Gearloose awoke from her sleep like a diver breaching the surface of murky water. Lethargically, she forced herself to rise from her deep, dreamless, and seemingly useless sleep, as she drowsily lumbered out of her bed.
Her eyes drifted over the familiar landscape of her cluttered workshop, bedroom hybrid. Standing at the center of her room, she activated her transformation in a last-ditch effort to jolt herself awake.
[Slay the clouds. Chase the sun.]
Her familiar goggles snapped themselves onto her head, the brown overalls wrapping themselves ergonomically around her as the various bits and bobs added themselves to her person one by one. Her gem floated out from her chest and hovered in front of her, hanging high in the air as her staff materialized below it.
When it had finished forming, she grabbed onto it and slammed it into the ground with a dull thud. Feeling only marginally better after the transformation.
Still, she had already slept through most of the day. A feeling of guilt for skipping work crept into her mind as she made her way to the common room to see if she could still be of help.
Though her body still ached, every muscle felt sore from the frantic guilt-fueled surveillance binge she had gone on whilst wallowing in self-pity. The images and address still lingered in her mind: "44 Acorn Street." She mumbled under her breath, in an effort to remember the discovery that she had yet to share with anyone else.
Yes, they had hurt Crimson. But what could she do about it? The marble-skinned one was connected to Calamity, but if they killed her and ended up provoking Calamity, that would result in an unfathomable amount of death and destruction. It was a conundrum, one that she had yet to find a way to solve.
Shaking her head to dispel the lingering fog, she stumbled towards the common room.
Upon opening the door, she found Xylos perched upon the central table, mulling over a series of reports on the screen. They turned their head to look at her as she entered.
"Good afternoon, Luminary Gearloose. Did you manage to recuperate effectively?"
"Not really?" Gearlooseâs voice came out rough, unused. She cleared her throat. "Whatâs⦠whatâs going on? Are the others still out on today's mission?"
The Celestial Overseer focused their luminous gaze on her, "Luminaries Aqua Intance and Aegis are currently en route back to HQ with the new Luminary. They are concluding the clean-up operation for yesterday's Rift-Disaster zone."
A flicker of relief warred with the gnawing anxiety. "Oh. Good. So the mission went okay?" Gearloose tried to keep her tone light, but failed miserably to do so.
Xylos tilted their head, a gesture that managed to convey profound regret despite the lack of conventional features. "Regrettably, the mission encountered complications. Luminary Daybreak Reaper sustained significant injuries during an unsanctioned engagement."
No. The word screamed silently in Gearlooseâs mind. The fragile hope was shattered. Because I wasnât there. The guilt surged, cold and corrosive. Images of Crimson, broken and bleeding, superimposed themselves over the unseen form of the new, eager Luminary. My fault. Again.
"W-what?" Gearloose stammered, her hand tightening on the back of a chair. "How bad? Are they�"
"Her condition is stable," Xylos reassured swiftly. "Aqua has informed me that she has multiple fractured ribs and blunt force trauma consistent with a high-impact collision. Crucially, there appear to be no lacerations compromising the integrity of her uniform or flesh. The risk of Verge energy contamination is therefore assessed as low." The Overseer paused. "Upon her arrival, I will administer targeted magical healing. Full recovery is anticipated within a standard cycle, barring any unforeseen complications."
The clinical assessment did little to soothe Gearlooseâs turmoil. Broken ribs. Blunt force trauma. Pain. Suffering. Suffering because she had been too busy wallowing in self-pity to do her job.
She should have pushed through the exhaustion. She should have ignored Xylos, Aqua, and Aegis. She should have been on that sweep. If she had been present⦠maybe she could have prevented it.
Xylosâs luminous gaze seemed to intensify, studying her. "Luminary Gearloose? You appear⦠distressed. Your pallor remains concerning. Are you experiencing residual fatigue? Or perhaps lingering side effects from yesterday's battle that went unnoticed until now?"
The gentle concern did little to soothe her misery. The weight of Crimsonâs injury, the new crushing guilt over the new Luminary, the terrifying anomaly of the talking Rift-Touched, the sheer helplessness she felt, it all crashed down on her at once. She couldnât breathe. The room felt stifling, the gentle hum of Xylosâs presence suddenly oppressive.
"I⦠I need some air," Gearloose choked out, stepping back from Xylos. "Excuse me." She didnât wait for a response. She turned and fled the common room, the sound of her own frantic heartbeat pounding in her ears. My fault. My fault. My fault. The mantra pounded with every step down the sterile corridor. Crimson. Reaper. Whoâs next? Aqua? Aegis?
She couldnât just sit here. She couldnât wait for the next disaster sheâd fail to prevent. And for now, she had one lead, one potential threat she had any grasp on: 44 Acorn Street. The marble-skinned Rift-Touched had gone there. The one who had hurt Crimson.
