The lift hissed and lurched into motion, groaning like some ancient beast as it descended into the unknown. The cracked glass of its control panel flickered, casting fractured reflections across the walls. Vesper stood tall despite the tightness of her corset and the bruises forming along her arms. The scavenger stood beside her, arms crossed, green-lit veins pulsing faintly beneath the strange material that clung to his frame.
“Name’s Silas, by the way,” he said, breaking the silence. “Figure if you’re gonna be dragged into the guts of the world, we ought to be on a first-name basis.“
Vesper tilted her head. “Dame Vesper Fograven,” she replied with crisp enunciation, her chin slightly raised. “Of the House of Fograven, London.“
He raised an eyebrow. “Never heard of it. Then again, I’ve never heard of a lot of things.“
“That’s rather the nature of things lately,” she murmured, choosing her words with care. “I believe I may have had… a fall. A lapse. My memories are like smoke, present, yet unreachable.” It was not entirely a lie. She suspected she had shifted through time, flung into a world beyond understanding. But until she could make sense of this strange, glittering age, she would play the part of a lost soul, wounded, confused, harmless. For now, the truth would remain her own.
“Hit your head, maybe? You were wandering a rooftop when I found you. Could’ve been worse. Crown Enforcers spot you up there and you’re meat.“
She blinked slowly, like someone accepting a curious new detail. “This Crown you speak of… I take it they are not benevolent rulers?“
Silas gave a humorless chuckle. “Not unless you like being watched in your sleep and having your thoughts rerouted for efficiency.“
Vesper’s eyes narrowed slightly. “How delightfully… barbaric.“
The lift groaned again before finally shuddering to a stop. As the doors creaked open, a wave of damp, earthy air spilled in. They stepped into the Forgotten Tunnels, arched passages of soot-streaked brick, water dripping from pipes above, the air thick with mildew and the scent of rust. Faint strange lanterns lit the way, casting warm but flickering halos across the rounded walls. Old iron plaques bore names time had eroded.
Vesper moved carefully, the heels of her Victorian boots clicking against stone. The world around her was like a forgotten undercroft, part grave, part artery.
“We’re in the Fringe now,” Silas said. “Crown don’t dare come this deep. Too many ghosts. Too many folks who don’t want to be found.“
“A society beneath society,” she mused. “Delightfully gothic.“
“You’re an odd bird, Vesper,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck with a grease-streaked hand. His eyes flicked to her boots, then back to her face, a faint grin playing at his lips. “Proper talker. Don’t meet many like you anymore.” He adjusted the worn strap on his shoulder, an unconscious habit whenever he was trying to hide uncertainty. “Like something out of a storybook.“
“And yet you are charmed,” she replied with a small, knowing smile, her tone calibrated with precision. She tilted her head just so, letting her voice carry the warmth of flirtation laced with control. She could already sense his guard softening, men often mistook her poise for fragility, and she knew exactly how to use that illusion. Let him think he had the upper hand; it made steering him all the easier.
Before he could answer, the air changed. A tension snapped through the tunnel like a wire pulled taut. Out of the darkness, shadows surged, silent, poised to strike, their movements so fluid and precise they seemed summoned rather than walking. Figures cloaked in patchwork cloth and leather, faces masked with jagged filters and brass plating, emerged as if born from the stone itself. Their weapons gleamed with ghostlight, strange hybrids of scavenged engineering and arcane science, powered by green glowing coils and wheezing steame-like canisters. They moved with practiced deadliness, encircling Vesper and Silas in a breath. One of them, taller than the rest, raised a hand, commanding, absolute.
“Halt.“
Silas stepped forward slowly. “Easy. She’s with me. Found her topside. Lost and dazed. Not chipped. Doesn’t even know the Crown.“
“No chip?” a voice rasped. “Then she’s either mad, lying, or worth saving.“
A tall woman approached, removing her mask with slow, deliberate grace. She was in her late thirties, perhaps early forties, with a presence that demanded attention without ever raising her voice. Her raven-black hair was coiled into a tight braid, streaked with hints of silver and woven with wire and brass pins that glinted like the teeth of a machine. Her eyes were sharp as cut glass, dark and discerning, and there was a strength in her jaw that spoke of long leadership and longer survival. “Name’s Talia. I lead this cell.“
Vesper dipped into a small curtsey, even in her torn gown, with all the elegance of a ballroom greeting. “Dame Vesper Fograven,” she said clearly, her tone both gracious and proud. “Charmed, I’m sure. Your leadership, Miss Talia, is evident, and I thank you for receiving me in such… uncertain circumstances.” She paused, eyes flicking with practiced care across Talia’s guarded stance, the sharpness in her eyes. A commanding woman, Vesper noted inwardly, used to respect without requesting it. She would be one to watch. “Though I confess,” Vesper continued aloud, softening her tone just enough, “I am at a dreadful disadvantage. I remember nothing of your world.“
Talia studied her carefully, then glanced at Silas. “She sounds like a drama reel character.” Her brow furrowed slightly, not in disdain but in fascination. The woman’s diction, the posture, even the curtsey, it was all too perfect, too foreign. Talia had seen actors try to mimic high society before, but this felt… authentic. Like watching a ghost of a forgotten world walk into a warzone.
