CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Symphony of Pain

  Day 97

  Marcus

  “Hey,” Marcus said as he entered Pete’s shop, immediately getting assaulted by the scent of oils and paint.

  He spotted the old man behind the counter, hunched over his cellphone. Without lifting his gaze, Pete barely acknowledged Marcus’s arrival.

  “You again?” the old man grumbled, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “What’s it this time?”

  “I thought we weren’t allowed to ask stupid questions?” Marcus shot back as he approached the counter. “I got your text about the finished parts.”

  “Hmhm,” the old man muttered, still glued to his phone. He didn’t bother to make eye contact, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably long. “Making and ordering it all was quite the hassle. Are you good on the credits?”

  Marcus let out a small chuckle. “What are you, the mafia?”

  The old man slowly raised his eyes, his unamused stare sharp enough to cut steel. “Yes, I’ve got the credits,” Marcus assured him.

  Satisfied, the old man nodded curtly and disappeared behind the counter. Marcus heard muttering, followed by metallic clanks and the occasional curse. Moments later, the old man reappeared, gritting his teeth as he pushed a heavy cart with a large box stacked on top. He maneuvered it around the counter with some effort, parking it right next to Marcus.

  “There,” he grunted, flipping the lid open. Inside, Marcus saw dozens of steel plates neatly packed, along with stacks of pistons and motors. The parts gleamed under the overhead lights.

  Marcus grabbed one of the steel plates from the box, turning it over in his hands. The metal felt cool and sturdy, a solid weight that promised durability. ‘Lots of pistons and motors for new robots, and some steel protective plating for Bastion’s current body,’ he thought, tapping his knuckles against it and listening to the sharp ring it produced. His gaze shifted to the new click and push system designed to house the batteries within his robots. It was sleek and efficient, exactly what he needed. ‘Now I only need enough credits to buy about a dozen Mana batteries to go along with it.’

  Satisfied, he closed the box with a firm shove. Seconds later, the old man reappeared with a roll of tape, sealing the box shut with quick, practiced motions. Without a word, he disappeared through the back door again, returning with several large steel rods, their tips honed to sharp points. He dropped them on the counter with a dull thud.

  “There we go. Artwork rods that you’ve assured me are not spears,” Pete said, his tone dry as sand. “Anything else?”

  “I might have a big order in a few days, depending on how well the next job goes,” Marcus said, his eyes lingering on the box for a moment longer.

  “Job?” The old man squinted, suspicion flickering across his face. “You gonna be alright?”

  “Yeah,” Marcus replied, pulling out his phone. “I’m always alright.” He wiggled the phone in the air, signaling for the man to hurry up.

  Pete snorted, muttering, “Arrogant little shit,” under his breath. He rang up the total, watching as Marcus hesitated before tapping his phone to the register.

  Marcus let out a small sigh of relief when the payment went through, then slipped his phone back into his pocket. He squatted down and grabbed the box with both hands.

  “Need help with—” Pete started, then stopped mid-sentence as he watched Marcus stand back up, barely breaking a sweat while carrying the heavy load. “—that.”

  “I’ve got it, old man,” Marcus said, already heading for the door. Pete stared for a moment, clicking his tongue before grabbing the bundle of steel rods and following him outside.

  Marcus placed the heavy box in his cargo bike, the suspension groaning under the added weight. Pete handed him the rods one by one, his eyes darting to the other items already crammed in the cargo bed—large lithium batteries, coiled wires, and assorted parts.

  “How the hell did you manage to make that box look light? You on steroids or something?” the old man asked, eyebrows raised. “You know that stuff shrivels your bits, right?”

  “Just healthy living,” Marcus lied with a grin. In truth, he’d gotten a lot stronger over the past three months. Every day, more Glass accumulated, bringing him closer to raising his Stats further.

  “Right,” Pete muttered, eyeing him skeptically. “This job you’ve got… don’t die, alright?” He turned and walked back into the store without waiting for an answer.

  Marcus grinned, watching the old man through the window for a moment longer. He then pulled a blanket over the contents of his cargo bike. ‘No point in biking across town with visible spears sticking out.’ He swung a leg over the bike, settling into the seat just as his phone buzzed in his pocket. He patted his pockets before fishing out the device. The screen lit up with a new text from Laurens.

  ┏                    ┓

  “Hey, kid. How’s it going?

  Haven’t heard from you in a bit.

  Got time to grab lunch this week?”

