In Eden's Shadow

by Amanda Churi

  I sliced the buckles.

  He never took his eyes off me. His charged body slowly separated from mine, and the fateful plummet began. He didn’t flail—didn’t scream. He let the air carry him down to Earth, his horrified expression doing all the crying for him as he processed his impending known yet unknown fate.

  And I just watched, the betrayal that became his death pulling a victorious smirk across my face. One down.

  His electrified body had just barely tickled the earth, but that was all it took for him to detonate on the spot.

  I was blown away—a bullet in a barrel. The amethyst sphere of Korbu’s fallen life smashed into me, the wall of power shooting me up and hurling me inside a building far away from ground zero. The wooden wings shattered as my back collided with a concrete wall, their tightly-woven structure being the only thing to save me from meeting him in the void.

  I remained on my side as flashing electrical currents continued to swarm the frigid, open air, both the earth and sky painted a neon purple. I could not stop panting, letting my head hit the ground in relief. My heightened senses were gradually returning to their normal levels, but my pulse remained at its limit.

  My first thought was to work up some fake tears, but then I realized how pathetic that was—crying would have probably made my story far more illegitimate because of what a stiff I was. Hell, Korbu didn’t even cry knowing that his existence had reached its end.

  I sat up, steadying my breathing and resting my hand on Coruscus for strength as my weapon came to a soft glow. The fledglings were still overactive, no doubt closer to their inevitable freedom with that new influx of power, but I just had to hang on a bit longer… Just long enough to blast Gannon into the depths himself.

  Hobbling over to the bare, concrete window frame and leaning against it, I overlooked the city. Not going to lie, I was quite impressed by how much damage Korbu’s “sacrifice” brought about.

  The outskirts had been a pitiful area to begin with, rampant with poverty and filth, but it was a clean slate now—nothing within a radius of several hundred feet from the site of impact was left standing. Had I not had Pinion’s thin barrier, I doubt that my ashes would have even remained.

  The entire thing had turned out far better than expected.

  I leaned forward, calculating approximately how high off the ground I was—maybe only a few hundred feet, not a big deal for someone of my caliber. From my current elevation, though, I could see something suspicious crawling across the earth—things that looked like humans but had a distinct difference in their physique. A good sniff reinforced the oddness—they reeked of plasma and raw flesh, invisible waves pulsing off their beings as they leaped from one mound of rubble to another, sniffing, scanning robotically with their eyes for a certain something that I was sure was us.

  A distant, subtle green spark amongst the falling debris and light particles caught my eye. I saw it once more as a bullet of green shot across the battlefield and straight into the head of a robotic creature, the force of impact breaking its neck and killing the fiend instantly.

  The vast majority of the broken, land-locked Encryptors bolted away in the opposite direction of the growing horde, but there were those left behind—some out of choice to fight and buy time, others having to resign to death due to their extensive injuries.

  I squeezed Coruscus’ cord tighter. I did not have a good cognitive map of this shithole, unlike the others. I could have ditched them now; it would have been ideal so that I could do things my own way, but in the end, I had to trust them to lead me to Gannon—with him living, I could never take control.

  I readjusted my broken flyer, curling my claws around the attached grenades, and with a wicked, tempted smile, I jumped.

  ***

  “Raise the gravity.”

  From within the safety of the control room, the heads of the Proxez watched as the Encryptors fell to their hand. Several Elites manned the selected machine, one running their coated fingers up the screen and turning the bar from green to yellow. The effects were noticeable immediately, even in the fortified lab; invisible weights settled on the heads and shoulders of all, but that was the only way to pull those incoming bastards down.

  “There they are.” Gannon leaned over an Elite’s chair and zoomed in on the caving sky. “Good thing we caught them now, though I must say, I am surprised they got past the wall in the first place.” He raised an eye to the Elite, his mouth creasing with a deep hunger. “Say, I don’t need to get someone else in here to monitor things, do I?”

