The heavy wooden door clicked softly shut, leaving the Rat King alone in the sudden silence of his private study. He stared blankly at the space Naomi had just occupied, an unsettling sense of emptiness growing within him. It felt as though an important thought had simply vanished, leaving only an echo where memory should have been. He rubbed his temples gently, confusion knitting his brows.
"What was I just doing?" he murmured quietly, eyes drifting across the desk littered with scattered notes and maps. His gaze caught briefly on a detailed diagram outlining potential routes into Nikodemus's compound, but he couldn't recall precisely why it was relevant at this moment. A dull ache blossomed at the base of his skull, and he sighed deeply, uneasy.
His thoughts shifted back to Naomi's brief presence. Her face had held such tension, her posture so determined—it had clearly been a deliberate visit. Yet, strangely, he had no recollection of her purpose. Naomi never intruded without reason; she knew every corner of this palace and understood the weight of his responsibilities. Why, then, had she come here tonight, seemingly needing nothing at all?
He stood slowly, pacing to clear his mind. The steady rhythm of his footsteps failed to shake off the persistent, nagging suspicion that tugged at the edges of his thoughts. Guilt surfaced abruptly as a troubling possibility occurred to him, and he shook his head sharply, immediately dismissing it.
"No," he whispered firmly to the empty room, as if speaking aloud might somehow make the thought impossible. "Naomi wouldn't—she wouldn't do that."
But doubt lingered stubbornly, refusing to be pushed aside. Memories returned slowly, fragments of recent conversations echoing back to him. Matias and Castin had both described losing time, moments erased like faded chalk drawings washed away by rain. Naomi's power could take memories, alter perceptions, even command others against their will. Had she truly resorted to that now, against him?
He sank heavily into the worn chair behind his desk, leaning forward and pressing both paws against the polished wood. A wave of sorrow mingled with hurt rose sharply within him, overwhelming his usual composed demeanor. Naomi was more to him than a mere subject, more even than a ward, he cared for her deeply, as one might care for a child whose wounds ran too deep to heal with kindness alone.
"Have I truly failed you so deeply, Naomi?" he asked softly into the still air, pain evident in his voice. "Have I driven you so far into desperation that you'd hide your intentions from me?"
He closed his eyes briefly, confronting the bitter taste of betrayal. Yet beneath it, empathy stirred, equally strong. Naomi's pain was a product of cruelty he had failed to prevent. Every torment she had endured had happened under his watchful yet insufficient gaze. If she had indeed crossed that invisible line, he knew her reasons would not have been malicious but desperate, driven by a fear he had not managed to soothe.
The Rat King opened his eyes, determination flaring amidst the hurt. He would not jump to conclusions, but neither could he simply let the suspicion lie dormant. Trust was the foundation of his leadership, the quiet strength upon which Rat City rested. He had no choice now but to seek the truth, no matter how painful or unsettling that truth might be.
Slowly, methodically, he began to gather his scattered notes, focusing his mind on reconstructing the moments before Naomi's sudden appearance—intent on finding whatever truth had been hidden from him, and hoping fiercely he was wrong.
Frowning, he closed his eyes, focusing inward, pushing gently against the void in his memory. It felt deliberate, unnatural. The more he prodded, the more obvious it became that something crucial had been removed, carefully extracted to leave no trace. He opened his eyes slowly, the realization settling heavily upon him.
Naomi.
He shook his head slightly, resisting the implication, unwilling to believe she would deliberately invade his mind in such a way. Yet the evidence was impossible to ignore. Naomi possessed the capability, and though it hurt to consider, he knew that desperation could drive even the most innocent to extremes. He had seen it before.
But why would she feel compelled to manipulate him now? His mind retraced her recent behavior, the shadows behind her eyes, the quiet intensity in her voice, all signs he had perhaps underestimated. Guilt twisted sharply in his chest. Had he failed her so profoundly that she no longer trusted him?
He moved quietly around his desk, seeking something, anything, that might jog his memory, a physical clue or note, yet found nothing out of place. Frustration simmered within him, though it was tempered by a deep sadness. Naomi was clearly suffering, driven by motivations he couldn't fully grasp, but that didn't absolve the severity of what she might have done.
His gaze settled on the locked cabinet in the far corner, which housed the vials of blue sedative recovered from Roe's compound. The soft glow of lantern light gleamed off the polished wood, drawing his attention like a quiet whisper. Naomi's abilities and that substance were undeniably linked. Could the sedative hold answers, or at least offer some clarity about Naomi's state of mind?
