Breathing felt like swallowing glass. Apollo fell to one knee, the cold metal floor of the docking bay pressing against his palms. His blood ran sluggish, cold, devoid of the familiar thrum of his vampiric grace. Every muscle in his torso locked up, screaming under a sudden, artificial gravity that felt ten times heavier than usual. The dampener field radiated a sickly green glow, washing over his skin and draining his energy like a leech. Apollo squeezed his eyes shut, trying to summon even a drop of his dark power, but there was only a vast, hollow emptiness inside him. He was completely cut off. The beast that usually snarled beneath his skin had been forced into a deep, drug-induced sleep. "Stand up, Apollo," Lyra hissed from behind a stack of rusted shipping containers. Her voice was a strained whisper, competing with the heavy hum of the Celestial dampening field. She was clutching a heavy wrench, her knuckles white as she watched the outer bay doors hiss open. Her eyes darted from him to the approaching threat, terror written in every line of her face. Heavy, leaden, completely human. That was what he felt like now—a fragile, breakable human. His fangs had receded back into his gums, leaving a dull ache that throbbed in time with his racing heartbeat. Sweat dripped from his brow, stinging his eyes as he stared at his trembling hands. He had spent years running from his past, relying on his dark gifts to keep everyone at arm's length, but now he was utterly naked and defenseless. White-armored soldiers stepped through the security threshold. Their breastplates gleamed under the flickering fluorescent lights of the hangar. Each of them carried a long, crystalline energy pike that crackled with blue-white plasma. They moved in perfect unison, a terrifying wall of imperial steel and clinical execution. Commander Xylos watched from the elevated observation deck, his metallic eyes reflecting the dim emergency lights. A cold sneer curled his lips. He didn't even need to draw a weapon; the suppressors were doing all the work, neutralizing any biological anomalies within a fifty-meter radius. To Xylos, Apollo was just an insect waiting to be pinned to a specimen board. "Seize him," Xylos's voice boomed through the PA system, synthetic and hollow. "Secure the artifact. Kill the girl if she interferes. We have no use for scavengers." Two elite guards advanced, their steps synchronized. They moved with the brutal efficiency of machines, their boots clicking against the steel plating. Their faces were hidden behind reflective silver visors, offering no hint of mercy or humanity. Clenching his teeth, Apollo forced his legs to lock. He stood, though his knees trembled. He reached into his coat jacket, his fingers brushing against the cold, jagged edge of the obsidian artifact. It felt inert, a heavy piece of dead stone in his hand, mocking him with its silence. He gripped it tightly, hoping for a miracle, but the stone remained cold. "Come on," he muttered, squeezing the black stone until the edges bit into his palm. "Give me something. Anything. I can't die in a dump like this." Nothing happened. Only the mocking hum of the dampening field answered him, vibrating through his teeth and making his skull ache with a dull, throbbing migraine. The air felt thick, saturated with ozone and static electricity that made his skin crawl. First guard lunged. The energy pike whistled through the air, aimed directly at Apollo’s shoulder with blinding speed. Usually, Apollo would have slipped past the strike like a wisp of smoke, his vampiric speed turning the soldier’s momentum against him. Now, his mind registered the attack, but his body lagged behind, trapped in a slow-motion nightmare. He threw himself to the left, barely avoiding the lethal tip. The searing heat of the plasma blade singed the fabric of his coat, leaving a smoking tear and the smell of burnt wool. He stumbled, his balance completely shot without his heightened senses. A heavy boot slammed into his ribs before he could recover. The force of the kick sent him crashing into a stack of metal crates. He coughed, spitting a metallic mouthful of red onto the floor, his ribs screaming in agony. One of them was definitely cracked, sending sharp waves of pain through his chest with every breath. "Apollo!" Lyra’s scream cut through the din. She was kneeling by a power distributor, her hands flying over a portable terminal. Stolen energy cells—glowing cylinders of condensed plasma—lay scattered around her feet, their blue light illuminating her desperate face. "Keep them off me!" he yelled back, his voice hoarse and wet with blood. He scrambled to his feet just as the second guard brought his pike down in a vertical arc meant to split him in two. Roll to the right. The weapon struck the metal floor, leaving a molten white scar in the iron deck and showering him with hot sparks. Apollo scrambled up, his hands scraping against the rough floor. Desperate, Apollo lunged forward. He threw a punch aimed at the guard’s throat, putting all his remaining weight behind the strike. It was a street fighter's move, born of panic rather than strategy. His fist connected with the reinforced collarbone armor. A sharp, sickening crack echoed through his wrist. He gasped, pain flaring up his arm as he stumbled back, his hand throbbing and instantly swelling. Laughing, the guard stepped closer. The soldier grabbed Apollo by his collar, lifting him off his feet with terrifying ease. Apollo kicked out, but his boots bounced