Teorin stared at his map, trying to reconcile the street in front of him with the small mess of lines that represented the city of Jarangua, but the map and reality just didn’t match up. The street name, sort of tacked onto one of the weather-worn buildings in front of him, was not where it was supposed to be on the map.
A few more seconds of staring didn’t make the map any clearer. He exhaled. No choice. He’d have to risk using his comm band and hope a burst didn’t hit.
He pulled his burstproof case from his duffel bag. Bursts were unpredictable. Some barely did anything; others would fry any electronics in an instant, even the somewhat shielded stuff, but that was a risk he was going to have to take if he wanted to find Korrin’s house.
There was no one to ask for directions. He hadn’t seen a single soul in this town yet. This wasn’t a big town, perhaps a thousand people, but no one out? It made his skin crawl a little, made him cautious.
He’d pulled a loose jacket on over his glidesuit. In towns like this, everybody knew each other; there was almost no chance of not being immediately identified as an outsider. But the jacket at least hid his glidesuit, hid that he was a Pulser.
The holomap flickered to life above the comm band, casting a faint blue glow against his fingers. He was just a few streets over from where Korrin lived, but the way was winding.
He moved down the road, head down, hands in his pockets. The wind gusted against his hood—cool against his face but carrying an edge of something stale—distant smoke, maybe, or dust left behind from a recent storm. Fortunately, the cool air meant that wearing a jacket with the hood up wouldn’t be entirely out of place.
Each cross street seemed to grow more compact. The streets grew narrower, the buildings taller. Most buildings were concrete, their retractable antennas built for burstproofing. The shops, by contrast, were dark wood with glass display windows. Some buildings mixed both wood and concrete, practical but odd-looking. It all felt too still, like the city was waiting. Watching.
Teorin shivered.
He turned onto a narrow street lined with small shops and houses, stopping at a two-story white home—wood with windows on top, almost fortress-like patterned concrete below. A practical choice with a homey feel.
He knocked on the metal door. The impact sent a dull echo through the quiet street.
He really hoped this was the right house and that Korrin was in. He’d never met the woman, only seen her photo and read her employee profile last night. A minute later, the door swung open, revealing a tall woman in a dark blue t-shirt and cargo pants. She had dark brown hair and was old enough he couldn’t guess her age. Could be anywhere from forty to ninety or more, but she looked like the outdoorsy type: someone who might go hiking through the woods before breakfast.
“Hello. I’m Teorin Davorn. Are you Korrin?” He hoped he didn’t sound awkward. Showing up on a stranger’s doorstep always felt that way.
“Are you with Novem?” she asked.
Straight to the point. Good. “Yeah. I need your help.”
Korrin pursed her lips. “You’re going down to Trevor’s outpost then?”
Teorin nodded. She had a slightly clipped accent, probably from up north.
Korrin was silent for a few moments before starting to tear up. “Does that mean he’s dead?”
Teorin shook his head vehemently. Crying was worse than small talk. “We don’t know. For now, Trevor is missing. I’m here to help figure out what happened and pick up some stuff from his outpost. Jeron wants to know what he was working on when he disappeared.”
Korrin wiped her eyes. The silence stretched, and the weight of something unspoken hung between them.
“Did you know him well?” Teorin asked.
She shrugged. “We were friends. There aren’t many of us down here. I would help him with experiments occasionally, and we talked.”
“Do you know what he was working on?”
“Some. He could be secretive, but he was exploring caves around here. I went with him a couple of times. There are symbols etched into some of the walls.” She hesitated. “I searched the caves after I heard he was missing, just in case he got trapped in a cave-in, but I didn’t find anything. No sign of him, and no sign he’d been working there recently.”
Secretive. That tracked. Teorin hadn’t expected much, but the caves were a useful lead. “Thanks. That’s helpful.”
“Do you want to come in?”
“Actually, I was hoping to get to the outpost as soon as possible, but thanks for the offer.”
“Right. I understand. I just want to find Trevor. I’ll get the key.”
She disappeared inside. Teorin waited, scanning the street. There was no movement. The buildings loomed, their dark windows unreadable. The silence pressed down, thick as the storm clouds above.
He still hadn’t seen a single person. No one. That felt wrong.
