Void Siege
This time would be different—it had to be. Barin shoved his way through the crowded streets, though “streets” in this scavenger city was not the right word. Suspended grav-lanes braided through the Bowl, their edges lined with holo-stalls and drone vendors pouring coded offers into the air. Data-ads flickered in Barin’s vision, messages trying to force themselves into his tech. Barin blinked hard to dismiss them; he wasn’t here for the stalls this time. The Bowl was a monster of a city, a crater filled with impossible architecture—towers of adaptive alloy rising like teeth, tunnels burrowing deep into the bedrock, sky-bridges that shifted and folded on their own. Above him, defensive machines hovered at every tier, silent and watchful. For a scavenger, it was both paradise and potential death. The crowds around him were a chaos of species and creeds. Underan lumbered through, exile or curiosity driving them to explore. Slender drifters flickered in and out of phase as their unstable blink-pads pulsed beneath their feet. The wealthy glided on grav waves, masked and anonymous, their bodyguards nothing but swarms of nanite clouds, while the poor trudged through the masses, patched augmentations sparking as they bartered amidst the rabble.
Barin had fallen on hard times. His last caravan had been ambushed, all his supplies destroyed or taken, and yet he’d walked away, alone, scarred, but alive. Some memory gaps and some phantom pains remained, but… nothing worth surrendering a life of adventure. Survival had sharpened him. Something burned inside, a strange resolve that felt not entirely his own. As he pressed deeper into the Bowl, past stalls peddling memory-crystals, black-market DNA cultures, and half-functional war tech, he felt it—a tug. Not a thought, not a sound, but a pull. Toward the center. Destiny, he told himself. During his ascent, he stopped for a moment, looking back towards the massive outer walls of the city. He remembered briefly his view from the other side when he left on his last journey. He remembered the feeling of excitement and anxiety of the journey ahead. Then his mind shifted, and a flash of something shot before him. The ambush? No, something else? For a moment, he felt dizzy, almost sick. What had he forgotten again? He paused at the rim of the plaza.
The core of the Bowl was a spectacle of power: banners projected in holo-fire, data-canopies showing shifting maps of trade and influence, caravan leaders ringed by AI-driven defenses. Clans nested in encrypted collectives, their members linked by pulsing light-weave tattoos that shimmered with status. The greater clans presided openly, confident no one would dare test them. And there—Diamond Sand’s banner. His chest twisted. Nerves. Or something else. Barin began to move towards the banner, his anticipation high, but behind him, a roar pierced the usual bellowing of the crowd as a fight broke out. The two scavengers involved knew too well not to draw weapons in the Bowl, lest they be obliterated from afar by the watchful guards, but this didn’t stop the larger of the two lifting his opponent from the floor and hurling them towards a startled Barin. The flying scavenger crashed down, flailing and grabbing Barin by the shoulder as he fell, tearing at his coat as they tried to dampen the fall. Barin was furious, part of his coat now grasped in the scavenger's hands, he snarled in anger and raised his hand to strike. Then he noticed the silence. All around him, the noise and chaos had subsided
Baris lowered his hand, breath heaving. The scavenger on the ground scrambled back, clutching the torn fabric of his coat. Every gaze was fixed on him. Not with anger. Not with scorn. Fear. A crawling unease trickled down Barin’s spine. He’d seen these looks before—when the ambush struck, when his caravan realised something had gone terribly wrong. His stomach lurched. A memory, sharp and sudden, stabbed through the haze: screams, blood, and… something else. The scavenger’s eyes darted downward. Slowly, Baris followed their gaze. Something shifted beneath his ribs. For a moment, he thought it was just pain, the phantom aches that had plagued him since the ambush. But then the movement came again—writhing, deliberate. His breath caught. His chest bulged unnaturally, skin stretching and twitching in ways flesh shouldn’t. .
Barin froze. His coat hung in tatters, exposing what lay beneath. A pulsing lattice of flesh, slick tendrils winding through bone. Multiple eyes blinked back at him, darting in every direction. His lungs weren’t his lungs at all—just sacks pressed by alien muscle. His spine glistened with crawling veins, twisting and turning his muscles like a puppet. And there, impossibly clear, was his own heart still beating, suspended in a cage of churning Host tissue “No…” The word tore from his throat, half-gurgle, half-denial. The Host swarmed outward. Limbs split, tendrils lashed. Barin’s body collapsed like a hollow shell, spilling him onto the cold grav-stone. The thing that wore him burst free in a storm of flesh and eyes. The Bowl erupted into chaos. Traders screamed, stalls overturned, and weapons flared as guards opened fire. Through it all, Barin’s head—still tethered by writhing cords of Host matter—was dragged along, mouth opening in a strangled attempt to scream for help. This time was different. The last caravan hadn’t noticed in time.