Broken

Petey walks the halls of the Crucible, his bare feet deftly avoiding piles of rubble, singing nonsensically to himself. When he comes to a corridor he has been along previously, he makes a game of stepping in his own footprints to avoid further disrupting the thick layer of dust. He waves hello to the Gates he passed like they are old friends, though the arches of their Runestones are dull, and the portal themselves show nothing but the metal bulkhead behind.

Petey had a good sense of where the Crucible was failing, although not much was failing these days, because a lot had already failed. But where it was, where Petey could sense a weakening of the outer hull, or a growing hole leaking too much atmosphere, Petey dutifully closed that corridor off like his father had taught him. The runes respond to his touch, lowering a thick blast door with this hiss of a pneumatic seal. Sometimes Petey would peer through the porthole of a previously closed door, watching everything float around in zero gravity, sneaking glances at the unfiltered void space through a rent in the station’s wall, and grin oafishly to himself at a job well done.

Today, Petey’s sense for something off led him down a barely used corridor. The overhead halogens here flickered where they weren’t out completely, slowing his progress. He knew what happened in areas of the station that were overtaken by the dark.

But the sounds coming from up ahead weren’t the same as those monsters. They were familiar sounds, though Petey hadn’t heard them in such a long time he thought he might be imagining them.

As he turns a corner, that hope blossoms into joy, and a great big grin spread across Petey’s face. Half the runes on this Gate were active, warm blue light making this section of the tunnel glow. The gate groans again, and another rune comes to life. Petey whoops. Someone was coming home! Maybe everyone! Their quests must be at an end!

As the last rune activated, a shimmering blue curtain ripples across the inside of the arch. It looks like a wall of fire, constantly moving, so bright that Petey has to shield his eyes.

The clang of two heeled leather boots announces the arrival of the Stranger aboard the Crucible. He wears a sturdy belt and gloves, of the same exotic leather, but the upper half of his body right up to under his eyes is completely swathed in a many layered poncho, originally red perhaps but with the colour long leeched. A metal skull cap completes his gear.

For a long moment his form is incomplete, still connected to the portal like a painting of the outline of a person that had been smeared horizontally for a metre. Then the entire shape of him reconnects with a snap, and the Stranger comes into sharper focus. The portal crackles, the fiery energy fizzles out, and the runes go quiet once again. Darkness steals quickly back into the corridor.

The Stranger shakes himself, and from every fold in his cloak, and every other cranny of his accoutrements that that could contain some, sand pours, making him look like a mountain made of waterfalls.

Petey hoots in shock and dismay, and the Stranger’s head snaps around, black cat’s eyes latching onto the noise. Petey tries to hide himself behind a roof panel, broken and dangling by a collection of wires from the ceiling, but everything below his knees is still visible, and his whimpering clearly gives him away. Petey is surprised when the demon doesn’t immediately sweep around the corner and devour him. Instead, the Stranger calls out in the First Language.

“Is someone there? I’m sorry if I startled you.”

His voice has an odd, deep echo to it. Petey peeks around the side of his shield.

“Hello there,” repeats the stranger. He hasn’t removed the scarf from around his mouth and nose, and Petey can’t tell his intentions through those deep black eyes.

“Broken,” says Petey.

The Stranger looks down at himself to see what Petey is referring to, and his chuckle only serves to let more sand loose, causing Petey to cower once again.

“It’s all right, that’s not a part of me,” says the Stranger. “Not broken. Not in that way at least.”

Petey reemerges, eyeing the Stranger dubiously.

“Are you the Keeper?” says the Stranger.

Petey thinks for a moment. He supposes he is, nominally, since his father isn’t anymore. But there’s a bit of a problem in accepting that title, since he’s not really doing the two things a Keeper is meant to do: keep the people safe, and keep the Crucible in good shape. Unless this one was here to help him with that task? In which case, Petey better serve him as Keeper.

And so he nods vigorously, smiling at the Stranger.

“Petey!” he says.

The Stranger tries to soften his eyes.

“Well Petey, perhaps you can show me to some of the others here.”

Petey’s mood switches immediately. He frowns, shaking his head.

“Broken,” he says.

“I see,” says the Stranger, frowning slightly. “And the Crucible itself?”

Petey seems almost on the verge of tears.

