The City of Mausoleums

“So they are cyber-lost?” asked Tyr, the Mythic as he looked at the bodies of 5 Prometheans connected to the old terminal. A Promethean harvester, Joaq Trunhit, close aide to Golden Abot, nodded his head in response.

Tyr was impressed, Promethean technology had always impressed him; the way they captured the essence via neuro-prints, and how no chanting or runes were needed to harness the powers of psytech was admirable.

A huge Promethean walked towards Tyr. He was massive, almost as tall as Tyr when he shape shifted. “Sir, if you ask me this is a waste of time. There must be another terminal from which we can break in,” said Wallenstein. The Mythic nodded. 2 groups of hackers were cyber-lost, doomed to wander the neuronet as phantoms. Ever since they had gained access to the Acropolis, Golden Abot had been obsessed with hacking into a certain server in Athena. But its defence mechanisms had proved very efficient so far. Tyr looked at the bodies, lifeless, without the possibility of neuro-print recuperation, “Very well, find that other terminal, and freeze all scheduled attempts until I give new order,” ordered Tyr. The Promethean nodded and walked away.

The call was transmitted hours later. Wallenstein had found another terminal. Tyr ordered the 2 remaining groups for deployment, and started to make his way through the Acropolis.

The inner city, the holiest sanctum where only the elite of the Prometheans were allowed was magnificent: tall towers, and marble buildings side by side. All unspoiled by time. As majestic as this citadel was, Tyr felt uneasy. He got no smell, none whatsoever; in the entire realm this was the one place were he couldn’t get a single scent.

Tyr and his team arrived at the meeting point. A gate, which must have weighted more than 10 tons, was broken in half. The Mythic gave a cold stare at Wallenstein, who felt a shiver down his spine. This werewolf was one of the best fighters in the Outworld, and had a reputation for excessive mangling, a consecrated champion who had fought under the command of Freyja Pallas. “It was like that when we found it, sir,” the Promethean stammered. Tyr made a gesture; his team of hackers went inside the chamber. He went over to the door, and analyzed it.

The metallic door was cut in two right through the middle. No blade or weapon in existence could have done this to this door, of that he was certain. Whatever did it was something he had never seen.

The teams were connected to the terminal in a direct interface. All systems were green. Tyr gave the command and the hackers dived into this orphaned system.

The mythic watched as the flow of data commenced. The 2 teams had managed to get past the first wall, and started with the second one immediately. Trunhit, watching the holosphere was supervising the hack job. “Past the first wall, and now into the second one” said the harvester. “How many walls do you think?” asked Tyr. Trunhit shrugged his shoulders. “This terminal was hard to find, and since its Athena we’re talking about, well it could be millions, or hundred of millions,” Wallenstein replied. Tyr nodded, and left the chamber.

The Mythic was ill at ease. The Acropolis felt strange, something about the beautiful structures, and statues of Promethean heroes; something, which wasn’t right. The hero of Errants Court, felt like the whole place was watching them. For Tyr, this level of the Acropolis was a mausoleum, a cold, and artificial monument to the departed. But the most disturbing thing was the lack of odour, even the smallest particle has a scent for a Werewolf, but here, besides of his squadron members there was no smell.

Tyr kept watch for hours. He just couldn’t rest, not in this place. The sooner they were out the better he thought. Just has he finished pondering, Wallenstein ran from inside the chamber, “Sir, we have a problem,” he said. Without a flinch, Tyr jumped over the Promethean and rushed towards the terminal. When he entered he found that one team had been fried, and the harvester was trying to disconnect the other. “Status?” the Mythic asked, “Sir, the last wall…the terminal has a super defence protocol, we can’t get through. Athena keeps defending herself. Not a single avatar got through.” Tyr turned towards Wallenstein and pointed to a silver cube, “It’s time” he yelled. This cube had been given him by the Master Resourcer himself; who told him to use it only at the last moment. Wallenstein took the cube, and inserted it into the terminal. Tyr gave the order, and Trunhit activated it.

For an instant all signals stopped, returning to green soon after. “We’re in,” the harvester chuckled. Tyr patted him on the back and congratulated Wallenstein. As things seemed to march a text appeared on the holosphere: Pandora must not leave…Final Defence Mechanism activate. The three of them were stunned. “Pandora? What in the queen’s name is Pandora?” demanded Tyr. The green lights started to switch off again. Trunhit changed the cube’s setup in order to enhance it. The hacker’s life signals were weakening. Tyr grabbed the harvester by the throat, and lifted him without breaking a sweat, “You’re losing them. If they don’t make it back, you won’t either”. The Mythic released the Trunhit, “Wallenstein, you’re going in, get ready”. Just as he finished issuing the order, he noticed a gigantic shadow behind them.

