Chương 19: Act 1, Chapter 19: Bridge builders

Day in the story: 1st October (Wednesday) He stood in the frame—a memory of a man once, but now, unmistakably a shadowspawn. His left hand was fused with a welding torch, its nozzle still hot with phantom heat. His torso had become something else entirely: a slab of tarnished metal, shaped like a tombstone, with a name and two dates etched deep in its surface. His eyes were sealed with wide, rusted rivets and his hair hung in wire-thin strands.

When he opened his mouth to speak, I saw teeth made of nails and rivets.

"Whom you might be, lass?"

"My name is Usagi," I replied quickly. Then, glancing at the engraving on his chest, I added, "I came to pay my respects to those who built this place." He tilted his head, his movements mechanical and slow. Behind him, six more workers toiled in grim silence, their bodies similarly transformed, tools and scrap fused to flesh. The only one of them with both hands intact, methodically laid bricks in the far corner. Yet every brick placed crumbled into dust and every welded joint split apart elsewhere.

The work never finished and it never stopped.

"That is so strange," Zoe whispered in my ear from my shoulder. She must have seen what I was seeing.

"I don't know, lass," the shadow-worker said.

"We still build, aye. Not safe for you here." His joints groaned as he shifted.

"It took me a long time to get here," I said softly.

"I'd like to move forward, if it's allowed." He rubbed his chin—the gesture unnervingly human.

"I'll ask the Foreman. Wait here." He turned, leaving the door open behind him and I stepped into the half-constructed bridge. It was a dream caught in amber, a section of suspended walkway, thick steel cables arcing above me, brick beneath my feet, all enclosed within massive stone walls. I peered over the edge. Below, a river flowed, not beneath the bridge, but straight into the castle wall, vanishing as if feeding the memory itself.

"Red!" the worker shouted.

"Red! Some lass here!" The water bulged and something rose from it: a massive figure climbing a submerged ladder, while water cascaded from his bulk. Where a face should've been, there was only a mouth sewn shut with cable wire. He carried a colossal wrench, dragging it behind and leaving ghostlike streaks in the air. His chest was plated in corroded steel like the others, but his name was etched deep and proud, Silas "Red" McCray—The Foreman. He moved toward us.

His eyes bulged unnaturally, as if holding back some unbearable pressure. He stared at me, while his mouth begun gurgling behind the stitching.

"Red says you're a thief," the worker translated, with wariness in his voice.

"Is it true?" I doubted Red had psychic insight, more likely, he said that about everyone. I did not want to jump to supernatural paranoia just yet.

"Of course I'm not a thief," I replied, keeping my tone neutral.

"Why would Mr. Red think that?" Red gurgled again producing a horrible wet noise, something I imagined a metal grinding through waterlogged lungs would sound like. Then, without ceremony, he grabbed the worker by the torso and lifted him as though he weighed nothing. The poor guy's legs twitched and voice trembled as he relayed the next message.

"Red says, only a thief wears a mask. You came for our treasures. You must die."

"I don't think peace talks are working," Zoe whispered dryly from my shoulder. No shit. I sighed and reached up to unclip the mask, peeling it off carefully. The moment it came loose, everything dimmed, the overbright light of the torches became murky, the industrial haze settled over the world again. Sound dulled like I was underwater. But at least I could breathe properly now and not fight the rising bile from Red's stench.

"I took the mask off. See?" I said, forcing calm into my voice and spitting some residual blood onto the ground.

"Not a thief. It was welding protection. Just… fancy." Red stared. His bulging eyes didn't blink, full of pressure. They looked like they would pop any moment. Then he set the worker down like a tool and slowly reached behind himself taking hold of his colossal wrench with both hands. Another gurgle followed. The worker, still catching his breath, translated: "Red says… you may pass. But he will move along with you. To watch."

"Oh great," I muttered.

"Let's go then," I said aloud, stepping forward first. This forced the others to go as well—the sound of their footsteps bounced off the half-finished construction. We walked for the most part, but I had to leap across gaps in the structure from time to time, over unfinished sections suspended above a void. Each landing echoed sharply through the vast chamber, cutting through the melodic rhythm of the crews. But no one stopped us.

They kept at their endless tasks, laying bricks, welding seams, tightening bolts, work that evaporated moments after it was done. As if the structure rejected completion. And still, they smiled. They sang. There was joy in their futility. Maybe the outcome didn't matter. Maybe doing was enough. Red followed in silence. Each of my jumps he mirrored in his own terrible way, a giant of fused flesh, metal and stone moving with an unnatural grace that should've been impossible.

His wrench, longer than I was tall, trailed grey, ghost-light behind it as he walked. The path spiraled upward now, curving like a rib carved from the tower's spine. Every so often, arched windows punctuated the gloom, letting in flickers of pale and cold moonlight, brushing across steel cables and rivets. The impossible river still flowed with us, coiling along the edge of the path, rising as though gravity was just a polite suggestion. Not a single drop spilled. No flood followed.