  -Uncle Laurens

  ┗                    ┛

  Marcus stared at the message, his grin fading. A flicker of guilt wormed its way in—still remembering their call a few days ago. The tension had hung heavy between them, his uncle’s voice carrying a mix of worry and something like doubt. His uncle had called him after he and Felix got back, explaining that the police had found the Breachers who hurt Felix. An unknown Breacher had then beaten the hell out of those same attackers. Apparently, this Breacher had broken their right arms and matched the description of the hooded figure from the hospital.

  He sighed, recalling how Laurens had sounded back then on the phone, tone soft and hesitant, as if both dreading and needing the answer. Marcus hated himself for lying, telling his uncle he didn’t know anything and that he’d been with Felix the entire time. The lie had come out too smoothly, a reflex to keep his secret safe, even from the one person who had always been there for him.

  The call had ended on a strained note, with Laurens asking if he was sure and reminding him he could share anything. He’d said he’d have Marcus’s back, just like his father would’ve. The last part had stung the most, twisting the knife of guilt deeper.

  He exhaled slowly, thumb hovering over the screen, but he couldn’t bring himself to respond. ‘I’m a shitty nephew,’ he thought, slipping the phone back into his pocket. He shook his head and started pedaling at a steady, unhurried pace. The streets blurred past him, and he kept his focus on the road, trying to push the nagging thoughts aside.

  - - -

  Marcus coasted to a stop in front of his father’s old gym, staring at the wooden boards that now covered the broken windows. The boards gave the building a more secure look but left it uglier, like a poorly healed scar. He started pulling the blanket off the cargo bed when a loud thud sounded behind him.

  He turned to see Bastion, who had dropped from the roof with all the grace of a falling anvil. Marcus looked up to see Specter peering down from the rooftop, its three optics faintly glowing in the morning light.

  “How’s the leak?” Marcus called up.

  Specter gave him a thumbs-up.

  Bastion wasted no time, hoisting the heavy box and steel rods from the bike over its shoulder like they weighed nothing. It marched toward the gym entrance, the steel rods clattering against its back as it moved. Specter followed, landing behind Marcus with a softer thud, a hammer clutched in its hand. “Leak should be good for now,” it said, sounding pleased with itself. “I mean, it’s shoddy work based on a 30-minute clip I found online, but it should hold up. You got everything?”

  Marcus grabbed the large lithium batteries and shoved them into Specter’s waiting hands. “Got four of them. All second-hand, but they should be fine.” He threw a coil of wires over Specter’s head, draping it like a makeshift scarf. “And you’re sure you can hook it all up?”

  “I mean… sure is a broad term,” Specter replied, sounding amused. “I’m going to learn how to. Worst case I get electrocuted.”

  Marcus smirked, gathering the last of the parts before following the robots inside. The gym felt emptier than ever, with echoes bouncing off bare walls. He stared at his new workout stations and the basic gas-stove kitchen. Bastion disappeared into the basement with the heavy box, leaving Marcus and Specter to navigate the tangled mess of extension cords strewn across the floor.

  They stepped into what used to be the women’s locker room, now stripped of benches and lockers. The space had transformed into a makeshift workshop. Marcus’s 3D printer sat in one corner, humming as it worked, a laptop beside it displaying the design for a prototype faceplate. A dozen plastic pieces lay scattered on a nearby table, the product of their recent trials. ‘We might need to switch to a steel printer or cutter soon,’ Marcus thought, realizing they were outgrowing the limitations of thick plastic.

  A small gasoline-powered generator rattled in the corner, powering the entire setup. Marcus and Specter dumped the load of batteries and cables next to it, the heavy thuds blending with the constant hum of the generator.

  Beside the pile sat the stash of weapons Specter had acquired after taking matters into its own hands. The memory of how that cache had come into their possession still lingered uneasily in Marcus’s mind. He wasn’t entirely sure if it had been the right thing to do.

  On one hand, Specter had broken several laws, not to mention a good chunk of common decency, by stealing from the crew responsible for hurting Felix. It was clear theft, no two ways about it. But on the other hand, he couldn’t shake the feeling that those people had gotten off lightly. Felix’s broken arm flashed in his mind—the cast, and the helpless way he’d looked at him back in the ambulance. It still churned his stomach.

  He moved toward the weapon cache, seeing the shotgun that sat propped against the pile, its barrel polished and ready. Next to it lay a pistol, two Glass-grade daggers, and a steel sword.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  The sword stood out. Its blade was a deep, dark black, the kind that almost drank in the light instead of reflecting it. The hilt had a Mana-battery woven into its design. The craftsmanship alone made it an expensive item.

  His gaze shifted back to the heap of cables lying tangled next to the generator. They looked like something out of a junkyard, a mess of frayed insulation and mismatched connectors. He rubbed the back of his neck, stifling an awkward laugh at the sheer disorder in front of him.

