Reality can be such a drag with all its stupid expectations. It makes total sense that people want to escape into a realm of fantasy. Who wouldn't want a break from a world that seems to have forgotten how to be kind?
Ratelsi's realm was the sky; an infinite blue, always wide open with nothing but freedom waiting on its breezes.
From an early age, she'd been aware of her place in the world as an anomaly who didn't belong socially or biologically. Normies could get pretty suspicious, and most of them practically recoiled at the thought of her kind existing at all.
But Ratelsi had wings, and that changed everything. Flap!
Just like that, she soared high above all that judgment and negativity. Honestly, if you had to ask, she'd argue that being stuck on the ground was fine for everyone else. But for her, once she felt the exhilarating rush of flight, the boring, solid ground lost all its charm.
Especially with all those cold, ugly glances around - Normies acting like they have the right to glare just because someone's got scaly skin or can move things with their mind.
Like they weren't into that kind of stuff in the movies.
If Ratelsi got a Cred every time Normies made her feel like curdled milk, she'd be rich enough to buy the entire city two times over and still have Creds left to stroke the Primarch's ego.
But Ratelsi didn't lose sleep over shit like that.
They could scowl all they wanted.
The opinions of others were the least of her concerns. Leaning into that awareness was what she preferred to softening herself to make others comfortable. She owned the sky, and there was no way anyone could take it away.
Flap! Flap flap!
Ah, wings… Huge, stunning obsidian feathers. Each one was smooth and reflective, yet no two were the same. Some were splinters while others were as long as blades. Cold to touch…. an odd feeling really, obedient too, as if they were meant to be extensions of her own body.
It was wild how, simply by focusing her thoughts, Ratelsi could command them to levitate or multiply before her very eyes. Her peculiarity allowed her to soar anywhere she desired. But as there were limitations, most of her flights took place within the safe boundaries of Argona's force field. Such a life in the metropolis was a mixed feeling, but it was often enough for a thrill-seeker like her.
The most beautiful place in Argona was the capital, Balun. Then you had the Sector Belt - Elvio, Sayge, Kakkis... But they came with a shit ton of ridiculous rules and tiresome responsibilities enforced by the Cura and their enforcers - the Hunters.
Recognized by their tight, blue armoured jackets with baggy pants tucked into high, lace-up combat boots, Hunters strutted around like peacocks basking in the fear they created, flaunting their badges and detonators as talismans of authority with the arrogance of those who knew they'd never be held accountable for their actions.
Almost every street was a checkpoint, and every Peculiar was a suspect.
Hilarious, really…
As she pondered this with a smirk, a sudden buzz broke her train of thought.
Vrrr.. Vrrr…
Ratelsi glanced at her HoloSmart, a metallic cylindrical smartwatch. The outer edges glowed faintly with a soft cyan-blue light, syncing with the neural net embedded in her spine. Small, illuminated icons circled the rim. Every Argonian had one, and hers was now vibrating to signal an incoming call.
A gritty outfit accentuated her toned physique nicely: olive-green tank top with dark, micro shorts strapped with a leg harness. A studded belt cinched her waist, and helix earrings traced the curve of her pointed ears.
Defined shoulders gave her upper body a graceful yet powerful silhouette.
With another flap, Ratelsi landed on a shabby rooftop, crunching dusty, loose shingles beneath her chunky, weathered boots. The narrow streets formed arteries of steel, brightened with neon lights above colourful walls.
At the street's end, a wooden sign glared in a red slash across the outline of a pair of wings. It warned: NO-FLY ZONE, which meant she couldn't spread her wings here, so the feathers folded neatly behind her and vanished.
See? Super handy.
She swiped to accept the call. The holographic interface projected above her wrist as radial patterns morphed into a phone icon.
"Yooooo, Ratel!! Are you draggin' your wings or what? You're not takin' a detour, are you?"
This loudmouth through the speaker belonged to her best friend, Timoth, a cheerful personality who had a knack for making the mundane feel bearable. He was maybe also her only friend, but that's beside the point. Timoth's boisterous shout sliced through the air, making Ratelsi tilt her head back to crack one eye open.
Molten amber with slitted pupils fixed on the screen with a deadpan look.
"Honestly, I'm really impressed you got me thinking about ripping out your tongue," she drawled in a smoky voice.
"Never have I fantasized mutilation so quickly."