“She’s got style,” Silas said. “And guts. Didn’t flinch when the Crown’s falcon tried to spot her.“
Talia’s gaze returned to Vesper. She studied her for a long moment, then gave a slight nod as if coming to a decision. “You trust us?” she asked, her tone quieter, more thoughtful now. Vesper could see the calculation behind her sharp gaze. Talia wasn’t dismissive, she was weighing, judging, watching. This woman was no fool. She saw something in Vesper, but she wasn’t about to place blind faith in it.
When Vesper nodded, Talia gave a tight smile, one without warmth but not entirely cold. “Then we’ll help. But trust must be returned. And I’ll be watching.“
Vesper nodded slowly. “I trust that I’m entirely out of my depth. And I would rather not die ignorant.“
“Good enough. Follow me.“
They were led through a twisted corridor, and soon, a false wall gave way to a hidden entrance. It opened into something vast, a chasm of activity. The hideout was part cave, part ancient railway tunnel. The remnants of Old London’s underground twisted with makeshift homes, market stalls, glowing lamps, and steam vents. Smoke curled through the air alongside scents of oil, iron, and food. Pipes whistled and hissed, strange machines hummed, and everywhere, people worked.
Some had brass-riveted limbs, with exposed pistons and copper veins. Others moved with uncanny grace, their eyes glowing faintly with inner lenses. Clockwork lungs wheezed beside ticking heart-cages. No two looked the same.
Vesper watched with a mix of curiosity and horror. “Are these people… afflicted?“
“Enhanced,” Talia corrected. “Rebuilt. By choice or by force. Depends where you’re born.“
They continued deeper. Vesper winced as she walked, her body bruised, her dress torn and muddied. Talia noticed.
“Come. You need rest.“
She led her to a quieter area that looked like the gutted shell of an old train wagon, long since decoupled from any track or station. Suspended above the cavern floor by thick chains and reinforced scaffolding, the car jutted from the rocky wall like a forgotten relic repurposed into shelter. Its rusted frame bore the faded insignia of a vanished world, and smudged windows gave a dim view of the bustling hideout far below, glimpses of glowing market stalls, steam-lit tunnels, and the blur of resistance life passing beneath.
Inside, the atmosphere was subdued but not unkempt. The walls bore the patina of age, and though the metal was worn, it had been lovingly repurposed. A small table stood near one window, flanked by shelves cluttered with curious relics: vials filled with unknown substances, coiled brass wire, folded maps, old data drives, and a flickering green oil lamp that gave the room a soft, ethereal glow. A narrow bunk had been bolted to the wall, its frame sturdy despite the groaning metal, with a thin mattress neatly made and a folded wool blanket at its foot. The air held the scent of iron, wax, and something faintly floral, lavender, perhaps, or an imitation of it. It was a space both practical and private. A place for quiet thoughts and whispered decisions.
Talia pulled a small tin box from a drawer beneath the shelf and sat beside Vesper.
“Let me see that bruise.“
Vesper complied, allowing Talia to dab a cool paste over her arm.
“You’re lucky,” Talia muttered. “If you’d landed near the Smog Market, you’d be in pieces by now.“
“I seem to be a magnet for curious luck,” Vesper said faintly.
Talia stood, rummaging through a storage chest. “Here. It’s not perfect, but it’ll fit.“
She handed Vesper a folded garment, deep black, smooth and cold to the touch. When Vesper unfolded it, the material shifted in her hands like liquid shadow, though the color remained lifeless.
