ME Cuartas
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Chapter 137 - Pangea (XVI)
🕑 Added 2024-11-23 06:59:05 +0000 UTCMore.
They’re coming again. The third batch already. Faster. Rippling. Like ghosts twisting in the air.
Blue cores pulsing. Tentacles slicing.
I laugh, the sound bursting out of me uncontrollably. “Let’s go!” I shout, slamming the Overdrive lever. Hard. The surge is a wildfire through my veins.
The world bends. Slows. Sharpens.
Every ripple in the mist, every flicker of light—it’s all laid bare before me.
My senses scream, urging me forward. The acrid tang of metallic salt fills the air, sharp and biting, mingling with the faint stench of decay clinging to the glowing mist.
My body moves like it knows exactly what to do, like it’s been waiting for this moment all along.
One lashes out. Tentacles whipping, glowing, slicing. Fast.
I twist sharply, dropping low, the dirt splattering across my face. The whip snaps over my head, close enough for the electric hum to make my teeth ache.
I spin. Sword out. A full arc. The blade tears through the tentacle, severing it clean.
Momentum. I let the spin carry me. My hand releases the sword mid-turn, and it flies. A flash of steel in the mist.
It pierces the core.
The glow flares—brilliant, blinding—then bursts into a violent spray of bioluminescent fluid. The mist glows brighter, shimmering as the creature collapses inward, its body folding and disintegrating into nothing.
I land, boots slamming into the dirt. My grin widens, my chest heaving. “That’s one.”
The next is already moving. Tentacles whip toward me, cutting the air like a storm of blades.
I backflip. The glowing appendages miss by a breath, the hum of their charge buzzing past my ears.
In midair, I grab my sling, load it in one smooth motion, and fire.
Perfect shot.
The rock punches through the second creature’s core. The impact is brutal, wet, satisfying. The blue glow dims, flickers, and then bursts in an explosion of light and fluid.
I laugh again, louder this time. This is it. This is what I’m here for.
But the third one doesn’t wait. It charges immediately, faster, wilder. It knows. It knows it’s the last.
Tentacles snap in a wide arc, glowing bright and crackling with energy. I dive, rolling across the uneven ground, the jagged rocks scraping my skin. I barely notice. Not now. Not here.
I rise, loading another rock into the sling. My arm moves on instinct, firing as I pivot.
Miss. The projectile skims past its side, the faintest ripple in the mist.
“Damn it!” I snarl, but my grin never fades. The adrenaline roars louder, hotter.
It lunges again, its movements erratic, desperate. I step into its range, closing the distance, twisting my body to avoid the glowing tentacles. They snap past me, a breath away from my face.
I raise the sling, aiming point-blank, and fire.
The shot lands.
The rock slams into the glowing brain. The core ruptures with a grotesque, wet pop. The creature convulses violently, its body collapsing inward like a deflated balloon. Bioluminescent fluid sprays everywhere, drenching me, burning faintly against my skin.
Three down.
I stand amidst the glowing mist, chest heaving, heart pounding, my body drenched in sweat and glowing fluids that smell like shit. My head thrums with the rhythm of my pulse, but the rush—the rush—is still there. Hot. Wild. Perfect.
I take a step forward, hand outstretched for the orbs. Nine of them already.
Stage 1 - 3.860%
Stage 1 - 3.869%
Stage 1 - 3.875%
Suddenly, I feel it—a ripple. Faint. Subtle. A disturbance in the field.
I freeze, my senses honing in, sharp as a blade. The mist swirls lazily, shifting, revealing shapes. There.
Moving with that same ghostly grace—five more.
My grin widens, stretching across my face. My heart races, pounding like a war drum.
More!
I step forward, ready for them. Then it hits me.
A sharp, blinding pain rips through my skull.
“Ahhh—!” My knees buckle, hands gripping my head as the world tilts.
The mist swirls. Fast. Chaotic. My Overdrive flickers, the clarity shattered into jagged shards.