"Wow, that's delightfully barbaric. Shall I offer my vocal cords next? Or throw in a lung while I'm at it."
"Don't tease me, Timoth. I might just take you up on that."
Timoth's projected laugh filled the space. Calm and soothing, a sound she held dear.
"Yeah, yeah…you say that, but with your tendency to get easily distracted when flyin' ten seconds could stretch into ten days before you make it to Oakeman."
Ratelsi waved a dismissive hand and let out a light-hearted "Pfft."
But she couldn't help the grin that crept across her full, pouty lips as memories of how they met at Peccatorum flooded her mind.
Eight years together in that segregated school for registered Peculiars, with its bleak, routinized environment, was where they trained to harness their supernatural abilities through spellcasting for the "common good" and the "safety of society."
There, her friendship with Timoth blossomed as a stroke of luck in her otherwise exhausting life, and they've been kindred spirits ever since.
"Yunno, it's almost four, and we've got deliveries rollin' in, right?" he reminded Ratelsi. There was that signature playful urgency in his tone.
She rolled her eyes, quipping. "Yeah, I got the memo already."
Another chuckle from Timoth softened her annoyance; its soothing sound always had a way of lightening her mood. Plus, he basically had a radar for detecting her half-baked plans and fibs, so there was no way to lie her way out of work.
She decided to say, "If that glorified trash heap offered anything remotely resembling a good time, I might actually pretend to be excited. As it is, I'd rather watch paint dry than pretend that place is worth my time."
"Aw, c'mon, don't get all snippy with me, Ratel." He grinned.
"You know Broco's gonna throw a tantrum again if we don't get these deliveries out before midnight." His voice dropped, teasing.
"He hasn't stopped watchin' you since that whole Mhode thing, yunno. I swear, it's like he's salivatin' for a slip-up." Another chuckle, and she could almost picture the mischief in the vivid sky-blue of his eyes.
"But nah, they're not gonna stick their necks out just to get smacked too…"
Ratelsi hummed, unwilling to torture her thoughts with the consequences of what happened last week. It was unnecessary to dwell on that drama; she felt no ounce of regret. Her lips curled into a thin line, in what resembled a smug smirk as she relived the sensation of her nails digging into his cheek, tearing the skin open. For the next few days, the sound of Mhode's heavy breathing and pained groans became her new ringtone.
Man, it was easily one of the most gratifying things she'd done in ages!
A little reminder it was to that dimwit who thought he could be all touchy-feely with her whenever he felt like it. And it sent a clear message to Styx and Vesir as well that if you mess with the raven, you'd better be ready to get clawed. Those two had a hard time digesting the whole situation while watching their friend finally get put in his place.
Still, she had to admit, racking up more enemies wasn't exactly the smartest plan right now.
"Hey, just to be clear, our deal with Broco ends tonight," she said.
"I'm not sticking around one second longer if I have to deal with his crap. He disrespects us, so he shouldn't expect us to keep running his errands for peanuts and kiss his damn feet."
"Uh, Ratel…" Timoth's voice interjected, sounding a little strained. "Actually, it's three deliveries now. Broco just couldn't resist paddin' the list"
Her amber eyes shimmered and took on a brighter hue, as if filled with sunlit magma. "What!? Why?" she blurted out, a little high-pitched. Nearby, a flurry of startled birds took flight as Timoth inhaled sharply through the line.
"I know, I know." His voice crackled through the speaker, rushed and uneven. "Sorry, really."
There was a faint rustle, like he was pacing. "But…Broco's swearin' these clients are whales, and he's danglin' double our Creds in front of us."
A nervous chuckle bled into the static. "Double, Ratel! That's hard to ignore! You know how long we've been talking about movin' to Sayge. This gig could actually be-"
He cut off abruptly as Ratelsi hung up the call with a frown creasing her face.
Tch.
Just how naive could he be?
Obviously, Broco was lying through his teeth. Again.
Like they were too dumb to catch on. How dare he treat them so disrespectfully?
Eyes narrowed, she scoffed, "Double our Creds. You could at least try to be more original, wanker."
She kicked a few gravel stones off the rooftop.
Their satisfying tumbles didn't really help with her annoyance, though, so Ratelsi turned her attention to the scenery before her. Golden rays scorched down on a thousand corrugated tin rooftops, turning the vast urban sprawl into an aluminium mirage.
