The map unfolded like a promise across the steel table, its weathered corners curling slightly upwards as if reluctant to part with its secrets all at once. Alor’s pink hair fell forward as he leaned in. His stubby fingers traced ancient pathways with the reverence of a priest reading scripture. The preparation bay’s harsh lighting cast dramatic shadows across the parchment’s surface, illuminating paper that hadn’t seen proper light in ages.

  “There,” Alor whispered. He tapped a spot where several lines converged into a peculiar spiral formation. “That’s our entrance point. The old maintenance shaft should bypass most of the outer defenses—if any of them even work after all these years.”

  The outpost hummed with the background noise of preparation—metal clinking on metal, the soft hiss of pressurized containers being sealed, and the occasional curse when equipment refused to cooperate. The walls, a practical blend of reinforced concrete and retrofitted pre-System panels, bore the scars of previous expeditions in the form of scorch marks and odd discolorations that no amount of cleaning would ever fully remove.

  Maija stood at a nearby workstation, her platinum hair pulled back in a severe bun that emphasized the sharp angles of her face. Her fingers moved with surgical precision as she arranged healing potions in a specialized carrying case, each vial nestled in foam cutouts precisely measured to prevent breakage during transit. Besides the potions lay an assortment of transmutation nreagents—crystalline powders, metallic compounds, and hunks of carbon that shimmered under the lights like trapped constellations.

  “Three healing potions per person,” Maija announced without looking up. “No exceptions, no heroics. If you’re down to your last one, let me know. Is that understood?” Her tone left no room for debate, a commander issuing orders rather than a team member making suggestions.

  Across the table, Matti worked on a different kind of preparation. His skin had taken on the metallic gleam of steel, and his strength seemed to have bolstered his strength by a massive amount. He moved portable armor panels to a frame, and when he had them properly aligned, a single hammering blow of his fist locked the frames into place. Cyrus felt relatively certain that Matti could have shattered rock with the casual yet precise blows he delivered.

  “Almost set here,” Matti called out. His voice sounded deeper, and just a little different, in the metal form. “These panels should hold against standard energy discharges, but I’m not confident they’ll hold up in a pre-System dungeon. Let’s avoid finding out if we can.”

  Unlike the severe Maija, whose every movement seemed calculated to maximize efficiency, Matti’s work carried an understated joy—as if the prospect of danger was a gift rather than a burden. The contrast between the two siblings was striking: where Maija planned for disaster, Matti prepared for adventure.

  Cassandra occupied a different space, both physically and metaphorically. She leaned against a brick wall near the armory section, one foot propped behind her, hands resting casually on the hilt of her legendary sword. Galatine’s sheath gleamed with subtle runes that seemed to shift and change as you watched, a mystery that confounded even the most learned of scholars.

  “Are we set for the ruin’s unexpected defenses?” she asked sharply, her crimson ponytail swaying behind her when she pushed off the wall. Her white, red, and gold robes flowed around her with a grace that belied their practical design, each fold concealing specialized pockets for tools, weapons, or a clever trick of fitting to confuse her movements.

  The question hung in the air a bit. No one seemed to know how to respond, or perhaps they all avoided sarcastically asking Cassandra how they were to plan for the unplannable. Yet, Cassandra was driven mainly by the need to rescue Lyessa, and even Maija bit her tongue.

  In the silence that followed, Cyrus stood apart from the others. He stood next to a display case of vintage pre-System artifacts that they had excavated from other dungeons. Next to such a valuable relic, he appeared unremarkable. He was a typical human male, possibly in his thirties, with shoulder-length black hair peppered with gray. Nothing about him hinted at his true nature—whatever that true nature was.

  A monitor mounted to the wall beside him and the relic flickered erratically, its display cycling through random diagnostic screens before settling on a pattern of geometric shapes that shouldn’t have been possible given the electronics programming. No one commented on the strange occurrence, but Cyrus felt confident that at least Maija, Alor, and Cassandra had noticed its peculiar behavior.

  “You seem as prepared as possible for the unknown,” Cyrus offered. His measured tone carried neither excitement nor anxiety. As a man to whom everything seemed unknown, it wasn’t comforting to see others also forced to contend with a lack of knowledge.

  “That’s what makes it fun, yes? If we knew precisely what awaited us, it would be neither an adventure nor a daring rescue!” Alor chimed in but did not look up from his map.

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  “Fun isn’t the priority,” Maija countered. She snapped the case of healing potions shut with slightly more force than necessary. “All of us returning alive is.”

  “We could aim for both?” Matti asked, delivering one final percussive tap to place the panels on the frame. His liquid metal flesh rippled, and Matti once more was a creature of flesh and blood. “Maybe fun isn’t a priority, but it doesn’t have to be the enemy, does it?”

  “Awakened pre-System Dungeons aren’t known for their hospitality. Don’t tell me you don’t remember the Dormant Archive. How many teams died there?” Cassandra said. Her lips quirked into the ghost of a smile.