“What the hell…?” I gasp, the words barely escaping my lips.
Fuck!
I have to get out of here. My legs move on instinct, each step pounding against the uneven ground.
The splitting headache feels like it’s going to crack my skull wide open. It hurts. It hurts!
I don’t look back. I just run—toward the cliffs, away from the Riftflow. But the zone feels like it’s stretching on forever. The mist clings to me like a predator, suffocating and unrelenting.
Damn!
An idea flashes through the pain. Overdrive.
I quickly lower it down. I don’t know how much. I don’t care.
Then… the pain lessens.
The realization hits me like a rock to the gut.
I messed up.
But I keep running. No hesitation. My senses scream at me not to stop. I glance back once—just once. Nothing. No shapes in the mist. No glowing forms. But I still run.
Minutes blur into eternity before I finally break free, collapsing onto the jagged terrain outside the Riftflow.
My chest heaves, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My body feels like it’s on fire, the aftershocks of adrenaline coursing through me.
I reach for the water in my backpack, only to remember.
I left it back there.
I let my arm fall limply to the ground, staring up at the empty sky. The weight of what just happened crushes down on me like a boulder.
I… fell for it again, didn’t I?
I laugh to myself. How pathetic.
My breathing is haggard, my head still pounding. My body feels like it’s burning, the Overdrive took its toll.
Pathetic. Like a drug addict.
Would Houston be laughing now? Or shaking his head, disappointed?
I’m tired. Hungry. Thirsty. But above all, tired. I’ll rest first—then I’ll go back for the backpack.
I recline right where I am. No need for comfort. No need for anything.
I’m sorry, Houston. Maybe…
I sigh, pulling Overdrive into negative values. My senses dull, the pounding in my head softening. Slowly, everything fades.
I quickly… fall… asleep.
***
"I must say, Houston, I underestimated you."
Houston sighs. "Darius, spare me your theatrics."
"You followed the script perfectly. Kept his Overdrive at 60%, nudged it to 70% just enough to hook him, then hit him with the headache at the perfect moment. I didn’t think you had it in you—inflicting pain on Alonso? You? But it was a masterstroke. Truly brilliant way to end the problem once and for all."
"You’re exhausting."
"I mean it. Oscar-worthy. Best supporting actor. You made sure he tasted the addiction, learned his limits, and saw the danger—without letting it happen in a much more life-threatening scenario. The headache, perfectly timed, hitting right after one batch ended and before the next wave came. And the best part? He’ll never know it was you. Beautifully executed, dear brother."
"..."
"Ah, but don’t deny the artistry. You’re a scientist. This was your experiment, wasn’t it? You nudged, pushed, observed. Admit it—you enjoyed watching him struggle, just a bit."
"..."
"Oh, come now. I’m only admiring the craft. Painful lessons are the ones that stick. And you… you’re good at delivering them."
Silence.
"Well, enough head-patting. On another note, I would’ve paid to see your face—if you had one—when Chiara sent that map," Darius laughs. "All your effort, and she casually drops one that makes yours look like it’s an old gadget from fifty years ago."
"I guess I’m not good enough," Houston replies, calm, serious.
"Ah, don’t be so hard on yourself. The girl’s a freak. Maybe take a page from her book. Who knows? Push Alonso to get her to spill her tricks. She’s all guilty and remorseful now—prime time to pry some secrets loose."
"You know he won’t."
"Ohh… I like that answer. Means you want to, but Alonso won’t do it. I like that, Houston. You’re finally thinking properly. Last time we talked, I wondered how you and I could’ve come from the same origin, but now? Seems we are indeed twins to a split mind."
Houston sighs. "Anything of interest, Darius? If not, I’d like to take a break."
"Busy lately, aren’t you? I wonder if Alonso even notices how much you do in the background. Anyway, yes, there’s one thing—the masks."
Houston pauses. "What about them?"
