Neyza’s stolen enforcer rifle, still smoking faintly at the muzzle, remained locked on Bozkar’s chest. Her throat spasmed around a ragged, swallowed scream. Grease and carbon streaked her cheekbones, framing a split from temple to chin that wept black fluid into her collar. Her irises reflected the phosphorus burn of the slagged hound behind him. She tracked Bozkar's hands as he raised them, the arcano-pistol hanging loose from his index finger. “Well, that was certainly a dramatic entrance,” Bozkar drawled, his voice a low thrum of forced casualness. “Though I confess, a thank you might have been more conventional. Perhaps a polite inquiry as to why I’m currently wading through the entrails of a mechanical dog you just fragged?” Neyza’s lip curled, a flash of white teeth visible beneath the grime. “A thank you? For what, Bozkar? For throwing me into this godsforsaken pit? For framing me, for ruining my life, for watching with that smug, dead expression as the Arch-Magistrate’s enforcers dragged me away like some common gutter-scavenger?” Her voice was a low growl, each word laced with venom, the accusation a physical blow in the close confines of the ventilation shaft. He managed a brittle smile. “Smug? My dear, you wound me. I assure you, my expression was one of profound artistic appreciation for the chaos I’d so meticulously crafted. And besides, if you’re looking for someone to thank, I believe *I* just saved you from becoming dog food a moment ago.” He gestured vaguely at the mangled automaton behind him. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” She took a step forward, the rifle’s muzzle dipping slightly, then snapping back up. “Always with the pretty words, the veiled insults. Always hiding behind that mask of disinterest.” Her gaze swept over his tailored suit, now torn and stained, and a bitter laugh escaped her lips. “What, did you think you could play the hero now? After everything? What fresh hell is this, Bozkar? Another one of your intricate traps, perhaps? A new, more inventive way to watch me suffer?” Bozkar let his hands fall, though the pistol remained gripped. His sarcastic detachment, usually an impenetrable shield, was crumbling under the raw force of her rage. This wasn't the refined, poised Arch-Daughter he’d spent three years cultivating. This was something feral, something forged in the fires of betrayal and survival. And it was aimed squarely at him. “Suffering? You have no idea,” he muttered, his voice losing some of its practiced edge. “Look, I know this looks bad, but there’s a purge timer, Neyza. Six hours. This entire facility goes up in a thermal explosion. I’m here to get you out. We need to move.” “Purge timer?” She scoffed, her laugh echoing hollowly. “You expect me to believe you, Bozkar? The man who constructed a three-year lie just to watch me fall? What is this, some twisted reverse psychology? ‘Oh, save me, Neyza, from the consequences of my own actions’?” She shook her head, a tremor running through her frame. “No. Not this time.” “There’s no time for this, Neyza!” Fendur’s voice crackled through Bozkar’s comm-bead, tight with urgency. “Bozkar, get her moving. We’re losing the window on Sector Four’s pressure conduits!” Neyza’s eyes narrowed, her focus shifting momentarily to the small comm-bead nestled in Bozkar’s ear. “Fendur, is it? Your faithful hound, always at your heel. Always ready to do your dirty work.” She paused, a new, terrifying glint entering her gaze. “You know, I always wondered what your game was, Bozkar. What could possibly drive someone to such elaborate, sadistic lengths? Was it profit? Power? Or just the sheer, unadulterated pleasure of destruction?” A knot of bile tightened in Bozkar's stomach. This wasn’t going to be easy. No amount of sarcasm, no hurried explanation, would penetrate this wall of pain he’d built around her. He took a hesitant step forward, hoping to bridge the gap, to explain, to grovel, to do *anything* to make her understand. “Neyza, please. Whatever you think–” A deafening crack ripped through the air. The arcano-rifle recoiled in Neyza’s hands. A searing pain blossomed in Bozkar’s left thigh, blossoming outward from a fist-sized crater where the fabric of his trousers had just been. He stumbled, a strangled cry escaping his lips, and dropped to one knee, the pistol clattering uselessly on the metal grates. He looked up, teeth grinding through a grunt of agony. She’d actually done it. She’d shot him. And the fury in her eyes hadn't diminished, if anything, it had intensified. “That,” she snarled, her voice trembling with barely contained emotion, “is for every sleepless night I spent wondering why. That’s for every twisted smile you gave me, every poisoned compliment. Now,” she pressed the rifle’s muzzle against his forehead, the cold steel a stark contrast to the burning pain in his leg, “you’re going to tell me *everything*. Why, Bozkar? Why did you ruin my life?” Bozkar swallowed, the metallic tang of fear and pain filling his mouth. He looked into her eyes, seeing the full, devastating scope of her heartbreak, the depth of the wound he had inflicted. He wanted to tell her, to confess the truth about the plague, about Yaldor, about his own stupid, blinding vengeance. He wanted to beg for forgiveness, to explain that the love he felt for her now, even through the guilt and self-loathing, was agonizingly real. But before he could utter a single word, a low, grinding rumble vibrated through the floor. The air pressure shifted, a sudden, violent displacement that sent dust motes dancing. From either end of the ventilation shaft, immense blast doors, thick slabs of reinforced durasteel, began to descend with terrifying speed. They slammed shut with a concussive thud that rattled his teeth, plunging the section of the shaft they occupied into near-total darkness, illuminated only by the faint, emergency glow-strips that flickered to life along the walls. Bozkar and Neyza were sealed inside, alone. The exhaust fans ground to a halt, leaving the air reeking of ozone and scorched brass. Then, Fendur’s voice, no longer urgent, but laced with a chilling, triumphant malice, cut through the comm-bead. “Well, Bozkar, it seems you’ve managed to finally catch up to her,” Fendur purred, his voice amplified, echoing not just in Bozkar’s ear, but through the re-purposed comm-system of the sealed-off Sector 4. “Such a shame about the leg. Looks like she still has a little fight left in her. Pity it won’t make a difference.” Bozkar stared, aghast, at the closed blast doors. “Fendur, what in the hells are you doing? Open these doors! The purge—” “Oh, the purge is already well underway, my old friend,” Fendur interrupted, a soft, chilling chuckle following his words. “But not in the way Yaldor intended. He thought he could contain it, didn’t he? That pathetic old fool, sacrificing so much for ‘the greater good’.” A wet, visceral gurgle sounded over the comm, followed by a sickening crack. “He never understood. Some things aren’t meant to be contained. Some things are meant to *spread*.” Neyza flinched, her rifle still pointed at Bozkar, but her gaze now darted wildly around the sealed chamber, a dawning horror twisting her features. She heard it too. The crackle of Fendur’s true colours. “The Arch-Magistrate’s plague was always meant to finish what his predecessor started,” Fendur continued, his voice growing in intensity, a manic glee bleeding into his tone. “And now, with the cognitive strain unleashed directly into Tartarus, it will. A perfect, final solution for Zhaengor’s ‘threats’.” Another chilling laugh. “The plague doesn’t leave this pit, and neither does his daughter.”

Blood and Chrome