The world bent to the bridge's will. I leapt another gap, my injured ribs howling under the strain. My landing cracked across the stone when I saw workers scattering suddenly from a tight knot up ahead. There was a boy ahead, curled on the wet concrete. Blood spread like a bloom around him, mixing with the river-mist and runoff. I saw a fresh boot print on his back. His lip had split all the way to his nose. Strands of iron hair clung to his scalp, but his body was small and way too human for this place.

I froze mid-step, the need to act clawing up through my gut again. An alien thought and even stranger feeling. I wasn't a hero and a notion that with power I gained some divine responsibility was foolish at best. Most thieves, contrary to popular belief, had no honor at all—myself included. I'd cheat my way through anything if it was an option and I was here for a soulmark, not a salvation. To top it off he was just a shadow spawned from some wild dream. No true life to him at all.

"Hey Zoe," I said quietly, trying to swallow the weight in my throat.

"Do shadows… do they feel? Do they have consciousness?" Zoe hovered close to my cheek, her light dimmed to a cautious flicker.

"I was just wondering the same thing. You want to intervene?"

"It's too late, right?" I answered, but I didn't move. The boy moaned softly and Red responded with a deep, wrenching noise from behind me. One of the workers stepped forward to interpret, his right hand a hammer fused at the wrist, the usual nail-teeth glinting from his mouth.

"Foreman says…" the worker rasped, "you should move the thief. Throw him into the river. That's where he belongs." Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. I looked at the boy again. He wasn't moving much now. But that face, under the iron-fiber hair, beneath the bruises—it was a human face. Not a twisted one like of the others.

"Why doesn't Red do it himself?" I said carefully. I wasn't standing up for the boy. I told myself that. I was just stalling. Buying time. Not getting dragged into someone else's pretended history. Red gurgled louder, a rumble that vibrated through the bridge under my feet. The worker translated again.

"Foreman says: if you refuse, he will throw you in with the thief. This is your test." Of course it was. Just a simple math problem. Help a boy who might not be real, or survive to finish what I came here to do. I exhaled sharply as my side kept burning, and stepped toward the boy. My boots scraped through his blood as I crouched low and grabbed him by the shoulders. He didn't resist. He barely moved. Just a broken heap of limbs in soaked clothing. Then, without a warning—he stirred.

A jolt of life snapped through him and he turned his head just enough for me to see his face. His eyes were human. Wide and terrified.

"Help… me… please," he gasped, blood running from his mouth.

"Oh, bloody damn," I whispered. Zoe didn't speak. She didn't have to. Because in that moment, rationality and everything I was before just cracked. That alien need to throw aside my whole upbringing and help him filled my head. I felt like the boy's plea wasn't scripted. It wasn't part of some eternal cycle of creation and collapse. It felt real, directed at me—an element outside the narrative. I looked over my shoulder. Red stood motionless, but his grip on the wrench tightened.

The stone beneath him groaned in warning. I could walk away. I could push the boy into the river. He'd vanish like everything else in this place. But he'd begged and something in me refused to let that go. Something that felt like will not entirely my own. Fuck. I looked down at him. His eyes were fading now. Whatever spark had surfaced was being drowned again by the weight of this place. But it had happened and I'd seen it.

"I'm sorry, Zoe," I whispered as I rose to my feet, my ribs aching with every breath.

"No," she replied, her voice steady.

"I understand. I'll help however I can." I gave a tight nod and faced Red, who towered over me in silence.

"Hey, big guy," I called with a raised voice, "do it yourself. I'm not doing your dirty work." A low, metallic churning began inside him—his version of speech. The interpreter beside him looked up, waiting for instruction. But I didn't. A single shot shattered the air, ripping the silence apart. The interpreter collapsed instantly, a gaping hole where his forehead had been. The recoil from Noxy, even in its standard form, punched into my shoulder like a battering ram, but pain didn't matter now.

Two more shots rang out before Red fully processed what had happened, one to his knee, one aimed at his head. The first made him stumble, balance faltering, joints grinding in protest. The second shot struck the side of his head, but didn't kill. Instead, he flashed with a sickly grey light, as if some hidden Authority resisted death itself. He rose slowly, still silent. He was activating something, I felt it brush against my soul.

But I didn't have the power to resist, nor the will to wait and find out what it was. Instead I ran straight at him, ducked low and slammed a fist into his groin hitting solid metal. It did made him falter however. As he lurched forward and dropped his wrench, I bolted between his legs, pulling two spray cans—one red, one orange—from my belt. I started tagging his lower back and thighs in sweeping strokes, painting flames along the contours of his armor. Everything seemed unusually silent around me now.

He swept a massive hand backward to swat me like a fly. I ducked, rolled beneath the arc of his swing and kept spraying, igniting bright streaks of inferno along his flanks. He spun and grabbed his wrench again, raising it high to smash me like a nail. My side was on fire from pain, but I sidestepped fast and as the wrench hit stone, I kicked off it, vaulting upward. I used his shoulder as a springboard and flipped over him, still tagging him with arcs of crimson and gold.