The temptation to find answers tugged gently at his resolve, growing stronger as uncertainty pressed heavier upon him. Slowly, purposefully, he reached into his robes, retrieving the small iron key that opened the cabinet. It felt cool and heavy in his paw, its weight matching the gravity of the decision before him.
He stepped forward, unlocked the cabinet, and opened its door carefully. Inside, the vials glistened faintly, the blue liquid shimmering invitingly beneath the lantern's amber glow. His heartbeat quickened slightly as he reached out, lifting one of the delicate containers carefully in his paw, contemplating the dangerous possibilities it represented.
The vial rested delicately between his claws, its contents pulsing gently with an almost hypnotic rhythm. He hesitated, the quiet rational voice within him protesting sharply, warning against recklessness. Yet curiosity and desperation wove a persuasive whisper, overpowering caution.
With careful deliberation, he unstoppered the vial, a faint scent drifting upward, medicinal and metallic. A tremor passed through his paw as he raised the vial to his lips, tipping it just enough for a small drop to spill onto his tongue.
The effect was immediate, disorienting, and powerful.
Reality buckled around him, shifting and contorting with alarming fluidity. Images surged violently into his mind, untethered and chaotic. Shadows twisted into shapes, forms merging into memories he could scarcely recognize. Voices rose and fell around him, overlapping whispers that screamed for attention, blending into a cacophony of distorted echoes.
Flashes of Naomi appeared and vanished rapidly—her frightened eyes glowing with power, the glint of Roe's dagger in her trembling hands. He saw himself reaching desperately for her, only to watch her slip through his fingers like smoke, vanishing into darkness. Eli's unconscious form lay hauntingly still, his breathing faint and distant. The Ruined Quarter burned vividly around him, flames crackling and roaring with anguished fury.
He tried to pull back from the vision, his breathing shallow and rapid, but the sedative's grip tightened mercilessly. Memories twisted further, shifting to things he never witnessed yet felt deeply: the cold bite of a collar around his throat, the mocking laughter of Roe echoing relentlessly, the crushing, inescapable pressure of being trapped in his own mind.
The Rat King staggered backward, the vial slipping from his paw and shattering against the stone floor, the remaining liquid spilling out in shimmering rivulets. He reached blindly for the edge of the desk, his limbs suddenly heavy and unresponsive, knees buckling as he sank toward the floor. Panic rose sharply within him, mingled with regret and profound sorrow.
The edges of his vision darkened, creeping inward with cruel finality. He felt himself fading, consciousness slipping rapidly from his grasp. His heart pounded desperately, grasping onto a memory that surfaced clearly amid the chaos, a single moment, achingly raw.
"I won't let you go," he murmured weakly into the shadows, his voice barely audible, pleading desperately with the fading image of Naomi. "I can't lose you."
As darkness finally claimed him, Naomi's quiet, devastating reply echoed painfully clear in his mind, a whisper sharper than any blade:
"Then you've already lost me."
The room faded into silence, broken only by the gentle drip of spilled sedative onto stone.
In the distant, fading edges of his consciousness, a sharp, insistent knock echoed through the void.
"Hey Red?" came Castin's muffled voice, confusion and concern mingling faintly as the Rat King slipped into oblivion.
Castin stood quietly outside the Rat King's private study, his fist lingering briefly in the air after knocking a second time. Silence pressed heavily against the polished wooden door, interrupted only by the faint crackling of lanterns lining the stone corridor. His brow furrowed slightly in confusion. It wasn't like the King to ignore him, especially after everything they'd discovered.
"No luck?" a familiar voice called from behind him, and Castin turned to see Lorne approaching, walking purposefully down the corridor.
Castin shook his head slowly, stepping back from the door with a sigh. "Nothing. Feels wrong. He wouldn't just ignore me like this."
Lorne eyed the door thoughtfully, his jaw tightening subtly. "Maybe he's occupied with something else. We can fill him in later. Gregor's waiting, and we're running short on time."
Castin hesitated, glancing once more at the silent study before nodding reluctantly. "Yeah, guess you're right. Let's go."
They walked side by side through the dim corridors of the palace, their footsteps echoing softly against the worn stone. Castin stole a quick glance at Lorne, noting the tension in his shoulders and the rigid way he held himself. Something felt off about him, a distant look occasionally flickering across his eyes, as if his thoughts drifted somewhere far beyond the palace walls.
