Chapter 13: No Rest for the Damned


    "Please, tell me I’m dreaming."


    The market square was alive with the usual racket—folks chatting, haggling, and stirring up dust as they went about their business. Edmond had taken the long way back, hoping a quiet stroll might cool his temper. Instead, it had the opposite effect—now he was sitting somewhere between panic and murder.


    Right in the thick of it, making a damn spectacle, was that bald-headed bastard he called a friend. Rufus.


    Bowing, flirting, talking up a storm like he didn’t have a care in the world, puffing on a smoke like he owned the place.


    That alone was enough to piss Edmond off. Rufus was supposed to be back at the orphanage, watching the kids. But what really put the nail in the coffin was the beacon of what the hell is that following close behind him.


    A figure, draped head to toe in fur.


    ''A bearskin. He put the kid in a goddamn bearskin.''


    Of course, Edmond knew exactly who it was. Levi. But for the life of him, he couldn’t figure what the hell Rufus was thinking.


    Seeing the path they were taking, Edmond moved ahead, slipping into a narrow alley just before they passed.


    "Imma kill him."


    Didn’t take long for the idiot parade.


    "Come here!"


    Edmond’s hand shot out, grabbing Levi by the arm and yanking him off his feet like he weighed nothing. He tossed the boy into the alley, the kid hitting the ground with a grunt, the heavy bearskin sliding half off his shoulders.


    Rufus, mid-drag on his smoke, choked so hard a burst of vapor shot from his nose. Some poor bastard passing by saw the look on his face and damn near ran in the opposite direction.


    "Move!"


    Rufus jumped like he''d been shot, cast a quick glance around, then hurried into the alley.


    "Fancy meetin’ you here. What’s the word from Sister Moira? We were just headin’—"


    His voice cut off the second Edmond leveled him with that look. That don''t you fuckin'' try me look.


    Levi ripped the bearskin off the rest of the way, jumping to his feet. For just a second, the scene itched at him, like maybe this was what it felt like when kids got caught by their folks doing something dumb.


    His eyes flicked to Rufus, who shot him a look that screamed well, we got caught. Levi, in turn, gave him one right back—this was your stupid idea.


    Edmond inhaled deep, trying real hard to keep from knocking both their heads.


    "Explain. And it better make sense."


    "Then you got no worries, ’cause it definitely makes sense. See, we was just—"


    "Not you."


    Rufus shut his mouth as Edmond turned to Levi, eyes like iron.


    "You. Explain."


    Behind Edmond, Rufus flailed his arms in frantic silence, like maybe he could stop the kid from saying something that’d dig them deeper.


    Levi ignored him.


    "I got more augments than I thought. They replaced my eyes and my spine, messed with other parts. Rufus says I''m not finished, can''t use none of it. So he''s takin’ me to someone who can help."


    Edmond caught it—the weight in Levi’s eyes, the sharp edge in his voice. It stopped him short.


    The bearskin was stupid, sure, but what this kid was going through? That was something else.


    His stomach knotted. His spine. His eyes. He thought of the kids back at the orphanage, hell, thought of Nathan. Picture the kid sitting in a chair, some stitcher pressing a scalpel to his back, cutting out pieces, replacing them with blacksteel like he was just some damn machine to tinker with. The image curdled something deep in Edmond’s gut.


    His fingers twitched. They wanted violence.


    He took a slow breath to steady the burn in his chest. The kid was still here. He was still fighting. That counted for something.


    With a sigh, he pulled off his hat, running a hand through his hair as he let go of his anger.


    “Sorry, kid. Should’ve tested ya sooner. And it’s my fault for leaving ya with someone whose brain’s rusted clean through. Guess we’re lucky he didn’t make ya act like a bear.”


    “Plenty of mountain folk wear bearskins! No one was suspicious—hell, they even complimented him!”


    Edmond shot him a look sharp enough to cut steam pipe.


    “What part of seen by no one don’t you get? And since when did teenagers start struttin’ around in bear hide? You really think this smooth-faced kid made a lick of damn sense—”


    “Can we quit this?”


    Levi’s voice cut through the air, cold and flat. His eyes burned dark as he looked between them.


    “Standin’ here arguin’ ain’t helpin’ shit.”


    Edmond exhaled slow, then turned to Rufus.


    “Where were you taking him?”


    “Wait—so we’re not headin’ back?”


    “Not asking again.”


    Making quick work of explaining his plan, Rufus spilled about the shipyard. Edmond knew exactly who he had in mind. It was a dumb idea—hell, one of his worst—but instead of telling Rufus that, Edmond looked straight at Levi.


    “From now on, don’t follow his ideas. C’mon.”


    As he stepped past Levi, he dropped his hat right onto the kid’s head, the brim damn near swallowing his face.