Maybe he was just paranoid. He’d spent a lot of time with paranoid people lately. The frontier was full of people running from something: whether it was technology, people, or even the law. Maybe that was rubbing off on him.
Before he could overthink it, the door swung open. Korrin handed him a small metal key.
“Everything okay?” she asked, holding the key out to him.
Apparently, his nerves showed. He took the key, slipping it into his pocket. “Fine. Thanks. We’ll let you know if we find Trevor.”
“I hope he’s alright.”
Teorin turned to go.
“Teorin?”
He stopped on the steps and looked back.
“Just… be careful.” Her voice dropped. “As much as I hope otherwise, I don’t think Trevor just left on his own.”
Teorin nodded. Unease curled in his gut. He walked, fast. He should have asked if the town was always this quiet, but he’d just wanted to leave. He had just reached the intersection when a quick surge of heat on his wrist made him look down. His comm band was blank.
Bursts. He pressed the reset button. Nothing. Dead.
Idiot! He should have put it back in the box while waiting for Korrin instead of sitting there worrying. Now he wouldn’t have net access for days, and he couldn’t communicate without using a public terminal.
He could find a surge tech to fix it. Or get a new one. Maybe that was the best option because—
Footsteps scuffed the sidewalk. Teorin glanced up.
A woman was approaching from down the road—a dark leather jacket, a wicked scar on her cheek. Any good medic could remove a scar like that, so she either liked the look or wanted people to know she was dangerous. The lead guitarist in Circa, one of his favorite bands, had a similar scar. Maybe it was fashion.
She met his eyes for a moment, then looked away. Teorin lowered his head and walked faster. She passed without incident, but he didn’t relax. He listened, not just with his ears, but with his sense of pressure. Footsteps should have faded by now. They didn’t.
The air pressure shifted. A scuff of shoes turning. Teorin pulsed as he threw himself to the side.
The dart jerked midair, wobbled, then clattered harmlessly to the pavement. He hit the ground hard and scrambled to his feet. She’d just fired on him. That was a stun dart.
Behind him, the woman was still standing with the stun pistol, eyes narrowed. She knew his affinity.
And he didn’t know hers.
Teorin bolted.
The woods. That was all he could think. He’d been in fights before, mercenaries up north, but never alone. Never in broad daylight on a public street. What exactly had Jeron been thinking in sending him without backup?
The buildings thinned. Trees rose ahead, two streets away. He risked a glance back. The Circa woman was gaining.
In normal circumstance, he could have outrun her. Pulsers were faster than most people. He could use the pressure inside his body for a boost, but glidesuits weren’t meant for running. Too stiff. Too many straps. Plus, the duffel slowed him down, and he couldn’t leave it. The document scanner was inside. He needed that.
Trees rose up in front of him, but not fast enough. He wasn’t making the woods. Even if he did, what then? Hide? He didn’t know the terrain, and she’d have the agility advantage.
He veered down a side street.
There was a younger man walking a couple of houses down.
“Hey!” Teorin yelled with a wave.
The man looked up. His eyes went wide, and he bolted toward a house.
“Wait, please!” Teorin called as he dashed at the man, but the stranger reached his door first. He cast an almost apologetic glance back before slamming it shut.
Teorin pounded on the door. No answer.
A chuckle behind him.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
He spun, putting his back to the door, hands raised.
This was too much. They had the civilians under control? Whoever Circa was, she wasn’t just some street thug. A clan operative, maybe.
Circa stood a few meters away, hands on her hips, studying him. Something about her had changed. There was less aggression, more amusement.
“I don’t think they’ll help,” Circa drawled. “Novem’s not exactly popular here, and we put the word out: no interference.”
Her voice was smoother than expected, almost musical. It fit his band nickname for her.
“What do you want?” he asked.
She chuckled again. “Probably the same thing you came for.”
Teorin grimaced. The key. The drive.
What was on it that warranted this kind of response? And if they’d already intimidated the locals, why not take the key from Korrin before he arrived? Then they could have gotten inside without—
The double-locked door. They couldn’t get inside. Not without him. His hand was the second key.
Cascades. This wasn’t going to be easy.
He needed a way out. Fast.