  “This place looks like shit,” Marcus said, honestly.

  Specter responded by jabbing a metal finger into Marcus’s ribs, just hard enough to make him flinch. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were expecting a Michelin-worthy stay,” it quipped, amusement lacing its tone before it left the room.

  Marcus followed, trailing behind as they descended into the basement. Downstairs, they found Bastion perched on a stool, methodically removing bolts and screws from its plastic plating with a tool embedded in its index finger. Each piece of armor clattered to the floor, revealing the exposed, broken blue veins underneath. A thin liquid sprayed from the severed veins, evaporating before hitting the ground. Bastion worked with clinical precision, completely unbothered by the self-inflicted damage, already preparing itself for an upgrade.

  Specter approached its steel brother, its three optics focusing on the exposed frame. It removed the tip of its own finger, revealing a similar tool hidden underneath. It went to work on Bastion, deftly unscrewing bolts and connectors. Bit by bit, it stripped the plastic exterior, pieces falling away to reveal the machinery beneath. Specter’s hands moved with mechanical precision, showing no sign of slowing as it dismantled the outer shell.

  Meanwhile, Marcus wandered to the right, his eyes landing on the partially assembled steel frames of two more robots. Their structures looked skeletal, with many key components missing. Most of the pistons and motors hadn’t been installed yet. He glanced at the heavy box they’d hauled in earlier. ‘Should be enough to finish these two,’ he thought, but he knew resources were tight. ‘One at the very least.’

  He turned his attention to a nearby table cluttered with uninstalled parts—lamps, cameras, and other essential pieces he needed to bring his creations to life. ‘It’ll be a while until we have a steel exterior for these two,’ he mused, recalling how the old man had already been swamped with orders for Bastion’s armor and future upgrades for Specter. ‘Maybe I should start ordering parts online. Or find someone else skilled in metalworking?’ He weighed the risks—quicker parts would speed up progress but could attract unwanted attention and cost more credits. ‘Best we stick with the plastic exterior for these two for now. Or we could—’

  A sudden clatter of metal pulled him out of his thoughts. He turned to see Specter dumping the box’s contents onto the floor, sorting through the pile in an inefficient way. It separated pieces meant for Bastion, pushing aside those intended for the newer models.

  Marcus walked over to Bastion, feeling a bit uneasy at seeing the robot laid bare. Its towering frame, now stripped of the thick plastic plating, exposed a network of pistons, motors, and glowing blue veins that pulsed faintly. These veins wove through its components, connecting to the glowing Orbs embedded in its chest and head. The damage Bastion had sustained over time became glaringly obvious—small dents, deep cuts, and remnants of burn marks marred its internal frame.

  “Am I going to make it, doc?” Bastion asked, with an overly dramatic tone, its two lenses locking onto Marcus.

  “Funny,” Marcus said, knocking his knuckles against the robot’s metal chest with a dull thud. “Let’s patch up some of the internals first, then slap on your new skin.” He grabbed two of the newly sorted pieces and pressed one against Bastion’s lower left arm, holding it in place like a puzzle piece fitting into a larger whole. “Looks a lot better,” he muttered, noting how the new design covered most of Bastion’s exposed mechanisms, giving it a more armored, cohesive look. “Hopefully, this’ll hide your inner workings. Make you look like a Breacher in proper gear instead of a walking junkyard.”

  “Yeah, right,” Specter quipped, stepping over with another two pieces and holding one against Bastion’s shoulder and the other against its upper arm. “Have you seen how tall and wide our boy is? Even with all the robotic bits hidden, he’ll still turn heads.”

  “Hey,” Bastion said, its tone feigning offense.

  “As long as they think he’s human, it’s fine by me,” Marcus replied, stepping closer. He found himself staring up at Bastion, again noticing just how much larger the machine was. Even on his toes, his eyes only just met the robot’s camera lens. “But you’re not, are you?”

  “No,” Bastion said, slowly rotating its arm to the side, testing the range of motion. Its fingers flexed, the steel plates along its right arm shifting as the blue veins tightened beneath, securing the new armor in place. The protective plating hid most of the exposed pistons and motors, making it look more solid, almost organic. “I’m a steel wolf.”

  Marcus nodded, taking a step back to admire their work. At first, his smile stayed soft, but it grew wider, sharper, a mix of pride and something darker. “Good,” he muttered under his breath, eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

  Specter turned away, heading back up the stairs to grab something before joining the others again. In its hand was a grinding tool, the heavy metal glinting in its grip. “So, what’s first?” it asked, dropping into a crouch and plugging the tool into one of the power cables snaking across the floor. The grinder roared to life, spinning aggressively, sending a few sparks flying. “Build our two new friends first, or…” Specter paused, letting the grinder spin a moment longer, the high-pitched whine filling the room, “are we going to play operation and see if we can’t make some room in Bastion and me to fit in those Mana battery systems?”