  The Elites working at the panel stiffened, but they kept to their work, knowing better than to get involved. A microscopic crack raced across the selected Elite’s temples when he felt Gannon’s hot breath on his neck. “No, sir… Not… At all. There was interference in—”

  Gannon grabbed his skull and slammed it down onto the edge of the silver table, a large hunk of ice flying off the Elite’s forehead. The Lord held him there; the soldier did not attempt to resist. “Save your excuses; what made you fall short is of none of my concern, but I certainly don’t expect it to happen again, right?”

  “Yes… Lord.”

  An alarm blared from the projected screen, fluctuating bars of static breaking the hologram into dicey sectors. The sight and sound whipped the Lord’s head up in surprise, forcing him to release the Elite, who immediately rose and joined his companions in trying to restore the fractured signals. Several Haxors came rushing up to assist the Elites, throwing switches and smashing buttons as they focused on every issue at once.

  Typo morphed into existence behind his Lord, eyes searching and face scrunched. “What’s going on?”

  “The signals… Are getting interrupted again,” an Elite growled, racing his fingers across the screen. “There’s… A buildup of energy… Causing…” He paused. Everyone did when they saw her.

  Gannon leaned forward, jaw ajar to the max. Her hair was actual fire—her eyes were of starlight, and she was able to extort the lightning, turning herself into a pistol and taking out the artillery and men atop the wall. Their incinerating screams and cries for backup did not faze Gannon—he was hypnotized by her grace and control over the fiercest force of fire.

  It built a mound of jealousy inside of him—a need for her power. It took him years upon years, accident after accident to wind up at his current mastery level, but that… To be so naturally gifted…

  His fingers clenched the rim of the chair and bent it, wishing that it was the girl’s neck instead. “There’s no way I won’t get her,” Gannon proclaimed under his breath. “I need that power!”

  Typo released a steaming huff. “And achieve it you will if I have a say.” He pushed forth to stand alongside his subordinates, leaning in close and watching like a hawk as they desperately tried to reestablish communications. Every twist of her body in midair… Even while falling, her enchanting, magical dance of redirection gave the illusion that she was upholding nothing more than an act—and all so effortlessly when Typo knew she hardly had what he would even begin to classify as “experience.” Taking her alive with her powers intact would be anything but simple.

  A shroud of purple was cast upon the dangerous prodigy and those around her, redirecting Typo’s acute sight. The source had only reached his peripheral vision when Typo made the connection, hardly getting the thoughts to his tongue. “Wait, what is Eero—?!”

  The brutal Essence knocked the shi from their joined flyer, and a second later, a horrific crash. The screens ignited, an explosion of violet blinding them before giving way to an abyssal black.

  Erect—petrified with shock—the servants cautiously peeled their fingers from their protected eyes, frozen in a darkened silence. “Did-did he just—?”

  “FIX IT!” Gannon bellowed, furiously pushing off of the chair and taking a fuming step back. “FIX IT NOW!”

  The pure ire in his usually composed voice kept their mouths shut and pupils wide, leaving their fingers to do the work of the impossible.
To everyone within the room, eyes knew only one reality: a devoid, flickering backdrop bombarded with mounting task managers and code from all different languages, each tab and window building on top of the other in a flurry of unresolved, urgent desperation.

  Typo shook his head, chest sizzling and eyes bubbling. There was nothing wrong with sacrificing allies, he knew that well, but every time he caught a glimpse of Eero—of his growing rival—the more Typo itched for a showdown to prove just who was the ultimate demon. But as the true strength of his competition gradually came to light, the more he reluctantly began to doubt his own capabilities. Never had Typo been matched in his eight hundred years; yet within months, the infinite gain that he built so long ago was suddenly pinched into a very small, surely surpassable distance.

  “Squad 3A,” Typo growled, loud and unrestrained. “Go check the main room and get the signals back up. We can’t leave one corner of any district in the dark. Not now.”

  “Yes, sir!” With a loyal salute, several Elites were hustling out of the room and toward their destination.

  Typo wasted no breath. “3B: Make sure that everyone is accounted for, armed, and in their designated blocks. 3C: Rouse the demons and prep them for combat. Until we get our eyes back, prepare for the worst.”