Circa stepped forward. Teorin pulsed. She skipped to the side, then shook her head, smirking. Cat and mouse.
He wasn’t the cat.
She edged forward again. He pulsed, harder. The blast hit her gut, and she winced but stayed upright. Tough. That should have felt like a body slam.
She lingered just outside his range, close enough that he could barely take his eyes off her.
Teorin shifted uneasily. If this was an ambush, it was a bad one. Circa hadn’t pulled out another weapon. She didn’t seem to be a Pulser. He didn’t know her affinity, so why…
Teorin cursed. He was doing exactly what she wanted. If he kept this up, he’d run out of pressure, and then she’d attack with no issue. He had maybe ten strong pulses left in him. More if he just tried to disrupt her stance or nudge her around. But after that…
He didn’t have any other weapons.
So, what was he supposed to do?
She was staying away. Any pulse he produced from this distance wouldn’t injure her, just throw her around. If he could get close, he’d be dangerous…
But she could be a Heatsinger. That seemed like a bad idea too.
He lowered his hands as a test. Circa crept forward. He raised them again. She stopped.
“Any chance we can make a deal?” he asked.
Circa pursed her lips.
“Because if you were more specific, you could stop getting blasted, and I could be on my way.”
Circa smirked. “You look like him, you know. Not as tall, but similar features. I wasn’t sure at first, with the hood and the glidesuit, but I see why he didn’t want to come.”
Teorin froze. She could only mean one person.
Marcus.
His thoughts raced, Please, tell me Marcus isn’t working with her. He couldn’t be that stupid could he?
He probably could, but it didn’t matter. She was baiting him.
Stay focused!
Teorin glanced down the street. Fight or run? Circa could be a Luminar, but if she was a Heatsinger…
Running was better.
If he could get his wings open, he could glide away. He just needed a running start and to ditch this useless jacket disguise, and he had to do all that without losing the duffel’s contents. They definitely had never covered anything like this in training.
Teorin cursed under his breath. This was a nightmare. He shot out another blast, keeping her busy.
Breathe. Think.
He needed to break the rhythm, to force her into making a move instead of just reacting to his. A different tactic. A better one.
He scanned the street. Buildings boxed him in, forcing him down the middle. A couple of planters offered minor cover, but he was in serious trouble.
Circa smiled, stepping further out of range.
A rush attack? Teorin braced himself.
Instead, she pulled something from her pocket. Flare. Was she calling allies now?
He tensed, then froze. The light ignited instantly, heat shimmering around her fingers. She hadn’t flicked a lighter. She hadn’t even pressed a trigger.
Teorin’s stomach twisted. A Heatsinger. So why hadn’t she used it against him? Why call allies after all this time?
What in the cascades was happening?
It didn’t matter. He needed to get out. Now.
Teorin braced himself against the door. He planted his stance, pressure coiling through him, then snapped a broad wave that slammed Circa back to her knees.
Teorin bolted like a runner who’d just heard the starter pistol, using an extra boost from the pressure in his own body. The duffel bag slipped from his shoulder. Instead of adjusting, he swung it forward, launched it into the air, and pulsed, sending it flying further down the road.
There were footsteps behind him. Gaining.
Teorin skidded to a stop, pivoted, and blasted another pulse. It rattled through him, draining his reserves, but it slammed her back fifteen feet.
His limbs ached with the telltale burn of overuse. Every pulse left his reserves thinner. If he kept this up, soon there wouldn’t be enough left to launch.
Absorb, he thought frantically. He focused on pulling whatever pressure he could from the air as he sprinted for the duffel, ripping off his jacket as he ran.
There was silence behind him. Teorin glanced back. Circa wasn’t running. Instead, she’d pulled out a gun.
Bursts. Maybe she did want to kill him.
Circa fired.
Teorin vaulted to the side, throwing a pulse in desperation. The bullet’s momentum wobbled as the shockwave distorted the air in front of him, sending it off course, but not enough to stop it entirely.
Lucky it was a mechanical gun. If it had been a stun gun, he’d be down already. Or not. That burst earlier would have taken out an electrical stun gun.
Teorin reached the duffel, grabbed the strap—
Bang.