“It belonged to a Crown unit,” Talia said. “Could shift its shape, even protect from bullets. But it’s dead now. No spark left. Still… better than rags.“
“It feels… like something that remembers more than I do,” Vesper murmured. She held the garment a moment longer, then added with a half-laugh, “It will be the first time I wear something not made of silk. A strange moment in a stranger day.“
Talia raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk touching her lips. “Well, welcome to the real world, silk and all. Don’t worry, our threads may not shimmer, but they’ll keep you alive.“
“Just don’t expect it to talk. It’s not that kind of relic.“
Vesper slipped behind a curtain to change. The moment the garment touched her skin, it stirred, clinging with the eerie memory of movement, as though it had once been alive. It slid along her body like liquid silk, adjusting around her curves with uncanny precision. The fabric was seamless, fluid, shifting faintly at the seams with every breath she took. A subtle glow stirred at her left hip and along the collarbone, threads of dormant circuitry awakening with her warmth, just faint pulses of light, like embers that refused to die.
When she emerged, the transformation was striking. The high collar framed her porcelain neck, and the suit’s angular lines curved along her hourglass silhouette with tailored elegance. Her fiery hair spilled over one shoulder, the black of the suit making the emerald of her eyes blaze like gemstones in candlelight. It was not armor, but allure, a sculpted second skin that made her look more myth than woman. There was power in how she stood, and the room seemed to notice.
Talia nodded once, slowly. “That’ll do.“
Vesper felt a strange flutter ripple through the bodysuit as she moved, a faint tingle like breath against skin, and for a fleeting moment, one of the glowing filaments along her hip shimmered brighter, then dimmed again. It was as if the suit had responded, reaching toward life. She said nothing, merely raised her chin slightly, noting the sensation. The suit was supposed to be dead, Talia had said, but it didn’t quite feel that way.
She kept that thought to herself.
Vesper sat on the bunk, her body weary, the events of the day coiling into her limbs like lead. The strange, fluid fabric of the bodysuit clung to her with a strange warmth, almost as if it were adjusting to her body, responding to her fatigue. She drew the woolen blanket over herself, its weight simple but grounding, and leaned back against the curved metal wall of the old train car.
“I would be grateful for a few hours of solitude,” she murmured, her voice quieter now, a thread unraveling at the end of a long performance.
“You’ve got it,” Talia replied, her tone softer than before. There was something in her eyes as she lingered a moment, respect, perhaps, or curiosity, but she said no more before stepping out and pulling the curtain closed behind her.
As Talia stepped out, she found Silas waiting.
“She’s something,” he said.
“You have no idea,” Talia replied. “She talks like a museum statue. But there’s steel under all that silk.“
“You think she’s from one of the old vaults?“
“No idea. Could be a Crown experiment. Could be a relic herself. But I say we help her. Get her memories back. See who she really is.“
Silas leaned against the wall. “And if we don’t like what we find?“
“Then we cross that bridge when it bites.“
The lights dimmed as the hideout settled into its artificial night. Vesper lay still on the bunk, her eyes fluttering closed, one hand resting on her belt where her strange device pulsed faintly.
She dreamed of fire. Of blue light. Of falling.
The next morning, Vesper was led through the waking camp, the echo of steam whistles and the hum of turning gears rising into the cavern’s stale morning air. The underground city stirred like a great mechanical beast, vendors lighting lanterns, engineers tightening bolts on wall-bound machines, and children darting between crates with pieces of bread clutched in their hands. The scent of iron mingled with the aroma of spiced broth from a nearby pot, and all around, metal and muscle moved with purpose.
Talia walked beside her in silence for a time before glancing sidelong. “We’ve decided to help you,” she said. “There’s someone who might be able to… not just prod the truth from your memory, but also give you the knowledge this world demands. Understanding the Crown, the Grid, even the way people survive down here. It’s dangerous not to know. If that’s what you want.“
Vesper studied her. “I find myself walking blind in a house of mirrors, Miss Talia. If you offer light, I won’t refuse it,” she said, her voice calm and measured. But deep within, she knew the truth, she hadn’t lost her memory. Not truly. She remembered the roar of the portal, the weight of time warping around her. She knew she didn’t belong in this world. But she also knew how dangerous knowledge could be, especially in a place like this. Until she understood the rules of this age, the players and their loyalties, she would continue to wear the mask of a woman seeking answers. Sometimes, the safest lies were the ones closest to the truth.
