The Anvil of the Forgotten

The clatter of correction armor strikes the grates of the main shaft. Three squads. Heavy. Methodical. Programmed to stitch back the silence.

Around me, the fifty Oubliés hiccup. Their spit stains the floor, the nausea of recovered memories twisting their stomachs. I could raise a wall of fire to mask their escape and play the savior. It would be so simple.

I let my right hand ignite.

"Pick up the glass!" My throat emits that rocky hiss, that infrasound frequency hammering their bones. "Use this pain!"

The first soldier lands. His weapon aligns. My Flame extends to block the corridor. I raise a closed arena. The thermal anvil awaits its strikes. I cut off his retreat to force the path forward. It is time for the Mutation.

Ta-tam. Ta-ta-tam. Marisol's drum beats in my temples. It dictates the riot. It demands the uproar, the racket, the end of their anesthesia.

The old woman who was crying a moment ago lunges, driving a massive shard of silica straight into the guard's visor, while a man with a bloody nose strikes with a computer casing. They grapple with the soldier. Their bare fingers tear at cables. They bend the ceramic plates under the weight of their numbers and an animal fury. They consume their own tragedy to strike down the servants of the Sept Qui Règnent.

The guard collapses. Chaos sweeps the frontline.

Up on the catwalk, Lio hits the railing with his iron bar in rhythm. Malik validates our advance with a sharp nod.

But the next corridor lights up. The heavy bulkheads retract. Twenty barrels aim into the gloom, supported by silhouettes too massive to be human. Will we burn to the bitter end, or will this metal crush us on the very next step?