Again.
Hsshh… Psst…
Whispers ebbed and flowed like ripples in water, threading through the air as onlookers gathered, their eyes locked on the spectacle above.
A young woman hurtled backward with such force that the very air crackled. Her body slammed into the ceiling—
Or was it the floor?
Call it what you will, but its purpose was clear: to let people walk on the underside of the bridge above.
For simplicity's sake, let's call it a walkway.
But this wasn't just a sidewalk.
The walkway was alive—vendors hawking their goods, patches of greenery sprouting from small gardens, rows of benches scattered for weary travelers. In districts large enough, these pathways transformed into bustling miniature cities within a city, an ingenuity of the Common Era.
But today—
Its usual hum of life had come to an abrupt halt. All movement ceased for one reason alone.
The star of this story.
"Damn, she got her shit rocked. Should we help her?"
The words came low, wavering between concern and apprehension.
His
"Eres estúpido! Why the hell would you help her, dumbass? You trying to get yourself killed?"
His sharp eyes flicked toward the source of the commotion, scanning the scene like a predator assessing its surroundings.
"You'd be a fool to get involved in whatever shitstorm she's caught up in. Even more so if it's connected to the ricos—the wealthy assholes running this city."
And he wasn't wrong.
In Brewster Heights, trouble with the ruling class wasn't just trouble. It was a death sentence.
The kind where you didn't just die.
You disappeared.
No body. No traces. Just your family grieving forth for their poor mijito.
Still, the murmurs spread, hushed but insistent, weaving through the gathering crowd like wildfire.
Some lingered near the edges of the scene, their curiosity outweighing their better judgment. Phones were pulled out, the faint clicks of cameras and recording dronies punctuating the eerie stillness.
This was Humanity in all its flawed glory—an endless hubris that only faltered when pain became personal.
The young woman coughed sharply, her body shifting slightly as she pressed a palm against the cool surface beneath her.
Her other hand trembled, brushing against the dirt smudged across her cheek.
Despite the force of the impact—
She didn't cry out, her breathing was shallow but controlled. Her gaze flicked upward—toward her opponent.
The space where they had been as a bead of sweat slid down her temple, but her expression remained unreadable.
She adjusted her posture, planting her feet firmly as she rose from her crouched position. The whispers around her grew louder, a crescendo of murmurs mingling with the faint hum of the walkways'
She closed her eyes.
Ignoring the crowd and ignoring the ache spreading through her body.
Then, with deliberate ease, she let out a deep, measured breath—one filled not with calm, but with simmering embarrassment.
Ahhh! Thaat! Fucker!
Her internal rant spiraled out of control.
Maldito visitor making my life difficult! I swear, if I get my hands on—
Her thoughts were cut short by a sharp ping in her vision. A translucent notice flickered into view, courtesy of her optic implant, displaying an icon of a person alongside an incoming communication.
A familiar, mocking voice filled her ears.
"Oi! What'chu doing? You were supposed to keep it low. Not make a scene… though you did get rocked. Heh."
Seraniti's temple twitched.
A visible vein pulsed with irritation as her fists clenched.
"Yeah? Get him yourself then, idiota! Tch."
Her words dripped with venom as her eyes swept over the walkway.
"These visitors who cross the Door always have one surprise or another. Whatever. At least this isn't the Columbian State, where the media gets involved with every damn thing."
She spat the word media like it was something vile, the sheer disdain in her tone unmistakable.
Marcus's smug chuckle echoed in her ears.
"Well, maybe don't get cocky next time, eh? And since you've got time to rant, how about you actually find him, huh? See you soon. Chao."
Before she could retort, the call cut off abruptly. Seraniti stood there, hands twitching in exasperation, her glare directed at nothing.
"WHAT!"
Her voice rang through the space, sharp and unforgiving.
"GO STARE SOMEWHERE ELSE!"
The crowd—now thoroughly chastised—scattered in an instant. People suddenly found the vendors, pathways, and even their own feet infinitely more interesting than the very public beatdown they had just witnessed.
Seraniti let out a huff, rubbing her wrist absentmindedly as she muttered to herself. Her eyes dropped to the ground, scanning the area, before she let out a resigned sigh.
With a quick push, she dropped down toward the spot where her equipment lay scattered. Crouching low, her hand brushed against the chassis casing of her prized possession.
A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.
"Heh. Luckily, he didn't take mi bebé."
Her voice softened slightly, fingers running affectionately along its surface.