She had to do something. Something tangible. Something to atone.
Guilt and a desperate, reckless resolve propelled her past the residential wing, past the workshops, towards a discreet service exit rarely used by Luminaries in full regalia. She put her staff away, slipping out into the cool twilight air, the weight of her mistakes compelling her to press forward. She had a destination. And only one terrible plan in her mind.
-
Crimson Blaze chewed a raisin with more force than it probably deserved, crushing the dried fruit with the strength of an industrial press. The sweetness of the snack briefly distracted her from the frustration she felt.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Shaking the box lightly, she poured a couple more into her mouth before noting down the brand. âThorn always seems to find these weirdly good off-brand snacks. I should ask her for more the next time she visits.â
After emptying the rest of the boxâs contents into her mouth, she turned back to the data pad propped against her knees. The screen was filled with page after page of frustratingly uninformative text and sanitized reports, all of which seemed to be repeating the same conclusions like a mantra: Rift-Touched, former humans corrupted by uncontrolled Verge energy exposure. Always aggressive, always posing a danger to Luminaries and people. Blah. Blah. Blah.
She tossed the empty box of raisins into the bin next to her bed. Her frustration was building up once more without any more snacks to distract her from it. Xylosâs words echoed in her head: âI am not able to tell you.â Not âI donât know.â Not able. Meaning that the information existed. Meaning that Xylos knew, they had confirmed as much. Which also meant the Celestials knew, but they had deliberately decided to withhold that information from them.
Why? The question was a drumbeat in her skull. What are they so afraid of us finding out?
Sheâd scoured the official Celestial databases, incident reports, research logs, threat assessments, everything accessible to every Luminary. A repository of information that she had once accepted at face value. But now, where she once saw complete archives and detailed reports, she now saw holes. Details left out. Truths being omitted.
Maybe that was just her being paranoid, but she also refused to believe she was the first to encounter a Rift-Touched who could speak. I mean, she even brought up some of her old reports with other Rift-Touched she remembered speaking, and all those reports had been similarly scrubbed clean.
Frustrated, sheâd switched tactics. Instead of searching for other Rift-Touched who could talk. She looked into one she knew could talk, Calamity.
There was no shortage of reports with her name in them, reports that described her power, her appearance. The damage she had caused. The Luminaries who were suspected to have died at her hands. But something felt strangely off.
âWhen Xylos had heard her name, didnât they act a little strange?â She remembered the moment clearly, for it was the first time Xylos had ever looked scared to her. âBut why? From all I can tell, sheâs just another strong Rift-Monster, what am I missing that could have Xylos freezing up like they did?â
Crimson decided to look into her last known appearance before this week, perhaps something had happened on that day three years ago that caused Xylos to freeze up at the mere mention of her name. She checked Calamityâs last confirmed appearance, and used that to pinpoint the exact day and foundâ¦
Nothing.
She double checked that she had the day right, and that she had not mispelled âCalamityâ, but her search still returned nothing.
A void. The database returned zero relevant news articles or public broadcasts for that date, or even any date anywhere close to that day.
That was impossible.
Someone must have seen her on that day, or why would her last known appearance be noted as that day and not the most recent incident she could find on record?
A cold certainty settled over her. This wasnât just secrecy; this was a cover-up. The Celestials weren't just hiding the nature of some Rift-Touched; they were hiding specific events. But for what reason?
Her phone lay on the bedside table. A slim, civilian model that was horribly outdated, and she only used it to keep in touch with some friends from school. It had a laughably limited data plan, but crucially, a data plan not connected to the Celestial network.
Tentatively, she opened it up and brought up a browser, typing in the same query in the search bar. A single signal bar flickered weakly at the top of the screen, a result of the insulation in the Luminary Headquarters being a bit stronger than a typical building, but thankfully, her phone still managed to bring up the search results.
And there were a lot of results.
Article after article with the exact date mentioning the infamous Rift-Touched known as âCalamityâ, headlines with titles that horrified her. She tried clicking into the first one, but her phone refused to load it. Most likely due to the weak signal.
And then every single light in the room snapped off.
She jumped out of her skin as she stared out into the darkness. Noticing that her phone had also switched off.
Eventually, all the lights flickered back on, and slowly her phone booted itself back up again.
But now her search returned zero results.
-
The air on the rooftop of the apartment at 44 Acorn Street was cool and carried the distant sounds of the city, sirens wailing blocks away, the rumble of a generator, the faint murmur of life persisting despite the scars of recent disasters.