harmlessly off the heavy chest armor. "Pathetic," the guard grunted, his face hidden behind a polarized visor. "You are nothing without your stolen blood. Just another piece of trash from the outer rims." He threw Apollo across the bay. Apollo hit the floor hard, sliding several feet before coming to a stop near the generator conduit. Every bone in his body felt bruised. His vision blurred at the edges, a dark haze threatening to pull him under. He could hear his own ragged breathing, loud and pathetic in his ears. Fear, sharp and icy, gripped his chest. He had always relied on his unnatural speed and strength to survive. Without them, he was just an orphan from the slums, waiting to be discarded. The thought of dying here, unremembered and alone, sparked a cold flame of resentment deep within his gut. He looked over at Lyra, realizing that if he fell, she would be next. Losing his power reminded him of the cold nights in the Orphanage of Animarium, when he was just a nameless kid hiding under thin blankets, listening to the bombs fall in the distance. He had promised himself he would never be that helpless again, that he would build a fortress around his heart and his life so thick that no one could ever cast him out or leave him behind. Yet here he was, bleeding out on a dirty hangar floor while the galaxy's worst tyrants prepared to execute him. Across the room, Lyra ripped a panel off the wall. She was trying to hotwire the main grid, her fingers trembling as she spliced raw wires together, ignoring the stray sparks that singed her fingertips. "Just a few more seconds!" she shouted, her eyes wide with panic as she glanced at him. "I'm bypassing the safety protocols!" Another guard approached Apollo, raising his spear for a final, piercing strike. The plasma tip hummed, glowing brighter as it gathered charge, ready to end his life. Apollo tried to scramble backward, but his boots slipped on his own blood. He looked up at the descending blade, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. This was it. The end of his short, miserable existence. "No!" Lyra screamed. She grabbed three of the stolen energy cells and jammed them directly into the exposed power grid. Sparks erupted from the terminal. A violent, blue electrical arc leaped from the panel, snaking across the ceiling and shattering several light fixtures. Sirens began to wail throughout the hangar, their red lights casting a bloody hue over the scene. The heavy, oppressive hum of the dampening field suddenly faltered, dropping an octave into a low, dying whine as the grid overloaded. Suddenly, a rush of heat surged through Apollo's veins. It was like liquid fire pouring into his dead limbs, reigniting his dormant power. His fangs snapped out, pressing against his lower lip. His pupils dilated, swallowing the blue light of the hangar. The pain in his wrist vanished as the bones snapped back into place with a sickening pop. Strength flooded his muscles, a rich, dark wave of energy that felt both alien and intensely intimate. He could hear the rapid heartbeat of the guards, could smell the copper tang of his own spilled blood on the floor, and could see the microscopic dust motes suspended in the air. The world slowed down to a crawl, turning from a terrifying gauntlet into a playground where he held all the cards. Before the guard's spear could touch his chest, Apollo caught the shaft with his bare hand. The plasma burned his palm, but the skin healed almost instantly, sizzling as his vampiric regeneration kicked in. "My turn," Apollo growled, his voice dropping to a low, predatory rasp. With a wrenching pull, he yanked the spear from the guard's grip. He spun, driving his elbow into the soldier's visor. Glass shattered. The guard collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut, his body sliding across the floor. Apollo vaulted over the fallen soldier, a feral grin spreading across his face. The sheer rush of power was intoxicating, a vibrant contrast to the crushing weakness of moments ago. He felt alive again, a predator in his natural element. Another guard lunged, but to Apollo, the man moved in slow motion. He easily stepped inside the guard's defense, grabbing the man's throat and slamming him into the nearest support pillar with enough force to dent the steel. "Lyra, get to the ship!" Apollo shouted, his eyes scanning the remaining soldiers. She didn't need to be told twice. She grabbed her pack, dodging behind a row of crates as the hangar continued to shake from the power overload. "Stop him!" Xylos roared from the balcony, his voice cracking with uncharacteristic rage. "The dampeners are resetting! Kill him now!" Indeed, the blue sparks on the wall were fading. The hum of the dampeners began to pitch upward again, whining as the automated systems tried to stabilize the grid and suppress his abilities once more. Apollo felt the strength beginning to bleed from his limbs once more. The heavy weight returned to his chest, his vision narrowing as the cold, human vulnerability threatened to drag him back down. Desperate, he reached into his pocket and gripped the obsidian artifact, hoping to draw some kind of power from it before the dampening field locked down completely. As the dampeners momentarily fail, the obsidian artifact in Apollo's hand thrums violently, showing him a brief, clear vision of a towering figure wielding a thunderbolt, their face identical to his own, but filled with a terrifying, ancient rage.

Chapter 13: Dampened Power, Desperate Measures