The air itself felt thick and viscous, like a convection oven baking the maze of buildings below.
Yet, even under this brutal, natural illumination, the Underdistrict fought back with its own gaudy, electric heartbeat.
Streetlights, prematurely lit with dying power cells, struggled to make their presence known against the sun's glare. Bright neon signs - blood reds, electric greens, and hostile magenta - sputtered and glared down the grime-slicked alleyways.
Towering above it all, flashy digital ads on monolithic screens cycled through impossibly bright, smiling faces and unattainable luxuries. Their ultra-white glare momentarily blinded Ratelsi as she dared look up at the skybridges crisscrossing between cylindrical structures at various heights.
Even in daylight, Altown kept its glow.
The ambient noise of the block was abruptly overridden by a distinct, joyous cacophony: the sounds of kids having a blast on their patched-up hoverboards. Ratelsi's brain processed the audio feed like a volumetric, 3D topographical map.
Each shriek of laughter, the abrasive grind of plastic wheels on pitted asphalt, and the frantic, echoing shouts of "Watch out!" were coordinates in space.
She didn't need to see them; the vivid, chaotic burst three blocks east exploded in her auditory cortex, painting a perfect mental picture of the actions:
The high-frequency whine of a loose grav-plate stabiliser.
The deep, resonant thud of a board hitting a cracked street seam.
The raucous, unfiltered laughter of kids who knew they were pushing their luck.
Tilting her head back, Ratelsi soaked in the wild, chaotic soundtrack as it prickled her brown skin.
What a bummer.
She really didn't want to deal with helping Timoth with Broco's gifts today. But they didn't have many options. Delivery running was, in many ways, as honest as it got in a place like Altown.
Especially when finding regular jobs was a hassle because of their "unpredictable" nature.
For a Peculiar, stable job came from the Cura. Through numerous MAP tests, candidates were assessed not just for skill, but for threat level and stability.
The Mental, Arcane, and Physical tests were used to filter the unstable, the volatile, and the inhumane to determine who was safe enough to be employed. Those who weren't were confined to the rehabilitation tower, Turris, to improve their state of mind.
Trust that it doesn't sound as good as it seems.
Ratelsi had long stopped taking those tests. She also stopped listening to the Primarch's scripted speeches about how every Peculiar could save a life today by using their abilities "for the good of mankind." All that talk felt like empty theatrics meant to dress up how they monetised their powers.
So, no judgment here, right? Cool.
Perhaps, this time, Broco would actually follow through on his promise. And if he ended up pulling a stunt, well then, she'd happily teach him a lesson he wouldn't soon forget. Her long black nails unconsciously flexed in and out as she thought of how she'd handle things if it came to that.
Just hearing his stupid name was enough to bubble her frustration back to the surface!
Ratelsi's approach to the roof's precipice was a study in defiance. Her chin lifted sharply, in rejection of the dizzying, vast drop below. She stood on the crumbling edge...
Then, without a breath held or a backward glance, she simply pushed off.
The world instantly dissolved into a deafening, rushing wind. She plummeted. The current seized her long, dark hair with streaks of white at the temples and front, whipping the voluminous waves into a wild cloud around her round, exhilarated face.
As the descent intensified, evolving to a true freefall, a delighted smile stretched across her lips.
Flap!
Like ink spilling across the sky, the powerful, black sweep of her wings unfurled with the sudden, silken crack of a banner in the wind. A gentle tilt of her shoulder was all it took to transition into a controlled glide.
Ratelsi banked with the precision of a raven, gathering the air beneath her like a cloak, and watched the ground blur as her speed surged.
Carefree. Effortlessly.
Up, up into the afternoon clouds where there was no filth underfoot, no burden in the soul.
A world in the sky.
Ratelsi let out a relieved sigh; she felt unabashedly alive! Adrenaline surged through her veins, heart racing, mood lifting as she stretched her magnificent 11-foot wings wide. Soaring eastward, the buildings below faded into a blur of shadows and colours.
******
Oakeman, the big, open garage, was a chaotic sight with cracked concrete and exposed metal beams everywhere. You could practically feel the neglect in the air, which was heavy with the scent of oil, ozone, and something that was just…well, off.
Scrapped motorcycles with gutted engines lay on their sides, stripped down to frames. Others were propped up on makeshift stands to make scarecrows with orange cones sitting on their dilapidated heads.