  “Sir!” Both squads were off without a word more.

  “As for the Bots…” Typo mumbled. He threw his fist and slammed the already pressed activation button so hard that sparks flew, the surrounding panel cracking and crumpling beneath his wrath, making the command irreversible. “Let’s hope they rip them to shreds before they so much as get the chance to see the palace.”

  Gannon stood back, evaluating his henchman with a close eye. “Worried, are you?”

  “Of course not.” Typo turned to face his Lord. “If anything, they should be.”

  The Lord took a complacent step to the side, parting way for the hound. “Then I’m sure you know what to do.”

  Typo tensed his neck, giving Gannon the smallest, tightest of nods. The phantom advanced toward the exit, reaching past his physical boundaries as the curses that made him itched to escape. Eero’s blood, Seek’s heart, Mabel’s soul… Nothing would ever be as enticing as the taste of their fall caught on his slitherous tongue.

  A heart-wrenching scream threw Typo’s expanding frame back into its borders, halting further progression.

  Gannon cast a glance back at his henchman, the remaining Elites and Haxors also pausing. Typo remained rooted to the floors, silent and attentive to the ripple-effect of despairing wails racing through the palace and shaking the steel doors.

  “Typo…” Gannon slowly began.

  “I don’t know.” He took a heavy step back. The screaming continued to move the palace, clashing metal and shattering ice amplifying the urgency as the volume continued to rise until their cries were a siren.

  Communications no longer mattered—the revelation of a grave, pressing threat took over the Haxors’ bodies, moving them to form a blockade before their Lord. The Elites rose as well, abandoning their commands and flanking the lesser soldiers. Lethal, frozen chains left their chiseled waists and found their cracking knuckles, fingers built for death curling at the grapples in an impatient wait.

  “Lord,” Typo advised. “I suggest you take leave.”

  Gannon scoffed, amused by such a frivolous suggestion. He grabbed each finger, yanking it to release the pressure while he passed through his soldiers, setting himself beside Typo. “Don’t you concern yourself with me.”

  Straight-faced, Typo obeyed, listening to the cries and shrieks of men both trained and reworked to be of stone. The scent of warm, salty blood overwhelmed Typo, his form anxiously distorting as whatever could have possibly broken the code of such hardened men drew closer.

  The Elites readied their lashes and the Haxors their guns. Typo leaned forward and curled his fingers, conjuring two growing spheres of chaos that his palms could not contain. Gannon cracked his neck, a wire of energy belonging to a scorching, nebula blue scratching the side of his face. “SHOOT DOWN WHATEVER COMES THROUGH THERE.”

  The doors throbbed and then bulged, the sound of a body smacking against it, and then they opened. A blinding sphere of white light met them head-on.

  Typo hurled both curses with a feral’s screech, bolts of fatal electricity and chains of poisonous ice launched in synchronicity. They met the globe of white, and all attacks ricocheted back, dropping the soldiers to the floor. A creature veiled within the swirling luminance advanced; they grabbed the automatic doors and slammed them shut so that they formed one metallic plate.

  Gloves rippling with bloody energy, Typo roared, picking himself up and charging the shielded foe while their back was turned.

  A greatsword broke through the light, swatting Typo to the floor. He lay there, stunned and looking up as the blinding orb moved forward, passing him by. Haxors charged, their guns above their heads and out at their sides like bats, but just as their electrical attacks could not break the barrier, neither could their physical strikes, launching each attacker the instant the foes made contact. Their armored bodies smashed into the ice-plated walls and electronics, setting the room ablaze with loose currents of fire and deadly shards of ice.

  The Elites remained at post, as did the remaining Haxors once they witnessed what became of those brash enough to leap into battle blind.

  Gannon, however, did not move, standing tall and proud with narrowed, searching eyes as the threat neared, drawing closer with heavy, infuriated steps.

  Typo clenched his knuckles, pushing himself to his knees as the danger closed in on his fearless Lord. He was the henchman; he was supposed to protect his king! And yet…

  No. I can. If he dies, there will be no one after him!