“Broken,” he says again.

The Stranger looks around, properly taking in the run down nature of the corridor. He breathes deeply.

“Then it looks like this isn’t where I’m meant to be. I’m sorry to have upset you, Petey.”

He turns to the Gate, raising a hand to reactivate it. Petey lunges forward, grasping his arm, shaking his head vigorously.

“Broken,” he says.

The Stranger shrugs him off.

“It’s not. I used it moments ago. No malfunctions, and no Taint.”

Petey waves his arms all around, trying to indicate the Crucible.

“Broken!” he says again.

“Petey, I’m sorry, there’s not much I can do. I’m not an Engineer. Do you understand that word? I can’t fix this. Besides, there’s not much point in maintaining this place if no one’s here. They must have found a reason to leave. I’m… sorry they left you here Petey. I hope you understood what you were doing by staying.”

He turns to the again Gate. Petey growls in frustration. Why can’t this man understand the way he does, intuititvely? The way he and his father could share the same thought when the Crucible grumbled a complaint to them, and not one word spoken between the three of them.

“Broken! Here!” yells Petey, slapping his left breast. “Broken. Broken!”

The Stranger looks at Petey for a long moment. Then he looked around the corridor again, head cocked, listening.

“Petey,” he said. “Are there any… monsters, here? On board the station?”

Petey’s eyes grow very wide, and he nods very seriously.

“Broken,” he whispers.

“Broken,” agrees the Stranger. “I thought the spirit of this place had simply faded without the people. But maybe I misread it. Maybe my foe awaits me here. All right, Petey. This is a problem I can help with after all.”

Petey sets off immediately, his mouth unsure whether to smile or frown, and so switching between both like a fish flopping its last. He’s glad someone’s finally here to deal with the problem in the dark corners of the station. But he doesn’t want to get anywhere close to those places. Whatever’s in the darkness talks to Petey in his sleep, in a language he can’t understand, but nevertheless comprehends. It makes his pants wet just thinking about those dreams. Maybe he shouldn’t lead this visitor to it. The poor guy doesn’t know what he’s getting into, and friends don’t hurt each other like that. But if Petey doesn’t lead the way, the Stranger will get angry at Petey, and he doesn’t want that either. So he keeps going, trying to sing to himself but only managing little snippets at a time.

The Stranger deviates from Petey’s path straight down the centre of the corridors to look into adjoining rooms. Desiccated bones explain where Petey cannot, huddled together on beds or frozen in the processes of living. The Crucible wasn’t willingly abandoned for some reason, then. Something happened to the Gates, or to one of the many subsystems that were meant to keep this place functioning, making it a prison rather than the hub of a civilisation it once was.

And then something else happened. Some skeletons are ripped apart, the pieces scattered all across rooms. Something more than time got to them.

The Stranger tries to steel his heart for what he is now certain is waiting for him. It is the eternal, inevitable object of his quest, but the path to the Gate was a taxing one, and he was counting on a comfortable break from his travels upon reaching the Crucible. More than that, his hopes, that here of all places might remain untouched, have been severely dashed, and that is taking a toll on an already weary soul.

The corridors grow steadily more oppressive the further they go. Petey has to steer them through long, winding detours to avoid sealed off sections, only to end up one corridor down from where they were minutes ago. Soon Petey no longer bothers diverging from a direct route, because even the good paths are heavily damaged. The air thins as they dodge under exposed, sparking wiring, and step carefully around holes in the floor eaten where only the Crucible’s shields were keeping the depths of space at bay. It’s as if acid as eaten away parts of the station.

Soon even the emergency lighting ceases to function. Petey slows, pawing at his face, clearly struggling to go on, which does nothing for the Stranger’s own nerves. He takes a small orb from his belt, holding it out in front of him. The tiny drone lifts from his palm, floating a few metres ahead of them and emitting a soft white light. Petey makes an appreciative coo, and they move forward for a little while longer until finally, coming to a halt a little ways before an intersection. Petey cowers against the bulkhead, whimpering, sliding down to splay his legs out on the floor. The left corridor is completely demolished, ripped clean off at some point. And the right, well, they had come to the place, that was easy to tell.

The Stranger lays a hand on Petey’s shoulder. Then he steps back.