Lorne abruptly broke the silence, his voice carefully controlled. "Matias mentioned one of the old palace escape routes connects directly to the lower maintenance tunnels. It'll save us a lot of time."
Castin raised an eyebrow. "Escape routes? Escape from what, I wonder?"
"I don't know, I guess it was a retired route," Lorne replied dryly, managing a faint smirk. "Hopefully they won't ever need them."
Castin studied him for a moment, sensing an undercurrent in Lorne's demeanor he couldn't quite place. "You alright, Lorne? You've seemed pretty tense lately."
Lorne glanced sideways at Castin, clearly weighing his response before looking away again. "Just cautious, is all. Last time I visited Gregor, things got… complicated."
"How so?" Castin pressed gently, careful not to push too hard.
Lorne hesitated, his eyes distant for a brief moment, shadows deepening behind his carefully composed mask. "I was ambushed by scavengers and almost killed one of them. It's dangerous down there,especially alone."
Castin nodded slowly, sensing there was more that Lorne wasn't saying, but deciding not to press him further just yet. He recognized the look in Lorne's eyes, he'd seen it before in fellow soldiers haunted by memories they couldn't quite escape. A shadow passed over Castin's own thoughts, memories of his own ghosts stirring quietly.
"Well," Castin finally offered lightly, "at least you're not alone this time."
Lorne paused briefly, something shifting subtly in his expression, a hint of relief, maybe gratitude, before he quickly masked it again with a practiced shrug. "True enough. Just keep your eyes open and your punching fist ready."
Castin grinned slightly, attempting to ease the lingering tension. "Ol' Righty is always ready to go."
They reached a heavy door set into the far wall of a rarely used hallway, its hinges slightly rusted from disuse. Lorne grasped the metal handle, pulling the door open with a faint groan that echoed quietly down the dim staircase revealed beyond.
"After you," Lorne said dryly, gesturing downward.
Castin stepped forward, eyeing the narrow passage cautiously before starting the descent. Lorne followed close behind, closing the door carefully, plunging them both into a deepening gloom.
A persistent drip echoed as they made their way through the old maintenance tunnel, each droplet spattering into a puddle that shimmered faintly under a single, grimy light. Lorne moved carefully, boots quiet against the slick floor. The deeper he went, the stronger the smell of mildew and stale, recycled air, relics of some long-defunct ventilation system that even Rat City's scavengers had deemed worthless.
He paused at a junction, squinting at the faint markings on the wall. A stylized ledger symbol, barely recognizable under layers of grime, told him he was close. Vorrik had called it "Gregor's mark," a subtle warning for the unwary. Lorne exhaled slowly, tension binding his shoulders.
The winding corridor yawned open into a broad, half-collapsed room that must have once been part of the city's old infrastructure. Broken consoles lay scattered about, half-fused wires dangled from overhead panels. The faint hum of an emergency light sputtered in the corner, casting erratic shadows across the debris.
"These lights weren't on before." Lorne must have said to himself as he moved carefully through the lower tunnels, Castin trailing a step behind. He kept his eyes fixed forward, cautious despite the unusual brightness that illuminated the path ahead.
"You're jumpier than usual," Castin remarked quietly, casting an amused glance at Lorne's tense posture.
Lorne sighed, shoulders still tight. "Like I told you." Lorne said annoyance clearly in his tone. "Last time I was here I got jumped by scavengers. Trust me, you've gotta keep your guard up in these tunnels."
Castin's hand drifted casually toward his sidearm, eyes alert now as he took in the scattered debris, rusted machinery, and faintly humming electrical panels lining the tunnel walls. "I mean… it looks pretty calm right now."
"Yeah, that's what's bothering me," Lorne muttered, eyes narrowing. He paused for a moment, listening intently, but the only sound was the distant drip of water and the occasional buzz of fluorescent bulbs overhead. "All these lights were off last time. I didn't even know they had lights like these down here. Something feels off."
Castin muttered "So I guess you were talking to yourself earlier."
They rounded the last bend, and the wide chamber outside Gregor's hideout presented itself before them, fully illuminated. The stark contrast from Lorne's previous visit made him pause, suspicion prickling at the back of his neck.
"Stay alert," he warned quietly. "Gregor's got a gun mounted in the ceiling, looked fully automated. Just let me do the talking."
Castin absentmindedly looked forward, taking in what Lorne had just told him "Gun Mounted on the ceiling, sure," before doing a double take and nearly shouting "A gun mounted on the ceiling?" his eyes now cautiously scanning the ceiling as they stepped forward.