A vintage 2017 hoverbike had its outer shell peeled back like a weird fruit, revealing a tangled nest of fried wiring inside. Mangled cars sat dented at odd angles with cracked holographic screens.
The sheer amount of broken machinery here was a bit mind-boggling. But that didn't bother the sun-kissed Peculiar perched on a rusty dumpster, busy scrolling through delivery info on his HoloSmart.
In fact, he felt right at home.
When Ratelsi strolled in, amber eyes immediately found Timoth, blue-eyed with honey-coloured curls. He had on a red t-shirt with a metallic silver coffin on it over a tee that said: Maybe I'm just stubborn. Wussit 2 ya?, pairing it with brown cargo pants.
An enthusiastic expression welcomed Ratelsi as he waved her over. Between his index and middle fingers, a cigarette slowly burned down to the filter. Ratelsi reciprocated the wave and closed the distance, leaning in immediately for a deep drag.
"Hey, birdie," Timoth said to his best friend, his voice ringing with an almost unsettling eagerness. "Ready to work?"
Ratelsi's cheeks puffed slightly as she drew on the cigarette. As she turned her face, the afternoon sun caught her lips, giving them a fleeting, rosy sheen.
"You know, the whole idea of 'being ready' implies I have to psych myself up for something as mundane as clocking in," she countered, the smoke a thin, defiant plume against the dingy light. "And I'm never really ready to work, Timoth."
Timoth sighed dramatically, but with a knowing look as he pointed a finger at her. "Translation: You're lazy. Again. Must I deliver a soul-stirrin' monologue to inspire your mighty arms into action?"
"Heh. Save the theatrics. Inspiration is for the weak. I work because I choose to."
Taking in the jumble of parts next to him, Ratelsi then looked ahead into the street.
Silence was the loudest thing here.
Every street scanner in the block was dead, leaving the air thick and unnervingly still. The gutted skeletons of the tall streetlights offered no illumination, only jagged, elongated shadows in the fading noon.
The buildings, shabbier than they were stable, seemed to hunch and lean over the cracked asphalt of the road. With no tell-tale hum of street scanners, a desolate quiet settled over the block—the perfect cover.
Broco, of course, had selected this bleak, anonymous stretch as the ideal spot for a discreet pickup.
"Sooo, where's our cargo?" she probed, trying to get this over with as soon as possible.
Timoth nonchalantly gestured to the right. "See that dusty yellow hoverbike with the label 005418? That's ours."
Ratelsi turned to the machine, which looked like a rusty relic from a bygone era. Grimy and held together with thick chains, it stood stuck in a heap of discarded metal waiting to be claimed. Timoth remained intent on his HoloSmart as he continued, "Broco says we need to drop it off at The Basin, though. He even gave us specific entry points to use."
Intrigued, Ratelsi placed her hand on her hip, raising an eyebrow. "He wants us to deliver his contra to the black market?"
"Yup," Timoth replied.
"Huh. Looks like our last-minute clients are a pretty big deal after all."
Timoth nodded, indicating he'd thought the same thing too. Well, that explains why he seemed eager.
For every contra delivered, they claimed a ten percent share, split evenly: five percent for each runner. If they were truly being paid double—a doubtful possibility—that share would jump to ten percent apiece. Given their clientele was notorious big spenders, the potential earnings were astronomical.
Ratelsi's mind sputtered, overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the profits. The sudden, thrilling prospect of that much wealth sent a jolt through her, and a slow, hungry smile curved the corners of her mouth.
"Any idea who it is?"
"Not a clue. Didn't ask."
"Right. And I guess Broco doesn't want us snooping around either, huh?"
"Yeah, or else we'd probably be…." He trailed off, dramatically running his thumb across his throat.
Ratelsi's mouth widened into a chilling, anticipatory curve, revealing an intimidating canine polished with obsidian rims. "Ah, threats. Music to my ears," she purred, her eyes alight.
"I was hoping he'd bring the confrontation. Now I'm practically begging for the chance to join in."
A bold, cutting laugh followed. "Imagine the look on his face when I make him swallow his own teeth! A little compensation for all those panicked, late-night jobs he sticks us with."
"Wow….that's so…vivid," said Timoth, blinking as he took a final drag of the poisonous smoke, exhaled, then stubbed the cigarette butt with his sneakers.
