she still has a promise to keep.

The port reeked of oil, sea salt, and the unshakable scent of blood.

Lyra's breath comes in stutters, shallow and sharp. Her body drags itself more than it moves, each footstep heavy with the weight of both her uncle's clone and her own dying strength. 

Her blood soaks through hastily-wrapped gauze, leaving a wet trail despite all her efforts. She has laid false trails. She has mixed with crowds, hid her pulse, changed her gait, smeared dirt and old blood to change her profile. She has done everything right.

And yet.

The trap has waited for her like an open mouth.

Silent. Patient. Unforgiving.

The corridor to Dock 12, her last hope of smuggling herself off the continent, is narrow and hemmed in with crates and rusted freight. 

There has only been one ship, barely seaworthy, with a captain desperate enough to take her.

She doesn't even make it halfway down the causeway before the shadows come alive with lasers, glinting visors, and the slick movement of trained killers.

Her enemies emerged—silent, methodical, and fresh. Tactical gear unwrinkled. Eyes cool behind smart visors. Weapons raised.

Her heart doesn't race anymore. It is already fraying at the edges.

Lyra turns slowly, arms shielding the wrapped body she carries as though she can still protect it.

Her leg gives a brutal spasm—her body screaming a thousand different kinds of enough.

But her voice is calm.

"I'm warning you," she rasps, "I will not let you take this body."

No reply. The soldiers close in with cruel precision.

One step forward, and Lyra spins to draw her blade—but her knee gives. 

She hits the ground hard, coughing, blood streaking her lips. Her vision flashes white, then narrows like a camera lens failing to focus.

She reaches for her gun anyway, her fingers shaking too hard to wrap around the grip.

A shot fired—

—searing heat tears through her thigh.

She grits her teeth as the pain explodes. Her vision already darkening, ears ringing. One hand clung to the blade. The other curls over the shrouded body like a vow carved in flesh.

The soldiers move to finish it.

And then—

Boom.

A shockwave splits the air, raw, concussive, a blast of smoke and shrapnel that turns night into crimson-lit day.

Figures crash down from above—acrobatic, precise, and full of defiance.

"Didn't anyone ever teach you manners?!" Claire's voice rings out like a whip, wild and delighted.

"Interrupting a lady during her dramatic last stand. Honestly. Shameful." Theresa lands in a controlled spin, guns already blazing as energy bolts crackle toward the closest enemies.

The ambush turns into chaos.

One of the soldiers who raised a rifle toward Lyra is blown clean off his feet. Another collapses with a stun dart sizzling against his temple. The twins move like twin storms—controlled, ruthless, and perfectly in sync.

Claire vaults off a cargo crate, flanking from the right as Theresa unleashes a blinding flashbang to fracture their formation.

Lyra's vision remains fogged, her ears filled with static, but she feels the tremor in the ground, the pull of safety coming nearer.

A familiar hand grasps her under the shoulder—Theresa's grip, firm and sure.

"You stubborn idiot," she mutters, exasperation and worry curling in her tone. "You were really going to go out like this, huh?"

"I had it… under control," Lyra whispers. A lie. A defiant, tired lie.

Claire crouches beside them, covering them with precise shots. "She says, bleeding out like a dramatic opera heroine. C'mon, let's get out of here before round two shows up."

The twins don't wait. Together, they pull Lyra up—limp and barely conscious—and drag her toward the secondary route they've pre-cleared when they arrived. Behind them, explosions set by the girls as a backup contingency light the night sky, swallowing the chaos in noise and fire.

And as Lyra fades into unconsciousness, she clutches the blade her uncle had given her, her other arm still curls protectively over the clone's body.

She doesn't know if she'll wake up in freedom, in pain, or in a medbay.

But she hasn't fallen.

Not yet.

Not here.

The airship's hull groans softly as it slices through the cloudline, a silver leviathan on a desperate mission of retreat. 

Inside its reinforced hangar bay, the twins, Claire and Theresa, move quickly, their boots thudding against the metallic floors, sweat still slick on their brows. 

Between them floats a grav-stretcher, humming faintly as it bears Lyra's broken, blood-slick form and the sealed containment unit holding the shrouded clone of Fum.

"She's still breathing," Claire states, more to herself than anyone, as if repeating it will keep it true. Her voice trembles despite her usual bravado.

Theresa taps the comm, sharp and crisp. "Medbay, prep for trauma protocol nine. We're inbound—agent down, code red."

The airship's interior comes alive in motion, hatches sliding open as emergency lights flicker. Inside the medbay, Dr. Ho Orlin, the combat medic assigned to field trauma, stands waiting with gloves already on and a tray of regenerative injectors primed.

The moment they slide Lyra into the medbay, Dr. Orlin's breath hitches.

"Gods above…" he mutters, his eyes scanning over her mangled frame. "She shouldn't be alive."

"Yeah," Theresa snaps. "And yet she is. Fix her."

Ren grimaces but nods, eyes narrowing. "The head medic at base already briefed me—said she's developed resistance to standard regen. I brought the new batch, the prototype-grade ones. They're working—for now. But her nervous system is in shock, liver's almost shot from painkillers, bones fractured like she rolled with a freight tank—hell, her lungs were half collapsed."

Claire paces, fists clenched. "But she's stable? Like, she's not dying anymore?"

"She's past the worst of it," Ren confirms, already inserting the neural stims into ports along her spine. "But I can't guarantee she'll stay that way if she pushes herself again this soon. There's only so much even a body like hers can endure."

The twins exhale in tandem, tension ebbing just slightly. They hover beside the medpod, watching Lyra's pale, still face as the nanites begin their crawl over her wounds, stitching flesh, mending bone.