  Marcus’s gaze shifted from the skeletal frames of their unfinished robots to Bastion’s partially armored form. He weighed his options before Bastion spoke up, “Let’s fix one of the robots first. You can focus on all the Glass.”

  “Sounds good,” Marcus said.

  Bastion didn’t waste a second. It ripped off the steel plates they had just secured to its arm, the new armor clattering to the floor with a heavy thud. As the plates came free, blue liquid sprayed out from torn veins, hissing and evaporating on contact with the air. Unbothered, Bastion tossed the discarded pieces aside and moved to grab a set of tools from the cluttered workbench. It marched over to the partially constructed robots, joining Specter, who had already started attaching pistons to one of the skeletal frames.

  Meanwhile, Marcus made his way to another table tucked against the far wall. A metal crate rested there, secured with a thick combination lock. He entered the combination and opened the container, revealing the hoard they had collected over the past few days. Shards of Monster-Glass lay piled inside, some still flecked with bits of bone and brain matter—the remnants of their previous owners. The pile had grown substantial, dozens of pieces stacked haphazardly, each one pulsing faintly with trapped energy.

  “I’m going to dick around with some of the Glass. You two sure you’ll manage without me?” he asked, closing the container and grabbing it by both ends.

  “Yeah,” Specter said, its lenses focused on attaching another piston. “Knock yourself out. I’ll check on you later.”

  Bastion straightened, setting down its tools to approach Marcus. “Do you need anything?” it asked, its large frame looming over him, lenses fixed with an almost concerned intensity.

  Marcus shook his head. “Nah, I’ll be fine,” he lied. He knew full well what he was about to do—stabbing himself with 20 shards of Monster-Glass, over and over. The upgrades messed him up and hurt like hell, but they strengthened his Breacher’s body, each one making the next a little less debilitating. He was experiencing the most difficulty as of late in the sheer volume of energy he needed. The last Agility upgrade had required five charges worth of energy, a painful process that meant housing the power of 100 pieces of Glass inside his body all at once.

  “Are you sure?” Bastion asked, as if trying to pierce through Marcus’s bravado.

  Marcus met its gaze, forcing a grin. “Yeah, I’m sure.” But inside, he braced himself for what came next. He turned away from his companions, the faint whirring of their tools fading as he climbed the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. The old wooden steps creaked under his weight, the sound echoing through the empty gym.

  He pushed open the door to his father’s old office, the hinges letting out a low groan. Dust motes danced in the thin beam of sunlight that filtered through the windows. He set the crate down beside the worn-out desk, the thud of metal on wood breaking the silence. Marcus took a moment, standing there, eyes closed, listening to the faint sound of his own breath. He knew what came next would hurt like hell.

  With a sigh, he pulled out the old leather chair, its fabric cracked and peeling, and sank into it. The chair groaned as he leaned back, eyes tracing the familiar water-stained ceiling tiles above him. But he couldn’t delay any longer. He reached into the crate, pulling out handfuls of Glass shards and stacking them neatly on the desk. Piece by piece, he created 13 neat stacks, each with 20 shards. As he placed the last one, a jolt of nervous energy shot through him. “Fuck me sideways,” he muttered, leaning back in the chair with a nervous chuckle. “If this keeps up, stabbing myself will turn into a full-time job.”

  He glanced at the few remaining shards still lying at the bottom of the crate, a glimmer of Glass reflecting the dim light. Taking a deep breath, he lifted his shirt and hoodie, stuffing the fabric into his mouth, biting down hard. The taste of old cotton filled his senses. “Come on,” he muttered, psyching himself up, eyes narrowing as he grabbed the first stack.

  Marcus didn’t hesitate. He slammed the shards into his chest, the sharp edges tearing through his skin before they disintegrated. A shock of pain ripped through him, followed by a violent surge of energy that crashed into his body like a rogue wave. His muscles seized, teeth clenching down on the fabric as he fought to keep steady. He reached for the second stack, thrusting it into the marks on his chest, feeling the raw power flood through him again.

  One by one, he drove the stacks into his chest, the pain intensifying with each strike. Each time he pierced his skin, the chaotic energy surged, growing wilder and harder to ignore. It clawed through his core, threatening to burst him open from the inside out. His breathing turned ragged, each gasp a struggle as he forced himself to keep going.