Lorne threw Castin a glance but otherwise ignored him. "Gregor," Lorne called out carefully, "it's Lorne. I've got company this time."
He braced for the turret's threatening hum, but instead, the only response was the immediate crackle of Gregor's voice echoing from the speaker.
"Ah, Lorne! Come on in. Been expecting you."
A hidden panel smoothly slid open on the opposite wall, revealing the warmly-lit entrance to Gregor's inner sanctum. Castin raised an eyebrow, clearly amused, and whispered to Lorne, "So much for your killer ceiling gun."
"Asshole," Lorne grumbled, leading the way into Gregor's chambers.
Gregor sat hunched over his cluttered desk, meticulously sorting through papers and notes. His eyes flicked up as they entered, amusement and curiosity dancing in his gaze.
"Nice to see you again," Gregor smirked, glancing between Lorne and Castin. "And you brought a friend. Hope you didn't scare him too badly with all your tales of danger."
Lorne crossed his arms, irritation edging his tone. "What gives, Gregor? Why the sudden hospitality? Last time I came through here, I nearly got killed in your front yard."
Gregor chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned back casually. "That's Roe's doing, really. He sent you on the wrong day. Every other day I flip on the lights down here so vendors can deliver my food without getting stabbed." Then muttered almost to himself "…Roe knew that already though."
Castin's eyes widened slightly, a quiet laugh slipping from him. "You have a delivery day?"
Gregor shot Castin a playful glare. "A rat's gotta eat. Speaking of last time—" he turned sharply back to Lorne, his expression suddenly serious "did you bring my payment?"
With a resigned sigh, Lorne produced the vial of glowing blue liquid, placing it carefully on Gregor's cluttered desk. "Here. Like I promised."
Gregor snatched up the vial eagerly, holding it up to the light, eyes glinting with satisfaction. "Perfect. You're a man of your word, Lorne."
Castin looked at Lorne "Oh yeah, sure, that's normal payment." Lorne responded by holding his right hand up and making a gesture somewhere between "Shut the hell up you idiot" and "Do you want us to die?"
Lorne continued impatiently. "Can we get to business now?"
Gregor nodded, setting the vial aside carefully before leaning forward, voice lowering conspiratorially. "Let me guess, Nikodemus, right? What do you wanna know?"
Castin nearly jumped at the opportunity to say "How the hell do you know that already?" Lorne nearly stabbing at Castin with his gaze before Gregor responded.
"Ahh a good Shadow Broker never reveals his source," Gregor shifted to check one of the monitors behind Castin before continuing "So what did you want to know?"
"Everything," Lorne said bluntly. "Defenses, layout, equipment. Especially equipment. We heard he's got heavy gear, powered suits or worse."
Gregor's expression darkened slightly, his amusement slipping into seriousness. "You heard right. Word is, he's got human suppliers bringing in sealed crates, military tech, the kind you'd know all too well, Lorne. Definitely exosuits, maybe heavier mechs. Last I heard he had reinforced his compound heavily, automated turrets, advanced sensors, the works."
Castin shifted slightly, discomfort flickering in his eyes. "How sure are you?"
Gregor glanced sharply at Castin. "Sure enough. His place is a fortress. Two known escape routes, hidden entrances, he's prepared for an assault."
Lorne exhaled slowly, his jaw tight. Memories of the UNSC's armored titans returned unbidden, making his stomach twist unpleasantly. "How's he powering all this gear?"
"Generators, underground lines, and who knows what else," Gregor said grimly. "He's got something bigger planned. I've been hearing about more than just weapons. He's got some experimental tech, augmentations, that he's building puppets. The kind that don't argue when you send them to slaughter."
A heavy silence settled over them, broken finally by Castin's quiet growl. "Exactly the kind of shit we were afraid of."
Gregor leaned back, nodding gravely. if you're heading into that compound, you'd better be ready for anything. This guy is building something… big. Some unholy union of city salvage, human weaponry, and his own twisted brilliance."
A bitter chill slid down Lorne's spine. He thought of all the unsuspecting folks in Rat City who might be crushed if Nikodemus unleashed an army of heavily armored enforcers. He forced away the memory of unstoppable UNSC war machines, concentrating on the threat at hand.
Gregor locked eyes with Castin "You absolutely cannot underestimate him."
"We won't," Castin assured, resolve firm in his voice.