    “Carry the bearskin. Keep that metal hand hid in it. Last thing we need is people getting curious.”


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    Levi adjusted the hat, his grip tight, but he didn’t argue. Didn’t even look at Edmond, just nodded once and fell in step beside him.


    Behind them, Rufus let out a low whistle, tugging on his smoke.


    “Hat suits ya, kid.”


    Levi shot him a look that could’ve peeled paint. Edmond ignored them both, leading them deeper into the alley.


    Pulling a flask from his vest, Rufus huffed and took a long swig like a man who just lost his favorite pet. Muttering under his breath, he followed behind as Edmond and Levi led the way.


    "Not my fault the kid listened."


    Keeping to the back alleys and empty streets, they made good time to the shipyard. Too good. A prickle crept up Rufus’s neck, that old sense of being watched. He turned slow, just in time to catch Levi staring him down, eyes sharp as knives.


    Rufus coughed, taking a long drag of his smoke.


    “Ain’t never been much for directions.”


    Levi said nothing. Just shook his head like he was re-evaluating every choice he’d made since meeting this man.


    The shipyard sprawled ahead, a beast of iron, wood, and steam. Thick pillars of smoke curled from its forges, the scent of hot metal and river mud mixing heavy in the air. Sounds of hammering steel and hissing pipes carried over the city.


    Levi’s boots hit the dust-caked boards, his pace steady, shoulders tight. The heat of the place clung to him, thick and stifling, but he barely noticed. His focus stayed ahead, past the smoke, past the noise—straight to whoever the hell they were taking him to.


    His eyes flicked to a battered signboard, the words cut deep in the wood.


    Fairweather Shipyard.


    Didn’t matter. Just another place between him and what he needed. His fingers flexed at his sides, impatience grinding in his chest. Every step here was one step closer to what was owed.


    The shipyard sprawled along the river, a mess of towering workshops and scaffolds, the air was thick with the hiss of steam and the clang of metal on metal. Men moved like worker ants, the whole place humming with the sound of labor.


    Levi’s eyes swept over the crowd, noticing quick how many of them had augments—arms built for lifting, legs built for balance, eyes that flickered with amber glow as they measured and cut. His curiosity flared, pushing through the rage sitting in his gut. If the owners here could afford these type of men, how bleeding rich were they?


    They made their way down a long gangway, the river stretching out below, dark and rippling under the midday sun. Rufus, feeling sheepish, took it upon himself to start rambling.


    “This place belongs to the Fairweathers. Second richest family in these parts. Decent folks, if ya ask me.”


    “No one did.”


    Levi shot back, not giving him an inch.


    Rufus ignored him, his grin easy, but Levi caught the slight flicker of guilt in his eye before he pointed to a massive ship rolling out from one of the workshops.


    “That there’s a decommissioned naval vessel. They drag ‘em up from the gulf, strip ‘em down, rebuild ‘em. Got a contract with the military—turnin’ old warships into fishin’ rigs, cargo haulers, that sort.”


    The ship moved slow, parting the water in smooth waves. Its hull was reforged with fresh Blacksteel plates, steam pipes running along its length like veins. The deck bristled with Vaporguard cranes and winches, the Church’s mark still visible in places—worn carvings of the sacred cross on the metal bow, a rusted engraving of some saint barely visible beneath a fresh coat of paint. Levi’s eyes locked onto it, something tight pulling at his chest.


    He kept watching behind him, so long that he barely caught himself before slamming into Edmond’s back.


    Holding the hat steady, he backed up, his breath near hitchin’ as he realized they stepped into the massive structure. The workdock stretched out before him, a cathedral of steel and timber, its arched roof held up by a maze of thick rafters.


    The air was alive with the hiss of steam and the grind of machinery, cranes puffing vapor as they hauled slabs of Blacksteel and ship parts through the cavernous space.


    Edmond moved ahead, leading them down a gangplank deeper into the chaos. Workers bustled past, their boots clanking against the wooden walkways, their faces tight with focus. More than a few threw irritated glances their way, but none stopped them.


    Levi kept his head low, hat brim dragged down. He felt the weight of eyes all the same.


    Then Edmond slowed some, his voice cutting through the noise.


    "Hey! Jim!"


    Levi followed his gaze and landed on the man in question. He wasn’t the owner, that much was clear—no rich bastard wore his coat ragged or his boots scuffed near through. No, this man had worked his way up with his own two hands, and it showed.


    Leaning in to continue his penance, Rufus whispered.


    "That''s Jim Hardwick, he''s the foreman."


    Jim Hardwick was built like a damn anvil—broad shoulders, a thick chest, and a gut that spoke of a man who ate well but still earned every meal. His beard was heavy with grey, wiry as ship rope, and his blue eyes cut sharp beneath a battered hat.


