...And yet, he waited for them in one of the tunnel’s side alcoves wearing a battered, old-model Ikesian chest plate and carrying a gun, the idiot. The weaselly-looking young man double-took at the sight of them, nearly jumping before he caught himself and got his bearings.
“By the Dead Ones, they really weren’t lying huh? Come, I will open the door for you - y’know, I was about ready to off you two or die trying if you turned out to be glowbugs. Then again, you might be…” he turned around, squinting, looking them up and down as his hand hovered near that piddly little sparklock at his side. Then he smiled and moved on, adding, “Nah, you don’t glow.”
He led them further through the tunnel, pointing out several immaculately-concealed traps in advance.
The thumping of the boots of Strake’s suit reverberated through the claustrophobic passageway, illuminated by dim, irregularly-placed lightgems wedged into cracks in the wall.
After a short walk, when the other end of the tunnel was in sight, the question was asked.
“...What in the seven hells do you mean we don’t glow?”
Without missing a beat the Recluse answered, “Yeah, y’know. Like tyrants tryin’ta blend in with regular people. They’re so bad at blendin’ in that only the folks with blinders on can’t see ‘em, but if you bother to pay attention even a lil’ bit they’re not just easy to spot, it’s like they glow. Haircuts, watches, glasses, they don’t even bother switchin’ out their soldierin’ boots.”
A heavy steel door with neither a handle nor a keyhole awaited at the end of the tunnel, upon which the Recluse knocked a cadence whilst humming the tune to an old folk song - a song whose melody had grown to be associated with pro-Ikesian rebels, due to its popularity amongst certain specialty units immediately before and during the war.
Then, there was a short ladder right next to what at some point in the past must’ve been a small cargo lift. After shutting the door the Recluse led them up into one of the city’s back alleys, leading them through a few twists and turns before they emerged in the open street.
“Just try to walk naturally,” he warned, striding ahead with a hand firmly on his gun despite his unconfident stride and twitchy scanning of his surroundings. “I’ll take you to my house, from there you’ll have to find your way to your destination on your own. From what little I've been told it seems like you’ll have to go through a high-alert part of the city, so you’ll have to ditch that clanky Second-model somewhere. Don’t ask how I know what it is.”
...Not quite a civilian, then.
Rigport’s streets - at least this section of them - painted an uncanny, semi-familiar image, even to Alcerys. Being that it had only briefly participated in the war, the damage was… Uneven. Mostly-pristine buildings in classical, modern, and even antiquated styles would stretch on for a while, the road made up of perfectly-interlocking geopolymer segments.
You are reading story Retribution Engine ARC 2 – [COMPLETE – SEE SYNOPSIS FOR SEQUEL] at novel35.com
Then, there was a gash in the ground. A row of three or four collapsed houses, surrounded by various other destruction that told the tale of a great struggle. And then, amidst the ruins of yet another house, a tank - half-buried, burned out, and rusted.
People walked the streets and went about their daily lives, it was true, but they did so with trepidation and caution. More than a few times during their walk were they looked at by fearful eyes that turned away or sped up their walk in fear of being associated with them. Then, there were the clarion howls of the speakers, their obvious distance only lending credence to the deafening volume with which they carried the ragged voice of an old Ikesian who had doubtlessly been coerced into reading the obvious smearing yellow press about his own countrymen.
Soldiers both Paterian and Grekurian could be seen in the distance, though they were barely shapes from where the trio was - of note was the clear separation between them along national lines, even though they were guarding the same ramshackle checkpoint that barricaded the street… And then there was the arguing.
Each and every time someone was stopped at that checkpoint, the Grekurians exasperatedly just said to let them through, whereas one of the Pateirians stringently barked broken Grekurian demanding stringent adherence to protocol without exception… Until, just as the Recluse had them turn into another side alley saying his house was close, Alcerys spied the silhouette of what looked to be an Inquisitor entering the checkpoint from the other side, just as the soldiers manning it were having a particularly raucous and expletive-filled argument.
“So now you care about protocol, huh?” the man spake in a powerful preacher’s voice, and she knew he was merely an Inquisitorial Envoy by the lack of plate under his coat and the fact he had a mundane gas mask hanging around his neck. “Maybe the next time you decide to take someone into an alley to administer “off-protocol behavior correction” you might have an accident.”
They turned into a back alley long before they could come anywhere near that checkpoint, and after traversing the city’s combat-scarred guts for some time, they reached an unassuming, run-down house. Both Alcerys and Strake had been fully prepared to be betrayed, to have to deal with an ambush or to otherwise be forced into full guerilla combat, but… No such thing transpired.
In fact, the entire city gave off that impression - a dismal state of expecting or even hoping for violent unrest, yet being reluctant to do anything lest the occupation crack down even harder. Throughout the entire walk, the Eye’s chain squeezed Alcerys’ wrist and its gemstone burned within her palm. At least it agreed that this state of affairs demanded rectification.
The Recluse’s home was… Well, it certainly fit her expectations. Right at the top of the entryway stairs was a kitchen with four doors including the one they had entered through, and a full set of archaic, notably aged kitchen furnishings - a table, a sink, a wood-fired stove. A stained black iron pot, half-full with stew, stood atop the stove, its surface crusted by congealed fat.