His dimples deepened beside his mouth as he studied the woman with a slight, almost impressed smirk on his lips. She was unfazed by Broco's absurd threats. That grit of hers both alarmed and comforted him because it meant she wasn't afraid to die - and that terrified him more than anything.
Still, it was reassuring in a way that she didn't give in to the same fear-based logic he typically did.
Her snarky expression seemed to soften into a more reserved and measured one. Ratelsi skillfully hid her emotions under a mask when they weren't necessary. But even such a prickly person needed someone to open up to, share her feelings with, and receive support from.
Timoth longed to be that person so badly.
Most of the time, Ratelsi was her usual irritated, easily annoyed self, and yet he still managed to catch rare glimpses of the person she really was when she involuntarily softened, and even occasionally showed compassion.
She allowed him to get close to her real self, but as soon as she felt he was trying to get too deeply into her soul, she pulled away.
A giant yawn stretched Timoth's jaw wide.
His eyes squeezed shut for a moment, crinkling at the corners as he cracked his neck sideways. "Anyway, let's just wrap this up. I'm so ready to put this whole thing behind us."
Ratelsi shot him a playful look. "We're definitely gonna peek inside that thing, right?"
"Obviously," he replied, hopping down from the dumpster.
Ambling over to the hoverbike, he grabbed its handles with a grunt, making a half-hearted attempt to push it. Then he gave up.
Ruffling his hair, he turned to his companion, "Gimme a hand, will ya?"
Ratelsi ran her tongue along her lip, thinking it over. Unhurried, she walked around Timoth, stopping in front, then leaned in just a breath away so he could catch a whiff of her resinous scent.
At five foot eleven, Ratelsi stood nearly as tall as Timoth, who measured six feet.
Her sudden proximity felt so intense that he could make out every detail as if the world had narrowed down to just her.
She hadn't even spoken, and yet...the fluttering in his stomach shot up at how she looked at him like that.
Through the flecks of gold in her irises. Half-lidded, they held a gaze that reached, pulled, and held him on the spot. The curve of those infuriatingly perfect lips pulled into a smirk sent his brain into a frenzy.
Every clever retort he'd prepared dissolved into static under the sight of her features, as if her presence had short-circuited his wit, leaving only awe and unfinished thoughts.
Timoth felt his heart skip a beat, surprised by the rush of emotions when her fingers slipped into his pocket.
"W-what are you….," he stuttered, feeling a pleasant shiver run across his body as her warm skin brushed against his through the fabric.
Ratelsi impaled Timoth with her gaze. The pressure mounted in the charged silence until a rosy blush broke over Timoth's freckled cheeks. Only when his eyes finally darted away, suddenly interested in the pebbles on the ground, did she allow her lips to curve into a slow, smug victory.
Heh. Focus broken. Distraction deployed.
Timoth was hopelessly, disastrously smitten—a fact he fought to bury beneath a veneer of platonic irritation, but which Ratelsi cunningly used as a devastating weapon. It was her go-to move whenever he tried to delegate the dirty, unpleasant parts of their shared duties.
Damn it, why does she always have to do this? Timoth thought, the heat on his face now radiating down his neck.
Ratelsi's deliberate allure was a variable in their friendship he could never control. It was intoxicating, a beautiful, high-speed collision course that left him breathless and infuriated. He tried to rationalise it—the stress, the proximity—but his soul swore it felt an undeniable, magnetic lurch to bridge the space between them, just to…
With a flutter of long lashes, Ratelsi's hand produced a worn cigarette case. The metallic snap of the lighter was unnaturally loud in the quiet air. As she drew the smoke, the brief, orange flare illuminated her mouth, highlighting the glossy, dangerous curve of her lips.
Losing it. I am absolutely losing it, he groaned, his hands clenching at his sides, fighting the overwhelming impulse to reach out. To catch her hands before she put the lighter away, to tangle his fingers with hers, and just hold on for a reprieve from the spinning world.
She released a thin stream of smoke to the side and returned her mirthful gaze to him.
"Did you really think I'd say okay and ruin my outfit? You know you can handle that junk on your own," she chuckled, inviting him to share in her mirth.
Instead, Timoth pretended to be annoyed before letting out a short, bemused laugh.
"Oh, you little…Fine, whatever," he replied, trying to play it cool even though he felt anything but. Sighing, he crouched down on the dirty concrete, pressing his palms against the ground, fingers splayed out.