He dove behind a planter. Pain.
It took him a second to process: not a bullet. The wings had dug into his back on impact. That was going to bruise.
The planter was terrible cover. Circa had stopped running to fire, but he couldn’t run and deflect bullets at the same time. Pulsing wasn’t great for deflecting bullets anyway.
He needed cover, preferably something large that would give him time to extend the glidesuit’s wings.
Teorin’s eyes locked onto a solid wood fence. Privacy barrier. Tall. Thick. It was his only chance, but to reach it, he had to get past Circa and her gun. If he could knock the gun out of her hand, he might make it. Maybe. If he missed, he’d take a bullet.
Teorin crouched, waiting. Steps pounded against concrete. He stood, firing a preemptive pulse to distort the air, and turned his body sideways to make himself a smaller target.
A shot rang out. It went wide. Circa stopped to aim. Teorin pulsed again, targeting her hand. He didn’t wait to see if it worked. He sprinted for the fence.
Another gunshot cracked through the air. Teorin waited for the pain. It didn’t come.
Lucky. Or the pulse had worked.
Thirty feet left.
Bang.
Teorin threw himself sideways, impact slamming into his back.
Not flesh. Wings. He hadn’t been sure the wings would stop a bullet. They had. Barely.
If that bullet had hit a second later… His heartbeat stuttered as he sprinted. It would’ve punched through his spine.
And if the wings were damaged? Then he was dead. Panic tightened in his chest. He shoved it down. The wings would work. Or they wouldn’t. Panicking wouldn’t change that.
The fence loomed closer—ten feet tall. He could make that, but it was going to be close.
He drained pressure from his core into his legs, strengthening them. Teorin launched the duffel ahead, pulsing it forward, then leaped. His hands caught the top. He hauled himself over.
A second pulse broke his fall as he landed hard, right in someone’s vegetable garden. Tomato plants. Trellis. Bench.
He scanned the back porch. No movement. Hopefully, the owners were either gone or hunkered down.
Footsteps pounded on the other side of the fence.
Move.
Teorin tore through the duffel. His fingers fumbled against straps, stiff buckles refusing to cooperate in his rush. Flight packs. Goggles. Straps. The metal clasps clicked as he shoved loose items into one of the two packs, each motion quick, desperate. He clipped the rigs to his suit, eyes flicking back to the fence.
No one climbed over.
The air thickened. A faint heat shimmered along the top of the fence. Then, smoke, curling tendrils at first, then darker, heavier.
The fence was on fire.
Teorin tensed, preparing for someone to burst through the weakened structure… but no one did.
So, why light the fence on fire?
This wasn’t an attack. This was something else. He shook himself. Didn’t matter. Move. Now.
There wasn’t room in the yard to take off, but the house was two stories, high enough, and the roof was long enough. Maybe. He didn’t have a better option.
Smoke thickened. It might give him cover, but it would choke him soon. The outer walls were stamped concrete: scalable, and they wouldn’t burn.
Now or never.
Teorin dug his fingers into a groove and climbed. There were enough handholds that the climb went quickly. He was almost to the second story when—
Something slammed into the wall by his hand, heat rippling outward.
Teorin yelped, barely stopping himself from jerking away.
A ninja star. Glowing red hot.
Heat shimmered around the metal, distorting the air. Teorin swallowed hard and kept moving. Pulsing it away wasn’t an option; if he hit it with a pulse, the force could scatter molten shrapnel in every direction, potentially right at him.
Teorin glanced back. The smoke had thinned just enough to see Circa, her scar still visible even at a distance. She wasn’t alone. A man stood beside her. And a red-haired woman.
Sasha Niolin.
Teorin had never met her, but he knew the reputation. Mercenary. Ruthless. Bad news. If she was here, this was worse than he thought.
Sasha caught his eye. Then she flicked her wrist. Teorin threw himself to the side, barely managing to hang on to the building.
A glowing star embedded into the concrete inches from his side. Heat rolled off it in waves, scorching the air. Even through his thick suit, he felt it.
Then the wind shifted. Smoke billowed between them, thick and choking, swallowing the rooftop in a dense gray cloud. He could barely see his own hands, let alone Sasha.
Another throwing star whizzed past, too far left. A miss.