    A pair of goggles sat perched on the brim, and his coat—worn tan leather, stained with grease and soot—hung open to reveal a vest and scarf, the whole getup practical but well-worn.


    Tools lined his belt, a knife handle peeking from his side, and his hands—scarred, strong—rested easy in front of him, fingers laced like a man who didn’t move fast unless he had to.


    Even from a distance, Levi could feel it. The weight of authority, not from birthright, but from being the kinda man others listened to ‘cause he’d seen it all and still had the grit to keep going.


    Edmond had hollered something Levi didn’t catch, but whatever it was, the foreman gave a short nod and pointed further in.


    Before they moved on, though, Levi felt an itch at the back of his neck—he caught the way Jim’s eyes lingered on him just a second too long. Keeping his step steady, he didn’t look back. Only when the foreman turned away, getting back to work, did he let out a slow breath.


    "Don''t cross that man."


    Rufus''s voice was unusually flat. No joke, no smirk—just a plain fact.


    They wound their way deeper into the shipyard, past stacks of steel plating and half-built hulls, till they reached a small shop tucked into the back. The window was covered with a slab of sheet metal, bolted down like someone didn’t trust glass to do the job. The door? Looked damn near like a vault, thick and reinforced.


    "This the place?"


    Rufus let out a slow drag, blowing smoke through his nose as he gestured to the door.


    "Behold, kid—your one shot at salvation. Well… maybe not your only shot, but she’s the best you’re gonna get."


    "She?"


    Before Levi could press, the shop answered for him.


    Boom!


    A sharp blast rattled the shutters, smoke belching out through the cracks. Levi took a step back, half-expecting the whole damn thing to come apart, but no one, not even the workers so much as flinched. Edmond kept right on walking, Rufus didn’t even slow.


    CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!


    Edmond banged his fist against the heavy door, like the smoke pouring out of it didn’t exist. They stood there a moment, the air thick with soot and grease, before he lifted his hand to knock again.


    A box above the door crackled, then a raspin’, mechanical voice wheezed through.


    "It’s—cough—open."


    Edmond pushed the door open, hinges screeching like barn owls. Watching him and Rufus stroll in like none of this mattered made Levi’s skin burn.


    Stepping through the smoke, Levi grit his teeth, frustration simmering just beneath the surface.


    The augments, the damn bearskin, now some crackpot who couldn''t keep from blowing themselves up—every bit of it felt like a delay he couldn''t afford. He needed this done. He needed to move, to fight, to feel his body answer him like it ought to.


    And the stitcher who did this to him?


    He needed killing.


    ----


    Four stories beneath the place Levi had clawed his way out of, where he’d bled and burned and begged to survive, the walls still dripped with blood and steam. The screams hadn’t stopped.


    They never did.


    Down here, past the mission halls and below the sanctuary, the air carried suffering like a hymn—voices stretched thin, broken, then silenced in perfect, practiced intervals.


    Ingrid stood in the center of it, naked as the stone around her, arms raised, fingers twitching like a conductor guiding her unseen symphony. Each scream sent a tremor through her body, her breath coming sharp, erratic. When the cries hit their peak, her body seized, her eyes snapping open in rage.


    “Nein! Nein! Nicht ganz da!”


    She lunged for the radio, twisting the dial so hard it cracked, plunging the room into silence. Panting, she clutched at her breast, nails digging in, drawing thin lines of red. The pain soothed her, made her whole again.


    She shuddered.


    “Soon, mein Liebste…”


    Across the room, a native woman hung nude and limp, bolted to the wall, her arms stretched, her eyelids removed. She couldn’t look away. Blood streaked her cheeks, painting her face in ghostly trails.


    Ingrid approached, slow, savoring. Her hands trailing down to the warmth between her legs.


    “Once I add your voice."


    She leaned in, whispering, brushing a wet finger along the woman’s jaw.


    "I’ll finally have my harp."


    With a soft whir, panels slid open in Ingrid’s palms. Thin blacksteel whips uncoiled, clicking into place, draping down her arms like living serpents.


    The first scream hit like a blade, raw and unrelenting. Then came another, rising, twisting, turning into something near music. Ingrid let it wash over her, let it fill the chamber, let it move through her. Every note of agony, every sharp edge of suffering, it all built into something perfect—until—


    The intercom crackled, splitting the moment in two.


    “Ingrid.”


    Dr. Ashbourne’s voice came smooth, measured, untouched by the sound below.


    “Come to me.”


    Her breath caught. The heat in her chest rolled downward, pooling deep, her thighs slick with the evidence of it. The scream behind her wavered, cracked. She exhaled slow, rolling her shoulders, letting the tension unravel through her fingers and bloody whips.


    "Yes, mein doctor."