  “Sixteen teams, but they had half our preparation and none of our expertise,” Alor interrupted. The dwarf began carefully rolling his map up. “Besides, we conquered the Dormant Archive in the end, and we did not have our lucky charm then, yes?”

  Alor stared at Cyrus.

  The monitor next to Cyrus went completely dark, then rebooted itself in increasingly complex diagnostic patterns.

  “I prefer Cyrus to lucky charm,” Cyrus grumbled lightly. “And we have no proof that my abilities will offer any particular advantage against pre-System defenses than the powers you already possess.”

  “Then why exactly are you coming along? We’re not a touring company,” Maija snapped.

  Cyrus shrugged his shoulders, lazily deflecting the barbed words as if they were a mere breeze. “I need to understand what I am, and your partners seem to think my power will come in clutch within the dungeon.” Cyrus met Maija’s gaze levelly. “A fair exchange, I believe.”

  A pipe cracked and released a sudden burst of steam, punctuating Cyrus’s statement with theatrical timing that would have made a stage director envious—although Cyrus swiveling his eyes to look at what it was ruined the effect slightly.

  “Maija,” Cassandra said warningly, her hand tightening slightly on the hilt of Galatine.

  “I’ve seen what he can do, it’s impressive.” Matti interjected into the blossoming argument.

  “It’s untested in the field,” Maija countered, but her tone had softened from outright opposition to mere professional caution. “Don’t stick your nose in unless we prompt you. We’ve got years of teamwork under our belts.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Cyrus replied. His voice was ambiguous enough to leave Maija uncertain if he was mocking her.

  Alor clapped his hands together, a loud reverberating sound that echoed off all the metallic surfaces around him. “Right, then! The Ruins await, with all their deadly, vicious traps and priceless treasures. There’s no way of telling how advanced the technology in this dungeon is, but vaporization could be a genuine concern if it is anything like the Dormant Archives.”

  “Our goal is to find Lyessa, anything else is a bonus,” Maija interrupted, moving her case of supplies to the delineated loading area. “Let’s not forget how often these dungeons have led us to nothing more than broken machinery and fractured bones.”

  The team fell into a comfortable silence and finished their final preparations. Alor fiddled with his toolbelt, shoving new gadgets into each pocket in a system of organized chaos that only he could understand.

  Cyrus watched the dwarf in amusement. He didn’t have anything helpful to do beyond watching the team. Their thoughts pressed against his mind, like guests who saw no harm in stepping onto his porch and shouting through the closed front door. It might not have been such an annoyance if it had only been one of them, but it was a bit much to ignore between the actual team members and the other employees scuttling around the dome.

  Maija’s thoughts dwelled on concerns about his reliability… Matti’s thoughts wondered what else Cyrus could do and how powerful he could do it… Cassandra considered his displays of power against the few telekinetics she had met previously… Alor thought only about the discoveries and treasures they might gain in the dungeon. The loading chief wanted all the bigwigs to leave so he could take a nap.

  Cyrus wasn’t interested in hearing the thoughts of any of these people, and yet they constantly hammered at him. He had not asked for this telepathic awareness; it simply was part of him. Maybe. Had he been a telepath before this? He seemed to lack the instinctual usage of telepathy that he had with telekinesis. Perhaps it was new?

  “Get out of my loading bay. You’re making all the computers lose their shit. Come back in half an hour; job done then.” Another dwarf yelled at the team, glaring at Maija. “We have talked about this before!”

  “We have time to give Cyrus some field tests, then,” Maija’s words oozed sarcasm, but she didn’t let the dwarf chief linger long enough to respond, as she breezily stormed around him.

  Cyrus wasn’t sure if it was for him or Grindel Irongate, the dwarf chief. The ambiguity left him uneasy and uncertain, much like everything he seemed to be encountering lately.

  The dwarf’s outburst reverberated through Cyrus’s mind, mingling with the heady mix of anticipation, apprehension, and determination that clung to the team like mist on a winter morning. He was taken aback by the quickness with which the group adjusted to developments. They had no need for discussion or affirmation; they adapted with a mechanical precision that left him feeling both impressed and isolated. Yet they were not machines, and this was all built upon a mutual understanding that seemed especially deep given his perspective and utter lack of it.

  They were a marvel of efficiency, and he was an anomaly—a wild card in a deck of carefully crafted strategies.

  Cyrus wondered if Maija intended him to perform field tests or if this was all a sarcastic jest. Was he a source of amusement, pity, or merely annoyance? With Maija, it was hard to tell, even for him. Her words might cut like a blade, but he sensed the protective caution that guided her hand. What trauma had left her so concerned about untested allies in the face of the external threat of a seemingly dangerous dungeon?

  He envied her, in a way. His uncertainty deepened with every calculated look and pointed comment shared between the group. Everything was a constant reminder of his inability to remember his past. Each fantastic feat performed by one of them was a sharp slap in the face regarding his lack of understanding and control. They, at least, knew who they were.