The hidden utility tunnel reeked of stale air and forgotten maintenance, a stark contrast to the sterile, imposing hallways above. Radek wiped grime from a rusted pipe, his comm-unit clutched tight. Iona stood guard by the makeshift entrance, her combat fatigues blending into the shadows, a silent sentinel. Corvin’s broadcast still echoed in his mind, her chilling offer a ghost he couldn’t shake. His “No” felt like a pebble thrown at a mountain, yet it had been the only answer. “They’re here,” Iona murmured, her voice a low vibration. Radek tensed. Footfalls, hesitant and uneven, scuffed on concrete. A dozen figures emerged from the gloom, blinking in the dim glow of Radek’s portable lamp. They were the discarded, the misfits, students whose assigned skills were deemed irrelevant by the Bastion’s brutal metric. A girl with nimble fingers, a ‘Textile Weaver’ named Lena, clutched a spool of thread like a weapon. A broad-shouldered young man, ‘Terraformer’ Kenneth, had soil under his fingernails and a wilting seedling in his pocket. Beside him, a slight, bespectacled boy, ‘Cryptographer’ Fenn, squinted nervously, his hand hovering over a datapad. “Radek Vanya, Iona Caldar,” Lena stated, her voice surprisingly firm for one so slight. “Prefect Corvin declared you both traitors. Why are you here, in our sanctuary?” “Because we’re all targets,” Radek said, his voice hoarse from the dust. “Cyrus was captured. He found evidence of Corvin’s experiments, her true agenda. She’s creating monsters, using us as raw material. We need to fight back.” Fenn scoffed, a dry, humorless sound. “Fight back? With what? Lena can mend a tear in a uniform. Kenneth can make a patch of grass grow. I can decode a transmission—if it’s not too encrypted. We’re useless. We’re the Fallen.” “No,” Radek countered, stepping forward. “You’re undervalued. Your skills are just… misapplied. I can help you change that. All of you.” He gestured to the scattered crates of abandoned supplies, the detritus of a forgotten storeroom. “What if I told you I could turn these into something that could make you stronger? Lastingly stronger?” Skepticism rippled through the group. Kenneth scowled. “More snake oil? We’ve heard it all before. Special training regimens, forgotten techniques… it’s always a lie.” “It’s not a lie,” Iona interjected, her presence cutting through the doubt like a blade. “I’ve seen what Radek can do. I’ve felt it. He made me stronger than any training ever could.” Her gaze swept over them, daring them to disbelieve her. The top-ranked combatant’s endorsement carried weight, even among the rejected. Radek pulled out a dented, corroded metal canister. “What’s in here, Kenneth?” Kenneth squinted at the faded label. “A nutrient growth medium. For cultivating fungal spores in sterile environments. Worthless outside a lab.” Radek ran his thumb over the canister. A faint blue shimmer emanated from his hand. He focused. He could feel the latent potential, the suppressed properties. The interface pulsed. [Nutrient Growth Medium (Grade: D-)]: A synthetic substrate. Contains concentrated bio-accelerants. Latent property: Cellular Fortification. Potential culinary use: Binding Agent, Potent Gelling Agent. “Not worthless,” Radek corrected. “Just misunderstood.” He turned to Lena. “You have needles, thread, anything sharp?” The feast began with an improbable silence. Radek worked with a focused intensity, adapting to the primitive conditions. He instructed Kenneth to prepare a crude, high-heat kiln from scrap plating and rusted pipes, turning it into an impromptu oven. Fenn, surprisingly agile, scavenged for clean water. Lena, her delicate fingers surprisingly strong, carved rough utensils from scavenged plastic. Iona watched Radek, a shadow at his side, handing him tools, protecting his blind spots. He opened the growth medium, its earthy scent filling the tunnel. He combined it with desiccated fungal caps, their fibrous bodies usually only good for packing material. He added a handful of shriveled, nutrient-depleted ‘Corvin-Greens’—the official, tasteless rations—and a few drops of a viscous liquid he’d extracted from a castoff vial of sterilizing solution, its true purpose now revealed by his skill. He folded, mixed, heated, and simmered. “What is this?” Lena asked, eyeing the bubbling concoction with suspicion. It looked like a gray, viscous paste, far from appetizing. “‘Foundation Broth’,” Radek announced, ladling it into cracked mugs. “Eat it all. Every last drop.” They hesitated, then, driven by a desperate hope, began to eat. A gasp escaped Fenn’s lips. Lena stared down at her trembling palms. [+1 Dexterity] [+1 Endurance] Lena stared at her hands, flexing her fingers. “My… my hands feel lighter. Faster.” She picked up a loose thread, and with a blur, re-wove it into a torn seam on her sleeve, the needle a silver streak. Kenneth swallowed his portion. A grunt escaped him. [+1 Constitution] [+1 Resilience] His skin seemed to harden, his muscles coiling. He slammed a fist into an empty metal barrel. The barrel dented. His hand remained unmarked. Radek grinned, a genuine, wide grin he hadn’t felt since before the Convergence. This was it. This was the payback. He cooked again, with scavenged beast-marrow—bones deemed too old, too dry for consumption by the Bastion’s quartermasters—turning them into a rich, savory stew. He found withered roots and tubers, processing them into crunchy, revitalizing chips. Each dish brought gasps, exclamations, and the triumphant ding of the interface. [+1 Perception] [+1 Fortitude] [+1 Agility] The utility tunnel transformed. The despair evaporated, replaced by incredulous laughter and a rising tide of confidence. Lena’s needles flashed with impossible speed, repairing, modifying, strengthening. Kenneth’s touch on the concrete now seemed to coax it, his movements imbued with a strange, earthy power. Fenn, his glasses glinting, began to reconfigure a salvaged comms unit with a speed and insight that bordered on precognition. They ate, they grew, they transformed. The Fallen were falling no more. They were rising. Their skills, once useless, now intertwined with newfound physical prowess, felt potent, dangerous. A sudden clatter at the entrance made them freeze. Iona was instantly coiled, a predator ready to spring. A figure stumbled into the light, blood streaking his face, his uniform torn and filthy. It was a battered cadet. He looked utterly broken, his arrogance stripped away, leaving only raw, desperate fear. He saw Radek, then Iona, then the gathered, newly formidable students. He staggered forward, collapsing to his knees, his voice a ragged whisper. “She… she took everything. Corvin. She sent me out, left me for dead. She said… she said I was an embarrassment. Please. Let me fight. Let me help you kill her.”

Feast of the Fallen