"She really tried to die on us again," Claire whispers.

Theresa's jaw tightens. "She never tries to die. She just doesn't care if she does."

And then—a tremor. The ship lurches hard, throwing Claire against the wall. Red lights blare.

"Warning: Perimeter breach. Enemy fighters inbound."

Dr. Orlin freezes. "What now—?!"

"Damn it," Theresa snaps, already turning on her heel. "Stay with Lyra. We'll handle this."

"We prepped the jets just in case," Claire adds, cracking her knuckles. "Time for some sky dancing."

As the twins sprint toward the launch bay, overhead compartments hisses open, revealing their customized flight suits. Theresa dons hers with practiced ease, while Claire loads a mag of compressed plasma rounds into her jet's onboard system.

Above them, the sky darkens—not from nightfall, but from the shadow of three unidentified stealth fighters closing in fast. Heat signatures glare on the radar.

Back in the medbay, Lyra's eyelids twitch.

A faint gasp.

Her body flinches, just barely.

Though unconscious, her instincts scream, dragging her toward awareness like a soldier pulled from the depths of water.

Her fingers curl weakly around the bed sheet. 

Danger.

Even half-dead, some part of her always senses danger.

In her sleep, her lips move—not words, but a breath, a sound:

"…Uncle…"

And then the first missile strikes the airship's outer wing. The impact rocks the vessel violently as the twins' jets blast out into the storm-lit sky.

Above the battered airship, the sky is no longer clear—it is full of fire, metal, and screaming engines.

The twins launch like streaks of vengeance, Claire's jet corkscrewing into a vertical climb as Theresa's veers hard left, narrowly dodging a spray of plasma rounds that carves through the clouds. 

The moment their jets deployed, the AI assistance systems kick in with cold, mechanical precision.

"Engaging hostile crafts. Four o'clock. Combat probability: 82%. Evasive pattern Delta-6 recommended."

"Already on it," Claire growls, fingers dancing over her console as her jet pulls an impossible dive, missile trails licking her tail. She punches a decoy, the glowing beacon tricking one of the projectiles into detonating midair.

BANG.

Below them, the airship rumbles. Internal systems scream alerts. Auto-turrets unfold along its hull, returning fire with violent intensity, but even those aren't enough.

Theresa's voice echoes through the comms, sharp and focused:

"Claire, they're boxing in the airship. Split the formation—draw them off!"

"Copy that, Sis."

Claire pulls her jet in a tight loop and shot straight into the pack of three interceptors closing on the airship. The sky explodes in red as her targeting array lights up. 

Her AI locked on.

"Missile lock: Achieved. Hostile crafts: Marked. Launch authorization: Granted."

"Good night," Claire hisses.

She launches a cluster barrage, detonating two interceptors instantly and clipping the wing of the third. But before she can twist away, a second wave, fast, deadly, and cloaked, unveils itself, firing from the cover of the stars.

"New bogeys!" she shouts. "Cloaked! They're jamming sensors—AI's blind!"

"Emergency override—manual targeting engaged."

Theresa is already in the thick of it. Her jet twirls past streaks of plasma, barrel-rolling just in time to avoid a full frontal barrage. She dips below one of the enemy ships, ejecting a smart mine that latches on like a parasite and explodes, rupturing the underbelly of a gunship.

Another enemy airship decloaked, flanking their airship. Its dark hull bears the marks of a secret faction—an elite strike force known only in whispers.

Inside the airship, alarms scream.

"Warning: Anti-air barrage detected. Shields at 27%."

The vessel tilts hard as its onboard cannons discharge. 

Energy blasts streak past, one narrowly missing the medbay where Lyra lays unconscious. The medic, gripping the stretcher holding her and the sealed body of Fum's clone, braces for impact.

"Reinforcements are too far. We hold, or we fall," came the AI's grim message.

Outside, Claire grits her teeth. "I'm bringing hell."

She dives head-on into an enemy fighter. At the last second, she ejected EMP chaff, jamming the enemy's targeting lock. Her jet twists sideways as her onboard autocannons shred through the enemy cockpit.

"Two down. Four to go."

Theresa, meanwhile, kicks off her afterburners and spins backward, stalling her engine briefly in an aerial maneuver that allows her to fire backwards—a move few pilots can pull off. Her shot pierces the enemy jet's coolant chamber, causing it to spiral out and crash in a brilliant burst.

"Claire—backup's not coming," Theresa mutters through the comms. "We have to win this. Now."

Claire's voice comes quietly, grim, "Then let's finish it."

Above them, the final faction airship surges forward, charging its ion beam, ready to level the airship Lyra is on.

Inside that ship, Lyra twitchs again.

In her mind—images—the twins laughing, Edric's silent hurt eyes, Cherry's calm face. Her uncle's voice, soft as wind:

"Come back home, Lyra."

Her fingers curl into a fist.

Outside, Claire and Theresa fly side by side, synchronizing their jets. Their AI systems chime in unison.

"Dual-link interface synchronized. Fusion cannon charge: Complete."

With breath hold tight in their lungs, the twins shout in unison—

"Fire!"

The twin jets fire a converged fusion beam, lancing through the sky like a spear of light. It strikes the enemy airship's core, detonating the reactor in a catastrophic chain explosion.

The night sky lit up.

And finally—quiet. Alarms dull. The AI pings calmly.

Claire's voice trembles: "Did we do it?"

Theresa replies, "Yeah… we did."

And inside the medbay, Lyra's eyes finally flicker open, her body too weak to move—but her eyes are steady.