He quietly said, "Granum Ascendens."
The azure in his eyes glowed softly, shining brighter as he straightened to his full height. The ground bellowed a deep, low frequency. The surrounding debris swirled, liquified into a seething river of sand, and rushed toward the summit of the junk pile.
It was a perfect, sandy ramp for lifting the battered hoverbike. The relic model floated down the flow, touching the ground with a soundless thud.
Now that it was fully visible, the hoverbike definitely showed its age. The frame was all scratched up, dented, and covered in dirt. The seat, in particular, was wrapped in thick plastic and held together with duct tape at the edges.
Timoth whistled as he ran his fingers over the heavy machine. "Man, this thing looks pretty solid," he said.
As he tugged on the rusted chains keeping it down, his sleeve rolled up a bit, revealing a mole right above a branded barcode tattoo shaped like a "P" on his wrist.
Peccator. Sinner.
A permanent reminder of his status as a registered Peculiar.
Looking at Ratelsi with a playful grin, his eyes gleaming, he said, "These chains are way too thick, wanna give it a go?"
She shrugged and pulled a feather from her leg harness. Separated from the others, it seemed almost ordinary with its matte surface lacking any lustre.
"Acuere Plumas"
A subtle sheen ran across the feather's delicate barbs, bristling along the edges and sharpening into a blade.
Her mischievous smile effortlessly amplified the mirth that had lit up Timoth's face. He enjoyed just watching her do her thing. One swing was all it took for Ratelsi to slice through the chains.
The loud clank as it hit the ground echoed down the empty street as she stowed her blade. Timoth quickly checked the surroundings to make sure they were still alone, then tore apart the duct tape holding a compartment beneath the seat.
"Huh," he mumbled, peeking in, "Just the usual stuff - some cheap guns, a couple of scrapped drones for parts, and a few power cells. Looks like enough for two deliveries."
But then, his hands found a hollow section beneath the contraband. "Oh, wait, there's a loose panel here."
Still burning a cigarette, Ratelsi watched him dig around.
Before long, she heard a click, and Timoth pulled out a small package wrapped in plain cloth. They were half-hoping for some flashy cargo, but what he had in his hand looked remarkably unassuming.
"Looks like we found our third delivery," Timoth said to Ratelsi. "So, are we gonna open it or just keep staring?"
A playful sparkle lit her amber eyes as they met his.
"Do you even have to ask? My sudden curiosity demands satisfaction!"
"Hell yeah, ditto."
The rough, woven cloth fell away, and Timoth winced at the sudden flash of light. He held the cylindrical object as if it were carved from a single piece of polished quartz. It caught the weak afternoon sun, scattering tiny rainbows across his palm.
"What is this?" he murmured, turning it over and over. Its surfaces had no seams, no markings, certainly no thumbleaf seal to indicate any form of authentication. "A fancy capsule?"
Ratelsi's lips twitched. He was so focused on the material that he missed the most vital detail. It was subtle: a minute, insistent red light blinking steadily on the container's side.
As he flipped it again, she leaned closer, her gaze snagged by the base. There, etched in microscopic, clinical script, were four bold letters: E.X.O.N.
Ratelsi's chuckle died in her throat. Her brow furrowed, a sudden, cold certainty settling over her curiosity. What did those initials mean?
But before they could linger on their thoughts, a thick cloud of vapour poured into space between them as the lid popped open with a soft hiss. Timoth and Ratelsi froze, exchanging wide-eyed looks that screamed, "I swear it wasn't me!"
The funky, almost medicinal smell that filled the air wasn't what they expected.
Genuine interest lit up Ratelsi's features, fueled by Timoth's soft gasp as he stared at what was now visible inside the container.
"Bruhh…you've gotta get a load of this," he breathed, awestruck.
The woman who had always been drawn to what lay beneath the surface smirked as this object spoke directly to that hunger. Inside the capsule lay five jagged shards of luminous blue energy stones, each about the length of a pinky.
They pulsed with an internal light so intense it cast an otherworldly glow on their astonished faces.
Silence enveloped Oakeman, broken only by the wind gently caressing the landscape, as if trying not to disturb it. This was not just any delivery, and if they were right, they had stumbled upon something monumental. A thrill of excitement mixed with dread as a chilling realization dawned on them at once.
"Oh fuck….these are Luminites," Ratelsi muttered.