"Not like he could, anyway. Fully loaded, it weighs ninety-five pounds."
She set to work, her hands moving with practiced efficiency as she cleaned her weapon, her movements second nature.
The polished chassis gleamed under the artificial lights, catching the flickering reflections of the city above.
This wasn't just a weapon.
It was her lifeline. Her partner in the misery of this city.
Her sharp eyes scanned for even the slightest imperfection, her fingers deftly checking each mechanism, each component.
"There you are."
Seraniti muttered the words under her breath as she spotted a small scuff near the top of Svalinn.
Pulling a cloth from her pocket, she moved with deliberate, practiced efficiency, rubbing the surface until it gleamed once more. The tension in her shoulders faded, her irritation melting into the familiar rhythm of maintenance.
For a moment—
She forgot the stares, the whispers and the embarrassing episode.
Forgot the dull ache of forming bruises beneath her sleeves.
All that mattered was her bebé and the quiet resolve that came with knowing it was still hers.
She grasped the handle of her weapon, a soft chime filling the air as screens blinked into existence.
Data cascaded across her optic display, feeding her the familiar stream of information.
Ammunition reserves—optimal.Operational systems—pristine.Potential levels—fully charged.
She scanned each detail with sharp, unwavering focus, ensuring everything remained in perfect order. It was a routine, a ritual.
"Mmm... it's fine for now. Nothing damaged, at least."
The tension in her jaw loosened slightly. Her mind wandered back to the fight.
"Though that visitor surprised me with his strength—chico felt like he had zero training. Sloppy, really. Well… not like it matters much to me."
Her weapon wasn't the usual gear expected in her line of work, but Seraniti didn't care.
If you could use it, it was fair game.
And her weapon of choice?
Standard across defenders—
The Cannon and Defense System.
While the designs varied between manufacturers, their purpose remained the same; to provide robust protection while creating openings for teammates to retaliate.
Seraniti had an advantage. Though, it wasn't exactly unique.
Like other supernaturals, she wielded hers telekinetically, an ability that made handling such a massive weapon remotely possible.
Even so—
Mastering it wasn't easy.
Most operators relied on a blend of engineering and thaumaturgy to carry equipment of this size, integrating specialized control chips to streamline operation. These chips slotted neatly into the neural ports located behind the operator's ear, allowing for seamless control.
Seraniti was no exception.
Her neural implant connected effortlessly to her weapon, responding to her thoughts with mechanical precision.
But even with her advantage, she wasn't special.
Not in the grand scheme of things.
In a city teeming with greater powers and larger players, she knew her place.
"I'm just another cog in the machine," she muttered under her breath, running her fingers along the weapon's smooth surface.
Her irritation threatened to creep back in.
"Tch. Where the hell could he have gone? I can't even use my skill—he didn't use any magic at all."
The thought gnawed at her. She should have been able to track him, to at least get a signature, a trace. But nothing.
Her weapon hovered behind her as she walked, shifting seamlessly with each step.
Her mind wandered.
What is magic, anyway? What are skills?
The questions rolled through her mind, providing a temporary distraction from the growing annoyance in her chest.
Both sequences and skills fell under the domain of Thaumaturgy, though the average person didn't throw that term around casually.
In Terra II, skills weren't magical abilities granted by some arbitrary system.
They were the result of something rooted in biology—neural bridges formed through repeated use of sequences. With enough repetition, sequences stopped being a conscious effort. They became instinct, an extension of one's own body.
Unlike the fantasy tales of old, skills weren't bestowed upon the user.
They were earned. For most, mastering sequences was a process.
That's where the ΜΙСΛ came in.
Though not prohibitively expensive in the true sense, acquiring one required either careful saving or a very generous investment with prices varying wildly depending on the region.
In some countries, ΜΙСΛs were as accessible as standard tools.
But here, in Brewster Heights—
The cost was steep. A reflection of the city's inequities, just like everything else.
Eventually, her wandering led her to the entrance of a modest café nestled between two larger buildings. The scent of freshly brewed tea drifted toward her, mingling with the faint scent of rain still clinging to the air.
Seraniti paused, eyes scanning the space ahead.
She needed a break—both to gather her thoughts and to prepare for whatever awaited her next.
Stepping through the doors, she was immediately greeted by the lively hum of conversation.
The café was a melting pot of races—Perros,
Yet, for Seraniti, the first thing that struck her wasn't the crowd—
It was the tea.
