Chapter 11: The Memory Before The Storm
Three years ago — District Aegir, Northern Wastes.
It was freezing. Grey snow drifted through the alleyways, settling over glass towers and crumbling shelters alike. The cold didn't care if you lived in a penthouse or a broken tin shack.
Mike Callahan was seventeen, starving, and wanted for a robbery he didn't commit.
Not yet, anyway.
He sprinted across a bridge lit with flickering neon signs. Behind him, two patrol drones gave chase, sirens blaring like angry crows. He turned sharply into a marketplace, ducked behind a vendor's stall, and pulled his hood tighter.
"You're not good at hiding," said a voice behind him.
He spun around. A girl stood with her hands in her pockets, chewing a piece of dried fruit like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Black gloves. Short hair. Sharp eyes.
Jessie.
"You gonna report me?" Mike asked.
She shrugged. "Only if you're boring. Are you boring?"
"No."
She smiled.
"Good. Then follow me."
A Rooftop Deal
Minutes later, they sat atop an old commuter tram station, eating stolen noodles and watching trains rumble below.
"You always do that?" Mike asked. "Pull random fugitives off the street?"
"Only the interesting ones," Jessie replied. "You've got a look."
"What look?"
"Like someone who's lost something important… and hasn't told anyone yet."
Mike went quiet.
Jessie nudged him. "Am I wrong?"
"No."
Enter Lucas and Eleanor
They met Lucas two days later—at a street tournament where he knocked out four security bots with nothing but modified gloves and an attitude problem. Jessie bet 40 credits on him. He lost in the finals, and she punched him for it.
He joined the group anyway.
Eleanor came last. A runaway intern from a CPOA lab, carrying a prototype AI chip and three forged identities. She caught Mike breaking into the same safehouse she was hiding in.
They both held guns.
Neither fired.
They shared the bedroll that night.
The Pull Toward Gravemarch
They spent months moving through slums and spires, living on scraps, betting in street races, and dodging patrols. But something strange kept happening.
They'd find symbols etched into walls.
Whispers in static.
Jessie started having dreams—of fire, ruins, and a song she couldn't describe.
One night, she woke up screaming.
"It's pulling me somewhere," she told Mike. "It wants me to see."
"What does?"
"The Hive."
He didn't know what that meant. Not then.
But the next day, they got word of a mysterious castle on the edge of Gravemarch—a place CPOA never went near. Locals said it was cursed.
They went anyway.
Arriving at the Castle
The road to Gravemarch was lined with broken pylons and old minefields. Nothing should've survived there.
But the castle stood tall.
Blackstone towers. Doors that looked like they hadn't opened in centuries. Yet when they arrived, they swung open without a sound.
Inside: warm torches, a circular table, and a massive mural on the ceiling.
It showed them.
Four figures, weapons raised, standing over a shattered Hive eye.
Jessie whispered, "This isn't the first time we've been here."
"What do you mean?" Mike asked.
She looked at him, tears in her eyes.
"I think we've done this before."