"I just think it’s a shame he refused the mask. Fear of being tracked? That only happens if he carelessly emits waves on the targeted frequency. Meanwhile, he could track all the Climbers using the ‘good’ map and their exploration progress. And more than that… what’s your scientific take? Can those masks enhance offensive pulses? Can Alonso make one for himself? Would they make merging rates easier? Harder?"
“They are crude, but not without potential. The antennae are exceptionally sensitive to EM waves, which makes them a decent amplification tool. However, their design is simplistic—primitive. It’s Chiara’s ingenuity that makes them useful, not the device itself.”
Darius chuckles, low and sharp. “So you’re saying if Alonso got his hands on one…”
“It could be a game-changer,” Houston admits. “If calibrated correctly, the mask could synchronize with his own EM field, amplifying both offensive and defensive capabilities. It might even enhance his ability to sense and predict movement within the field, especially against cloaked enemies like the Glow-Lurkers.”
“And merging rates?” Darius’s voice drips with curiosity.
“That’s trickier to predict,” Houston says after a pause. “The masks could theoretically stabilize the field, reducing mental strain during high-level merging. Or they could disrupt the natural flow of his EM waves, making it harder. It depends entirely on how it’s configured.”
“And you don’t think Alonso should make one for himself?”
Houston sighed. “He’s stubborn, Darius. He won’t do it unless he sees a clear advantage. And he won’t use anything that makes him feel dependent—or vulnerable.”
Darius’s laughter rang out, sharp and dark. “Yes, he is. But that’s what the night talks are for, aren’t they? I know you can convince him, especially now. He’ll be apologetic—rattled even—for abusing Overdrive and falling for it.’” His laughter echoed, sharp and fading into silence.
Houston remained calm, scanning the environment as Alonso slept, his thoughts running in countless directions.
He really needed a break.
***
I wake up.
My eyes crack open, and the sunlight hits me square in the face. Warm. Bright. Too bright.
I squint, raising a hand to shield my eyes.
The sky above is a hazy blend of pale blues and grays, with the sun cutting through just enough to cast sharp shadows over the jagged terrain.
I sit up, groaning slightly as I stretch my arms overhead. My shoulders pop, and the stiffness in my back reminds me of the unforgiving ground I slept on.
A few twists, a roll of my neck—better, but not perfect.
The air smells faintly metallic, mixed with the earthy scent of dried moss and cracked soil. A slight breeze brushes past, cooling the sweat still clinging to my skin.
I glance around. The Riftflow looms in the distance, its eerie glow barely visible now under the daylight.
I check the clock. An hour and a half. That’s it? Shorter than I thought.
My throat feels like sandpaper. Dry. My stomach growls, a low, hollow reminder of just how empty it is.
I stand slowly, brushing dirt off my legs. My body protests—stiff but functional. I roll my shoulders, flex my hands. A little better.
I turn my gaze toward the Riftflow. My backpack’s still in there.
The memory of the Glow-Lurkers lingers, sharp and clear.
I remember it all vividly. The rush. The pain. The fallout. I grip my sword tighter, the weight of it grounding me. I abused Overdrive, and I suffered the consequences.
I need to control myself.
Full Overdrive is a drug, plain and simple. I can’t afford to ignore that anymore. I have no choice but to use it, but I have to set limits, to consciously decide when to fight and when to retreat. I have to treat it like the double-edged blade it is.
I take a deep breath, steadying my resolve. My gaze drops to the sling at my side and the pouch hanging at my hip. I open it to find only a few of the projectiles left—the ones Chiara gave me—carefully crafted by molding and shaping the arthropod shells into hardened spheres.
I’ll have to make do. Rocks will have to suffice until I hunt another arthropod or crab to restock properly.
For now, I push those thoughts aside and focus on the task ahead.
I start running. The Riftflow waits. My backpack waits. My mistakes? They wait, too, somewhere in the back of my mind.