The familiar aroma wrapped around her like a blanket, tied to a place she had visited countless times, to the person who had—somehow—become an unlikely friend.
"Rome! Stop standing around and give me my tea already!"
Her voice cut through the hum of conversation, earning a few glances, but she didn't care. The person in question turned, a booming laugh rolling from his chest.
Rome.
A tall, broad
He was an unusual sight in this region.
Ursus were rare around these parts, but Rome had carved out a niche for himself here. They had first met two years ago in this very café—when she was twenty-five and just a little more optimistic than she was now.
"HAH! FUCK YA WANT!?"
His voice boomed, drawing attention. Then, his grin widened as his gaze flicked over her.
"Oh… just you today, little girl?"
Seraniti's brow twitched. A vein visibly pulsed at her temple.
"Screw off. Just give me my tea already!"
Despite herself, the corner of her mouth twitched upward.
A few minutes later, she sat by the window, cradling a steaming cup of tea.
Elbow propped on the table, fingers tracing the rim of the cup, she sipped slowly—savoring the warmth spreading through her chest. The tension in her shoulders eased, if only slightly.
Across the room, Rome leaned lazily against the counter, a sly grin tugging at his lips.
"So…"
His voice carried just enough mockery to immediately irritate her.
"You got pushed hard enough to land on the walkway, huh? And the person I saw on my phone—was that you? Mmm. Are you getting sloppy, Sera?"
Seraniti's tired eyes shut briefly, her small smile faltering into a deep frown.
"I know where you live, Rome."
Her voice dropped to something low. Deliberate.
"I will tell Lia about this today. I'm sure she won't be too pleased."
Rome's grin faltered.
Rome immediately coughed into his hand, looking away.
"Alright, alright, I'll shut up. No need to bring her into this."
Seraniti took another slow sip of tea, the corner of her mouth twitching in satisfaction.
"Good."
Rome sighed, rubbing the back of his head before speaking again, this time with less teasing in his tone.
"So… who are you chasing this time? If I can ask, that is."
Seraniti exhaled, setting her cup down with a soft clink.
"A visitor who thought it was a good idea to mess around with the daughter of a rico. The family wants him dead by today, and I have zero clue where to find him."
Rome's eyes narrowed slightly as he processed her words.
After a moment, they faintly glowed, his neural interface activating as he sifted through local chatter, flagged movements, and data feeds. He tapped his temple, then made a small gesture toward her.
"Here."
A notification popped into her vision.
"Try Section 27—it's one of the Sclera plates. You know, those massive docks they use for transport and supply runs. This particular section houses some local gangs. If anyone knows where your visitor is, it'll be them."
He leaned back, smirking slightly.
"Just… don't say my name, yeah?"
Seraniti pulled up the file.
A map appeared in her vision, highlighting locations within Section 27; 49th Street, a place labeled Cleaners, and another marked as a local mob hideout.
She groaned softly, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"Gee, thanks. You really trying to get rid of me, huh?"
Rome chuckled, reaching over to give her a light chop on the head.
But his expression shifted, suddenly more serious.
"Say, Sera…"
Seraniti blinked, caught off guard by the change in his tone.
Question marks practically formed above her head—both figuratively and literally.
"What's with the weird mood all of a sudden?"
Rome hesitated for only a second before speaking.
"Did you ever find anything about your sister? What was her name again… Eik?"
His voice was gentle. But his words hit like a hammer.
Seraniti froze.
Her hand instinctively moved to her wrist, fingers brushing over the rock against her red-tinged skin.
Her gaze dropped to the table as she rubbed her hands—hands that had been red for as long as she could remember.
"No," she admitted quietly.
Her fingers clenched.
"I don't know where she is. I still have the letter she left, but that's all I've got. I don't even know how Linde died all those years ago."
Her voice cracked slightly, but she pushed through, her tone sharpening to cover the ache.
"All she left was a small box with crystallized Black Rain."
She stood abruptly, her chair scraped loudly against the floor, her eyes glowing as she sent 12 UEC to cover her tea.
"Thanks for the info, Rome. But I've got to go."
Rome opened his mouth to respond, but—
He stopped himself.
He simply watched as she strode toward the door, her weapon, which had rested against the wall outside, floating into place behind her.
He sighed, his gaze lingering on the empty cup. Then, shaking his head, he muttered under his breath—words drowned out by the ever-moving chatter of the café.
"Take care of yourself, Sera."