“Then come. He’s not a healer in the old sense,” Talia warned, “but he’s pulled truth from deeper shadows than this. Just know, sometimes memory cuts both ways.“
They entered a chamber lit with the low glow of reclaimed lamps. The walls were lined with strange devices, brass-framed boxes that flickered with ghostly images and scrolling lines of cryptic text, humming cabinets of tubes and wires, and glass containers filled with softly bubbling fluids. Instruments of unknown purpose sat on cluttered tables. Some looked like surgical tools, others like something from a forgotten alchemist’s lab, all gleaming under the faint greenish light.
In the center of it all stood the medic. He wore a filthy white coat stained with oil, ink, and time, the sleeves rolled back to reveal arms scarred by burns and chemical etchings. His eyes, both of them, had been replaced. Twin mechanical lenses, rimmed with strance metal and dotted with shifting apertures, clicked and adjusted as he turned, zooming and refocusing independently with a soft whirring sound. He looked less like a doctor and more like an engineer who had dissected his own soul in pursuit of knowledge, and possibly left part of it behind.
He gave a thin smile, revealing a row of metal teeth. “Welcome, welcome,” he rasped, his voice too smooth to be entirely natural. “Let’s see what ghosts you’ve got rattling around, shall we?“
“This is Medic,” Talia explained, her tone a touch wry. “That’s not just what he is, that’s what he calls himself. He knows the mind better than most. Helped more than a few folk remember who they were, or learn what they needed to survive.“
Medic clapped his hands together, the sound metallic and offbeat. “Come, come, don’t be shy,” he chirped, stepping aside with an eager gleam in his mechanical eyes. “Every mind’s a maze, but yours… oh, yours might be a cathedral. Let’s see what lies within.“
Three objects rested on a velvet-lined tray:
A vial of glittering fluid, sealed in silver. A thin circlet of polished metal. And a brass-etched chip that looked like it belonged in a clock tower.
“One: The Crown’s Injection.” Medic lifted the vial with reverence. The glass vessel shimmered in the chamber’s dim light, filled with a glowing green liquid that writhed and shifted like living light. Ghostly wisps rose from it, trailing upward like Aether smoke, vanishing before they touched the ceiling. The vial had a faint Crown insignia on it. It sat in a grooved holder on the metal tray, surrounded by surgical tools and cracked data tablets, with faint green reflections dancing across nearby surfaces. The serum pulsed faintly, casting its glow like a secret that wanted to be seen, and feared. “A stolen serum, engineered by the AI-King himself. It’ll rewrite your synapses with raw information. Language. History. Protocol. But it burns the soul. Those who survive… don’t always remain who they were.“
“Two: The Memory Lattice, a neural halo.” He motioned to the neural halo, a term that meant little to Vesper. The device itself looked like some otherworldly crown, resting on a velvet-lined metal platform. It was crafted of silver filigree, shaped into a delicate ring of thin, branching wires that arced upward like the ribs of an open fan. Between them stretched glowing blue tendrils of light, softly pulsing with life. Small mechanical arms extended from the sides, each tipped with glinting micro-connectors, and as they twitched faintly, Vesper could almost swear she saw flickers, faces, voices, moments, ghostly memories playing across the device’s surface. It was elegant, but undeniably unnerving. The flickering monitors and projected data glyphs behind it cast eerie patterns in the dim chamber, making dust motes dance in the ambient light. “A mind-to-mind link. We connect your thoughts to one of our historians. You’ll feel what they felt, see what they saw. It’s fast. Intimate. But their memories become part of yours. You may lose your own in the process.“
“Three: The Implant.” He held up the chip between two metal fingers. It was a sleek, dangerous-looking thing, no larger than a small coin but humming with menace. The implant shimmered with a green-blue bioluminescence, its curved metallic surface etched with fine circuit-like veins that pulsed faintly like veins of liquid light. Its design was semi-organic, the surface subtly shifting as if it breathed. From its sides extended delicate neural prongs, slender, silver tendrils like roots ready to burrow into flesh. It rested on a worn black leather pad beside cracked tools and faded data sheets, and as he held it aloft, its eerie glow cast faint reflections across Medic’s stained coat and the flickering monitors behind him.. “We install this behind the ear. It pulls data from the remnants of the old net, fragments of truth, floating in broken code. It’s erratic. Unstable. But it offers glimpses no one else can access. The danger? It doesn’t turn off. And it whispers long after you stop listening.“
Vesper stared at them, her heart drumming in her ears.
Three paths.
One truth.
And she had to choose.