Sasha cursed somewhere below. "I can’t see dren in this!" she shouted, her voice muffled by the smoke.
Teorin didn’t waste the opening. He scrambled up, his hands slick with sweat and dust.
A shot rang out. Someone yelled.
Teorin flinched, expecting pain, but nothing. No impact, no bullet tearing through him. If they wanted to, they could just keep shooting at the wall. They would hit him eventually, but no shots filled the air, just the crackle of flames.
Maybe they didn’t want him dead. Some hand scanners only worked if the person was alive.
Eyes watering from the smoke, he reached for the eaves, fingers brushing the edge—
A knife slammed into the wall beside him. Not a star. A wicked-looking knife.
Teorin gulped, then reached again and heaved himself over the eaves, careful not to let the packs attached to his side catch on the edge.
For a moment, he just lay there on the shingles of the roof, breathing. The wind shifted, and the taste of smoke filled his mouth, coating his throat. He bolted upright as a violent coughing fit wracked his body.
Finally, he got his breath back and dragged himself to his feet. No time to stop. Dying from smoke inhalation seemed like an awful way to go.
His eyes were watering. He needed to see. Teorin pulled the flight goggles on and yanked his shirt up over his nose. Not perfect, but better than nothing.
The roof was slick and steep. He climbed with careful steps to the pinnacle and pulled the handle to release the wings. They shifted, extending. Slowly. Too slowly.
That shot from earlier must have damaged the mechanism. Hopefully, that was all it had damaged. If they could just extend enough to fly…
Below, the ground vanished in smoke. The fire had spread to the garden and on, licking at the concrete of the next house. A gust of wind jerked him sideways. He threw his arms out, balancing.
Cascades, he was going to have to balance like this in the wind while being shot at until he could fly.
And now he was facing the wrong direction.
Carefully, he turned, smoke whipping past him. Below, the fence was becoming a series of charred posts. Another gust cleared a window in the smoke.
Gunshot.
Teorin dropped to a crouch, causing his foot to slide on the tile. He desperately grasped at the roof as he began tilting. He managed to balance.
Barely.
He didn’t even know where the bullet had gone, just that it hadn’t hit him. He glanced at the wings. Not at full length, but enough to hold him. He’d take it. A few more seconds, and he’d be airborne.
A flicker at the edge of his vision. Instinct kicked in.
Pulse.
A ninja star clattered to the roof, glowing red. Molten metal hissed against his suit. Good thing it was thick.
Smoke swirled tighter around him. Every breath burned. No more time. It was move now or die.
Teorin shifted again to face the longest section of the roof. He straightened carefully, took a deep breath through his shirt, and ran. He got a few feet before he started to slip. The wind shifted, dragging thick smoke across his path. Everything blurred. He took the leap half-blind, firing a pulse downward.
With the smoke, he’d miscalculated. There was more roof than he thought, and the pulse hit too early, bouncing off the rooftop and sending him higher than he expected. His stomach dropped—too much vertical momentum. He was going to stall.
No, no! Adjust.
Teorin spread his next pulse wider, less concentrated. Instead of a hard push, it swelled into a pocket of dense air. The pressure fought his sudden ascent, slowed him, tilted him forward. Just enough.
A ninja star whizzed past his shoulder—too close. He turned the wasted height into a steep diving arc.
The ground rushed up fast. Another pulse, angled precisely, caught beneath him, rebounding off the ground and launching him forward.
He leveled out, heart hammering. His wings wobbled, a new weight dragging on his left side. A ninja star was buried in the frame.
Teorin gritted his teeth. The imbalance pulled him slightly off course, tilting him just enough to feel wrong. He pulsed again, just a tiny correction. Finally, there was green below him. He cleared the city. He still wasn’t safe.
Not yet.
Not if he wanted to complete his mission. Because this had just been step one.
This concludes today’s recovered material. Tomorrow’s release picks up from here—same time, same access clearance.
Subscription to the archive’s update feed is recommended; missed entries have a habit of becoming critical later.
— Lianne Vail
Archivist, Department of Reconstruction
[Lev] Rank Teorin's escape from “legendary genius” to “needs a babysitter.” Choose wisely.