Standing behind them was a biot, huge, with 2 huge psyblades instead of hands. Tyr, stepped in front of it, and by using his psytech he transformed into his hybrid shape, as he did this he repeated his order to Wallenstein. “Final defence mechanism” the werewolf thought.

The mythic did not hesitate and attacked the biot immediately, managing to push him away the door. The machine was slow, but its alloy was strong, so strong that Tyr’s stonefish mace didn’t even cause a dent on it. The biot counter-attacked swinging both blades, Tyr, dodged them both, and jumped to the side. He noticed that he was cut, even though the blades hadn’t touched him, the energy they emanated could cut even air. The biot charged at him, Tyr, retreated, getting the thing away from the terminal was his priority. The machine, brute as it was chased after the werewolf until they reached an outer courtyard. The court had no roof, and only a marble rail marked its limits.

The machine attacked again, Tyr dodged the first blade, and parried the second before hitting the machine in its upper arm, just in a spot that had no armour. The blow was so severe that the arm almost fell off. The biot took advantage of Tyr’s proximity and drove its remaining blade through one of Tyr’s thighs. The mythic growled in pain. As the biot started to pull out the blade, Tyr grabbed its arm with one hand, the biot struggled to pull the blade, but Tyr kept holding. Gathering his remaining strength on the other hand, Tyr proceeded to attack the machine with his mace. Tyr landed one blow, followed by another, he landed dozens, the spirits of the berserkers were running through his veins; all the machine could do against this storm of rage was to submit.

Tyr landed the finishing blow on the head.  All lights and circuits turned off; the machine had been defeated. Tyr removed the blade from his thigh; blood flowed like lava from a volcano. He stood up, and took out some runes, which he threw on the ground. The suddenly he gave a long and deep howl, and invocated his psytech abilities. The wound began to heal by itself.

The light inside the Acropolis, though artificial burned, Tyr could feel it on his fur, those orange toned rays playing with his long silver mane. He stood and gazed at the Acropolis. “The job is not over,” he thought, and walked back towards the terminal’s chamber. Tyr heard a sound, using his remaining psytech; he used celerity, and dodged a cold ray of energy. The biot had managed to fire one deadly shot of energy, before it collapsed.

By the time, Tyr, turned, the biot was dropping to the ground, and this time for good. The Mythic smiled, an “oni” had protected him again from the beyond. Unfortunately the smiled was short lived, when turned he realized that the machine had aimed at the terminal, and not at him. The werewolf ran towards the terminal as fast as a crow flies, he prayed to Llwy, that the biot had missed.

Wallenstein’s body was scattered around the terminal. One of his hand s was on one of the monitor’s, which Tyr realized were still operational.  The harvester was nowhere in sight. The mythic walked towards one of the other seats, and shoved the body that sat there, and took it for him. Tyr took a deep breath, and made the preparations to dive.

Tyr’s body took nano-seconds to materialize in the neuronet. He appeared in the inside of the library, which was so large that he couldn’t see the end of it. He walked and arrived at the exterior of a Doric temple. A staircase led to an outside altar where the bodies of the squadron lay. Next to them was the remain of an Erinye, a guardian of the neuronet. A chill ran down Tyr’s back, he knew that they were fearsome opponents.  “They defeated her? But how?” he asked himself.

The mythic walked towards the altar. Placed on the altar was a box. Tyr stared at it, “So many doomed to wander the neuronet because of a stupid box?” he thought. A tear ran down his jaw. Tyr extended his claw, and grabbed the box when he felt something take hold of his ankle. He looked down, and saw Wallenstein’s avatar; “Sir…don’t do it. It’s a tra…” The Promethean’s avatar vanished, but not before Tyr noticed the wounds on the torso, it was different to the others, identical to the Erinye’s. The werewolf took out his mace, and looked around; the temple was deserted; only the scattered bodies around the shrine paid the Mythic any company. Tyr growled, he knew somebody else was present. “Come out,” screamed the Mythic warlord. When he finished howling this, a grey cloud formed in the sky. Tyr watched as this cloud assumed the shape of a grey human, “You are not part of Athena …”

Master Resourcer Golden About was sitting down when they knocked on his door. “Come in,” he said without turning to see who it was. Three figures walked in, 2 were huge, and almost 3 metres tall, and their arms were almost as think as a tree’s trunk. The third figure was smaller, and decrepit, it was Trunhit, who placed a package on Abot’s desk. The Master Resourcer said nothing; he raised his hand and signalled them to withdraw, which the three quickly did. As soon as he was alone, Abot turned around, and placed his hand over the package, a wide grin formed on his face. He opened the box. Inside it was a holo-disk containing a neuroprint. “The turn of the tide,” the Master Resourcer chuckled.

By J.Zandi