Gearloose landed silently, her Luminary-enhanced agility making the jump from the adjacent building effortless. The door leading to the stairwell was old, metal, slightly rusted, and held shut by a simple deadbolt. A deadbolt that stood little chance against a Luminary.
She brought out her staff and channeled a minuscule fraction of her power directly into the gem embedded in the tip. The gem pulsed with contained heat, glowing a dull amber. She pressed it against the lock mechanism.
A sharp hiss. The smell of burning metal and ozone filled the air. Molten brass dripped onto the rooftop gravel. Seconds later, the lock was a slagged ruin. Gearloose pushed the door open, wincing at the faint creak. The guilt was a physical weight now, heavier than any tool in her workshop. Breaking and entering. Illegal surveillance. Destruction of property. Every step was a violation of the oath sheâd sworn. Luminaries were meant to be heroes; they didnât do things like this. But heroes also didnât let their teammates get hurt because they were too busy feeling sorry for themselves. This was her penance. A path to atonement.
The stairwell was dim and smelled of dust and mold. She descended silently, her senses extended, listening for any sign of Rift-Monsters. Nothing. However, she did feel the faint, residual hum of Verge energy. A confirmation that a Rift-Monster had walked these halls. That residue led her to the third floor, then to a specific door: 3B.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. This was it. The lair of the monster whoâd nearly killed Crimson. She braced herself, picturing twisted organic growths, pulsating veins of Verge energy, and the stench of corruption. She lowered her tech-staff, the modular segments sliding silently from her bracer and snapping together with a soft click-hiss. The gem at its tip glowed with a ready, amber light. She focused her magic on this lock, the heat flaring brighter.
Another hiss. More molten metal. And with a gentle push, the door swung inward.
Gearloose stepped inside, staff raised defensively, scanning the dim interior revealed by the streetlight filtering through the blinds and the glow of the gem on her staff.
And froze.
It was⦠an apartment. A perfectly ordinary, slightly shabby, undeniably human apartment. A worn sofa faced a large, dark screen. A small, tidy kitchenette. A bookshelf filled with paperbacks and knick-knacks. A dining table with two chairs. No pulsating walls. No monstrous trophies. No overwhelming stench of the Verge beyond the faint, ambient residue clinging to the air. It smelled faintly of dust and old paper.
The dissonance was jarring. It threw her off balance more effectively than any ambush. This wasn't a nest. It was a home. Hesitantly, staff still half-raised, she moved further inside. Her gaze fell on a small purse left on the kitchen counter. Acting on an impulse she couldn't justify even to herself, she approached and carefully opened it. Inside, nestled beside a wallet and some loose receipts, was a driver's license.
She pulled it out. The photo showed a woman with dark hair and tired but kind eyes. Aiko Tanaka. The name meant nothing, but the face⦠Gearlooseâs breath hitched. She stared, comparing the image to the face she had seen in her one encounter with the marble-skinned Rift-Touched. The bone structure, the shape of the eyes⦠there were similarities. Haunting similarities. This was her. The marble-skinned Rift-Touched. Previously living here under the name Aiko Tanaka.
A lump formed in her throat. Yes, she knew that Rift-Touched were previously human, but she had never really looked into who those people were. The Verge's corruption made tracing back the DNA an impossibility, and she had never really looked into the matter further.
But with this new information, a new idea formed inside her head: Threaten her. Expose her. Force her to leave, to stop being a threat. She pictured confronting Aiko, staff crackling, revealing her knowledge. I know who you are. Leave this city, or everyone will know. But the scenario felt hollow. What if it backfired? What if it just made this⦠Aiko⦠angrier? More dangerous? What if she lashed out, and more people got hurt? More people like Crimson, more people like Reaper. Lying broken, because Gearloose had made another mistake?
No. She came here with a plan in mind. A solution to the problem that would result in no one else getting hurt. She just needed to follow that plan and see things through.
With a shaky breath, Gearloose lowered her staff. The amber glow dimmed. She looked around the quiet, ordinary room. The melted lock on the door was undeniable proof of a crime. There was no hiding her intrusion. She had already crossed the line of no return, and now all that remained was to keep walking forward.
Guilt gave her the resolve needed to keep going. That resolve, fragile but steely, settled over her. She walked to the small dining table. Pulled out a chair and sat down. Propping her tech-staff against the table, she let the gem dim as she saved her magic.
She folded her hands in her lap and watched the door silently. And there she waited in the dim, quiet apartment of a monster, a monster that had once been human. Gearloose sat in that monsterâs home, remaining perfectly still and waiting for Aiko Tanaka to come home. The ticking of a small, cheap clock on the wall was the only sound in the charged silence.
She needed penance. She needed to atone. The crushing guilt in her heart clouded out every other thought in her mind.
And with every second that she was left with her own thoughts, that guilt only grew stronger.