He throws his poncho back over his right shoulder, freeing an arm that is surprisingly scrawny beneath a pressed white linen shirt. From a hook on his belt, hung by a loop of leather which then winds up many times to form a grip, the Stranger unhitches a sword. It is a simple cross guard of dull grey metal, on the thinner and lighter side. Petey gasps, noticing the irregularity of this weapon. The blade only extends a hands width from the hilt, where it is then broken, snapped diagonally. Even that small cutting edge appears to be made up of three shards, poorly welded back into a whole.

“Broken,” Petey goes to say, but as the Stranger tilts the weapon side to side, the rest of the longsword’s blade flickers in an out of reality, just the perception of an outline, like a ghost. So instead Petey says, in a deep a clam voice, “A vorpal blade.”

The Stranger freezes, turning slowly to raise an eyebrow at Petey.

“Indeed. Perhaps even the last one left. It will do the job, Petey.”

“Hunt well then, Stalker,” says Petey in the same voice, before his eyes dull again and he turns his back to the dark tunnel ahead, trying to press himself further into the safety of the wall.

The Stranger sighs. He walks calmly towards the intersection, and turns right.

Ten metres along, and the corridor is completely black. Not just dark, not like they’ve been travelling through for some time, but a complete absence, a hole in existence itself. And yet it is somehow physical, having mass, even whilst it is nothing. The Taint. It has taken root in this place, and now it seeks to eliminate more. It swallows everything before it: light, sound, even thought. The Stranger does not probe too far ahead, his mind growing hazy with the attempt, and he has to retreat back to himself, even then wondering what he was thinking about a second ago.

His enemy makes no announcement concerning the commencement of their engagement. A tentacle, made of the same anti-matter as the whole, strikes forward, straight and quick as an arrow. But just as it strikes the Stranger, he is no longer in that space and moment, but several steps ahead and to the right, running hard, poncho swirling behind him. Another tentacle strikes out, and again the Stranger warps, the probing arrow striking nothing but an after image of the Stranger, the way the sun burns a reminder into your eye even if you look away. The remnants of the Stranger then snap to where he has warped to, and he clarifies, whole once more, before warping again, this time up onto the side of the corridor, having no difficulty running horizontally to the pull of gravity.

Several tentacles launch out, zoning the tight confines of the corridor. The Stranger doesn’t move this time except to step side on, the tentacle slipping in front of his belly. He hammers down with the Vorpal Blade, and whilst none of the physical metal touches the tentacle, the memory of the blade flashes to life where it impacts, cutting truly in a spray of blue sparks.

Petey hears a shriek then, made of all the things lurking in the dark and hidden places of all the worlds, and he covers his ears with his hands and cries along with it.

The battle is fierce. The Taint is inevitable, but it cannot predict the Stranger. Even when it has him bound and buried in multiple tentacles, he warps out of its clutches, and there is no knowing him. Sometimes he jumps far back, to regroup and strike again in an instant. Sometimes he leaps forward, hacking deep towards the creature’s heart before melting away.

Petey feels a tap on the soul of his foot, and winces away. Surely the monster, now unbound and provoked, is nibbling at him, toying with its food. But there is another, gentle tap, so Petey risks a look through slitted eyes.

He wished he hadn’t. The Stranger stands over him, victorious, but wounded. The warrior’s physical form is faded. Petey can see through to the bulkhead behind him. In moments he seems to solidify, but, with a terrible grinding static noise, he splits into multiple versions of himself stacked on top of one another, or his head will jump slightly to the left of his neck, or random horizontal bars of his will be missing altogether.

“Broken,” says Petey, pointing.

“Yes,” says the Stranger. The word is stuttered, and repeated a hundred times, parsed through a thousand dimensions and refracted through a million different moments. “-Y-Y-Y-Yes-es-s-Y-s-Ye-Yes-Yes-s-s-s-s-es-Yes-Y-Yes.” Such is the nature of the warp.

The Stranger reaches for Petey, perhaps to comb some of the tangles from his wild hair, or the grey beard that reaches all the way to his feet, or to wipe a tear out of Petey’s crow’s feet. But the last Keeper of a derelict citadel, with the broken mind of a child, winces away, then turns and runs, leaving the Stranger to his fractured existence.

Broken, yes. But then, what isn’t.