  “Seven,” he muttered, his voice muffled by the fabric between his teeth. Blood trickled down his chest, warm and sticky, mixing with the sweat that drenched his skin. He blinked away the haze creeping into his vision and activated his HUD with a thought. The numbers flashed across his mind’s eye, the charge count steadily climbing, each one proof of his self-inflicted suffering.

  A part of him knew it was better to stop and upgrade a Stat first rather than build up the energy further. But curiosity got the better of him; he wanted to push himself, to see how this would be in the future.

  The energy now felt like it had a mind of its own, swirling inside him, pushing against the confines of his body. He could almost hear it—a roaring static in his ears, like molten glass coursing through his soul. He stabbed himself again, twice in quick succession, almost collapsing forward from the sheer force of it. His body shook, every nerve alight, as the energy levels soared beyond what he could comfortably handle.

  Marcus turned his head to the right, gaze settling on the old, worn photo propped against the edge of the table. The edges had curled with age, colors fading, and a crease ran straight through the middle, but the figures remained clear enough. His father stood front and center, stern yet kind eyes staring back, a gaze that always seemed to cut through any excuse. It wasn’t anger—it was expectation, the kind that demanded more, that pushed him to step up as the eldest. Marcus’s chest tightened under that invisible pressure, a weight he could never quite shake.

  He grabbed another stack of 20 Glass and slammed it against his chest, teeth sinking into the fabric of his shirt to muffle the grunts of pain. The energy surged into him, hitting his core like a sledgehammer. His muscles tensed, the force disintegrating the Glass in an instant, leaving a trail of raw energy along his veins. He kept his eyes locked on his father’s face in the photo, imagining that voice in his head. ‘Do better. Be better. For them. Be more than a destroyer.’

  Before the rush could subside, Marcus snatched another stack, hands trembling. He focused on his mother’s figure in the photo, her smile warm, eyes filled with a softness that hurt to remember. ‘Do it!’ he screamed silently, forcing the stack into his chest again. The impact left him gasping, lights flashing behind his eyes as the power coursed through his system like wildfire. His hands shook so badly he nearly dropped the next set, lungs burning with every ragged breath.

  Blood trickled from his nose, a thin line staining his shirt, already soaked with sweat and blood. The taste of iron filled his mouth as he bit down harder, his vision blurring from the strain. But he couldn’t stop now. He wouldn’t stop. He grabbed another stack, fixing his gaze on the next figure in the photo—his sister. The memory of her sacrifices, of all she had endured for him, slammed into him harder than any burst of energy ever could. He drove the Glass into his chest, the twelfth charge ripping through him, leaving his nerves screaming, his heart pounding like it might burst.

  Marcus willed himself to stay conscious, head swimming, hands slipping as he reached for another stack. It clattered to the table as his trembling fingers fumbled for a grip.

  He forced his gaze back to the photo, eyes zeroing in on the smallest figure in the frame—his little brother, Martin. A familiar ache twisted inside him as he remembered the bloodstains that marred their old family house. He could still see the deep scratch marks Martin had left in the wooden floor, desperate to reach their mother. The image of his brother’s mangled leg, torn and twisted in a last-ditch effort to free himself, burned into his mind.

  “Never again,” he hissed through clenched teeth. The words came out choked, more a promise to himself than anything else. His fingers tightened around the last stack, blue mist bleeding from his body as he burned through a reservoir of Mana, fortifying his trembling frame. The air around him grew cold, crackling with energy, as he willed his body to remain steady.

  Marcus drove the final stack into his chest, feeling the shards tear through his already ruined skin. The burst of power that followed nearly knocked him off his feet, the additional surge crashing into the chaos already inside him. It all joined together, a violent torrent of raw energy, roaring through his veins, threatening to shred him from within.

  He gripped the edge of his father’s old desk, knuckles white as he fought against the urge to scream. Pain roared through every nerve, his vision tunneling, but he refused to break. With a ragged breath, he activated his HUD, forcing his mind to focus. The numbers and graphs blurred before snapping into sharp clarity as he redirected the chaotic energy, shaping it, forcing it to settle deep within him.

  Every muscle in his body burned, his heartbeat thundering in his ears, but slowly, inch by inch, he forced the storm to obey. The energy settled, thick and heavy, like molten metal pouring into a mold, strengthening him beyond any mortal limits.

  ╔         ╗

  [Endurance] [+1]

  [Mental] [+1]

  [Vigor] [+1]

  ╚         ╝

  Marcus's body gave out moments later, his vision blacking over as he slumped forward. His head hit his father’s desk with a dull thud, and everything went dark.