  The thought revived two spinning, lethal sawblades in Typo’s palms, wheezing with the potent energy they bore. The shield was by far thinnest at the intruder’s heels, where Typo could see an obscured image of moving, metal feet.

  Typo flung his curses as hard as he could. The creature turned, but not fast enough as the discs shot through, hitting them square in the ankles.

  Typo’s spell shot back. He rolled out of the way before his head was severed, but the strike had enough force that it tilted the creature’s balance and broke their shield, revealing the attacker as they re-oriented themselves.

  The henchman turned to stone. They had the face of a freckled child—Griffin’s face exactly—but his deep blue eyes had been eaten by the white sheen coming straight from his enraged soul. Vital areas of his body were fortified with spell-reflective, Eyla-infused armor, giving the entirety of his chest and neck the appearance of glassy, flowing water. His dastardly addition of an arm was reattached, currently in the form of an unforgiving diamond blade as wide as his torso, and his once-shattered legs were now cast out of solid platinum, also with a protective coating of souls.

  Even though his second hand was thankfully still flesh and unaltered, it was just as worrisome… Specifically, the black, shadow-spewing cards twirling around his fingers and tainting his enchanted aura.

  No one moved, Griffin included; he was heaving, his rising and falling shoulders synced to his musky, robotic breathing.

  “Griffin…” the Lord stated simply, though the surprise in his eyes could not be hidden. “How—?”

  “Thank Mom.”

  The voice startled them—even more so when the source revealed itself, stepping out from behind Griffin’s fortified back. His shaded lenses concealed his eyes, but his smile told plenty—too much.

  “What?” Gannon spat. “What are you—?”

  “Did you really think that I would forget the frequencies that practically everything in this damn prison used? That I would actually struggle with an invention? Please.” Justus snickered, his fingers impatiently fiddling with a button-swamped, hand-held controller. “I will always fight for my queen and Mom, no matter what. How stupid you were to keep me alive, but that was exactly what my calculations p
redicted.”

  Typo lunged from the side. Justus smashed a button; Griffin immediately resurrected his shield so that Typo met the barrier face-first, sending him flying back and crashing through the room, knocking over tables and chairs until the wall all-too-graciously stopped him.

  “Really?” Justus mumbled. “You’ve got to be joking. I made Griffin a powerful enough sorcerer to be able to take down Gannon. A demon like you doesn’t stand a chance.” The Devil’s smirk betook his face, his thumb hovering above another button. “Especially not against one that’s half-Bot.”

  Justus’ thumb fell, and Griffin’s body reacted instantaneously. The cyborg pulled his arm back and then whipped it out at his chest, the lethal blade automatically sheathing and replacing itself with a large machine gun. The sorcerer took aim, a bomb of warping white energy congregating at the nose while he spun the cards faster in his hand.

  Justus lifted the remote and pointed it directly between Gannon’s flat, unintimidated eyes. “I have one final thing to say to you, father.

  “Roses are red, look me in the eye… TAKE ONE LAST LOOK BEFORE YOU DIE!”

  Gannon lifted his lips, bearing a blinding smirk. “Likewise.”

  Justus was taken to the floor by an unseen force. Gannon raced forward as he fell, snatching the remote out of his distraught son’s hand and flicking a side switch, reversing the command and putting Griffin into a “stand-by” state.

  With the remote secured, Gannon kicked Justus in the face—a hit so hard that his head literally spun, and Gannon did not stop there. He kicked, again, and again, and again, pulverizing his son’s face into a heap of bloody pulp.

  All soldiers stayed back, letting their master have at it. They weren’t affected to even the slightest degree by Justus’ heart-wrenching, painful cries. They expressed only two emotions: satisfaction and gratitude, the latter toward the known savior beyond the impassible door.

  The Lord was gasping for air as he repeatedly threw his sparking boot forward, making Justus spasm and cringe on the floor. A shadow of a hand wrapping around Justus’ calf kept the inventor down, making his body swallow each and every brunt of energy.