Then the light began as Zoe shot past me in a flash, her glow exploding to ten times its usual brightness, like a living star circling his head. She flew fast and chaotic, weaving in and out of his vision. He couldn't track her. He couldn't even blink or close his eyes. He began swinging at the light, arms flailing wildly. I tried to shout, "Good job!" but my mouth opened and no sound came out. My voice was gone. All sound was gone. Then pain exploded through my ribs. A sharp jab with a pointed metal.

I fell hard, twisting in agony as a new figure stepped into view. Another worker I hadn't heard come. He loomed over me now, mouth split in that nail-toothed grin, gripping a jagged tool-hand with both arms for leverage. He stabbed down, but I kicked with all my strength—heel connecting with his shin. He grunted silently and dropped to one knee. I twisted, rolled, then sprang upright using my good hand—boots sliding in a smear of blood and paint. As he lunged again, I slammed my armored fist into his face.

His head cracked like a melon, bone and brain matter splattering across my chest, belly and the concrete floor. I grabbed the cans I'd dropped mid-fight and kept spraying. The giant was still turning in circles, swiping blindly at the light. Zoe was still at it, dancing just outside his reach—a radiant blur. I wanted to scream for her to get clear, but I still had no voice. She couldn't hear me. She wouldn't stop. Then I noticed two more shapes coming fast. One had a welding torch for a hand.

The other wielding a hammer, leapt, trying to strike Zoe from above. Red's hand came out of nowhere and swatted him away. The worker tumbled through the air and disappeared into the shadows beyond the bridge. I raised Noxy and fired twice. One round took the torch-hand through the chest—he dropped instantly. The second shot followed the airborne one, just to be sure. With the distractions handled, I turned back to Red.

I sprayed the final streak across his chest, painting a fiery painting where his heart would be, if he had one. Be the fire, I thought and my power answered. Energy sparked down my arms, veins of light: red, yellow and white, crawling through my skin like living lightning. The paint on his armor shimmered, then ignited metaphorically. The colors became the heat of the flame. Real, searing, Authority-driven flame. Red thrashed violently.

The grey light in him—the Authority I had seen before—began to unravel like fog hit by sunrise. He dropped to his knees, the wrench falling beside him with a deep thud. Sound returned in a rush, Zoe's buzzing flight, the crackling of fire, the wet hiss of burning oil and flesh. Red let out a final, bellowing roar, then collapsed. Metal groaned, stone cracked and he was still. I stood in the sudden stillness, chest heaving, body shaking with pain and exertion.

I kept my right hand squeezing the left side to ease the sensation just a bit. The whole platform stank of burnt oil and rusted blood. Then I remembered why this started. I turned back and rushed to the boy. He was still there, somehow still breathing. His small body trembled, soaked in blood. I crouched beside him and lifted him carefully, he was feather-light. Zoe floated down beside me, her glow faded, her form flickering slightly like an overused bulb. She was clearly drained, but her smile was genuine.

"We made it," she said softly. I nodded, though my heart was far from steady.

"Barely." I carried the boy in my arms as we stepped away from the wreckage. The scent of burned oil and blood still clinging to the air when something in the bridge groaned. A figure moved in the distance. He walked with certainty. Cloaked in layers of heavy, black cloth with his face lost deep within a hood. With every movement pages fell from his robes, all yellowed with age and wear, fluttering in an unseen wind. Some crumbled the moment they hit the floor. Others vanished midair.

In his left hand he held a bell-lantern, its fire flickering with a shimmer that defied the normal spectrum, neither warm nor cold. The light cast long, trembling shadows that bent strangely along the platform's edge. Across his chest, suspended by chains that vanished into his robes, hung a small tarnished metal plate. He approached slowly, muttering something I couldn't hear. His voice was buried under the strange hush blanketing the area. I pulled my mask from my bag and strapped it on with aching fingers.

The world lit up again, outlines brightened, movement sharpened and my rabbit-enhanced hearing returned. The muttering became a chant." Raise up tools, raise up to be used. Raise up tools—" Over and over. His voice had the cadence of a priest giving last rites to the living. Through the rabbit's eyes, I could finally read his nameplate. Reverend Josiah Thorne—The Mourner. He stopped thirty feet away. The air around him took on a faint orange hue, a subtle shimmer, like dying coals.

The bridge responded shifting ever so slightly. I felt it in the soles of my boots. The pages around him fluttered violently and then dropped. I could see them now for what they were: hymns, prayers, mourning rites. His lantern pulsed. He lifted his head slowly. And spoke again with raised voice:"Raise up tools!" The light surged from the lantern—an orange wave of flickering shimmer that stretched outward and struck the fallen bodies: the workers, Red, even the boy in my arms. The thief jerked in my grasp.

His body convulsed, then went eerily still. A second later, his arms pushed against me and he dropped to the floor, he rolled and stood up. His face turned into a wicked grin and promptly he ran away.

"Run!" I shouted with a pounding heart. I turned, searching for Zoe, but she was gone. No silver shimmer in the air, no trailing sparks—I was alone. Instead of her however, rising like puppets re-strung by invisible fingers, were four workers and Red. He was whole again. Restored without a scratch—not even scorched. They stood all up in eerie silence and turned toward me in perfect synchrony.