Lorne straightened, eyes steady on Gregor. "Thanks for the intel. And do me a favor next time, maybe warn me when it's your damn grocery day."
Gregor smirked, waving dismissively. "Where's the fun in that?" He watched them closely, satisfied. "You two should go while you still can. Don't let the door smack you on the way out."
Lorne gave Gregor a long look. "One more thing. If Nikodemus figures out you sold him out—"
The rat barked a sharp laugh. "He can take a number. Long as you keep up your side of the deal and kill the bastard, I'll be happy. Tell Vorrik he still owes me a dice rematch, and remind him not to hold his breath waiting for me to come to The Fang."
A half-smile flickered across Lorne's face. "I'll pass it along."
Gregor chuckled before adding "If you really want a laugh, tell him to come tomorrow.
Castin turned to leave, asking Lorne as the door slid shut behind them "What's funny about tomorrow?"
Lorne patted him on the back before saying bluntly "The lights will be off."
The tunnels felt quieter as Castin and Lorne walked back toward the palace, the echoes of Gregor's warnings still heavy in their minds. They moved in thoughtful silence for a while, footsteps echoing gently off damp stone walls, illuminated now only by the soft amber glow of sporadic lanterns.
Castin glanced sideways at Lorne, noticing the tightness in the other man's jaw, the tension that never fully left his posture. He took a careful breath before breaking the silence.
"Back at the palace," Castin began cautiously, choosing his words with unusual care, "you went somewhere else for a minute, didn't you?"
Lorne stiffened momentarily, eyes fixed stubbornly ahead. "Not sure what you're getting at."
Castin sighed softly, recognizing the defensive tone all too well. "I've seen it before. Hell, I've felt it before. Back in the UNSC, we used to call 'em ghosts. Moments that pull you right back to places."
Lorne hesitated, a flash of vulnerability breaking through his carefully maintained mask. "Yeah. Ghosts. That's a good way to put it."
They walked a few more paces, the quiet between them less tense, now edged with cautious understanding. Castin pressed gently, voice low. "Look, Lorne, I know you and I didn't exactly start off great. Hell, I punched you square in the face the first time we met, so I'm not winning any awards for diplomacy here."
Lorne chuckled quietly, eyes finally softening. "No, you're really not."
Castin smirked slightly, then grew serious again. "But we've both seen the kind of shit that sticks with you. The kind that creeps up when you're not ready for it. And pretending it doesn't exist doesn't make it go away."
Lorne stopped abruptly, turning to face Castin fully, uncertainty plain in his expression. "Why're you telling me this, Castin?"
"Because I've been there," Castin said quietly, meeting his gaze squarely. "And because, despite being a jackass sometimes, I know what it takes to lead. I've watched you, Lorne, how you handle yourself, how you handle others. Roe might've had you twisted around, but I think you're a damn good man underneath. A good soldier, too."
Lorne's eyes flickered with surprise, clearly caught off guard by Castin's sincerity. He exhaled slowly, gaze drifting down briefly, gathering his thoughts before speaking again. "Truth is, it's been haunting me ever since I got out. That last battle, the machines we faced... Titans, powered armor, it doesn't matter. It all ends the same way. People dying around you, helpless to stop it."
Castin nodded somberly, understanding vivid in his eyes. "Feels like you're still there sometimes, huh? Like it never really ended."
Lorne's shoulders slumped slightly, relief blending with weariness. "Yeah. Exactly."
"It doesn't get easier," Castin admitted, voice heavy with his own memories. "But you don't have to carry it alone. We might not be military anymore, but we're still soldiers, still fighting battles. Maybe this time we can fight them the right way."
Lorne was quiet for a moment, studying Castin carefully before finally offering a hesitant smile. "Never thought I'd say this, Castin, but I'm glad you punched me in the face. I needed a wake-up call."
Castin laughed, the sound genuine and warm, easing the lingering tension between them. "Well, next time, let's skip the punching part."
"Agreed," Lorne said, chuckling softly. He extended a hand toward Castin, sincerity clear in his eyes. "Thanks. I mean it."
Castin shook his hand firmly, nodding with quiet respect. "Anytime, Lorne. We're in this together now."
As they resumed walking, the quiet settled again, but now it felt different, less burdensome, more like shared understanding. And as the palace drew near, Lorne felt lighter than he had in years, grateful for the strange twists of fate that had brought him here, and the unlikely friend who'd punched him in the face and shattered the mask he hadn't even known he was wearing.