Mimi struggled to regain her breath—a strange, disorienting sensation that sparked panic and exhilaration in equal measure. The clatter of her section of the gate echoed behind her as the last of her air burned out of her lungs. She bent forward, hands on her knees, panting, and glanced at the stacked metal panels to her left. A giddy laugh bubbled up before she could stop it.

  She had crossed paths with Thanatos and lived.

  She had beaten death.

  Disoriented, she pushed herself upright—more of a stumble than a stand—and rolled her shoulders with a wince. The impact had definitely bruised her shoulder blades, but none of that mattered. She was alive. Still unsure if anyone else occupied the maintenance platform, Mimi hugged the wall near where a massive ten-foot gear emerged from the gatehouse. Below the opening, the industrial roar swallowed everything: metal grinding against metal, chains hauling weight in relentless rhythm. Tons of it. Heavy metal.

  She giggled once—then shut it down.

  It was 3:22 a.m., and her communicator buzzed incessantly at her hip. She ignored it. There wasn’t time. Herme would be passing through the fully opened gate any minute now, and finding the mole took priority over everything else. The twins—if they were paying attention—were at least giving her options. Directly across from the massive gear, a narrow metal ladder ascended into darkness.

  Mimi took the first rung and looked up into the inky void. Her mask’s night vision sputtered uselessly—interior lights flashing too fast for it to stabilize. She shut it off. As she climbed, the teeth of the gear skimmed dangerously close to her back, close enough to raise gooseflesh. The noise inside the gatehouse was overwhelming, forcing her to dampen her auditory receptors just to think.

  She was climbing through the belly of a machine.

  Pistons fired. Chains clattered. Electricity hummed through the bones of the structure as gears turned in precise, merciless harmony. It felt like moving through the inside of an eternal clock—beautiful in its precision, terrifying in its indifference.

  Then she heard footsteps above.

  The spell shattered. Mimi slowed instantly, every muscle coiling tight. She climbed the last stretch with deliberate care, moving like a hunter, barely allowing her hooded head to rise above the ledge.

  A young man stood at a control panel. One hand hovered over a critical button; the other held a communicator. His build was all hard muscle—not bulk, but the kind carved by long hours of physical labor. Grease streaked his face, sweat cutting clean lines through the grime.

  Then his eyes snapped up.

  They locked onto Mimi.

  Instinct took over.

  Mimi surged up the last rungs with sudden speed, her movement sharp and decisive, her hand already on the grip of the silenced pistol at her hip. The weapon cleared leather in one smooth motion. For a breathless moment, her finger hovered on the trigger as the boy’s eyes locked onto hers.

  Neither moved.

  Then he spoke.

  “Trust the birds.”

  The words cut through the tension like a blade—not loud, not urgent, just… certain. They hung there, absurdly calm against Mimi’s coiled readiness. Her breath caught. The pressure in her chest eased just enough for doubt to slip in. Slowly, she lowered the gun.

  This was the mole?

  And—

  Oh no.

  He was cute.

  “My sister?” he asked.

  Mimi exhaled hard and nodded, bending forward with her hands braced on her knees as the adrenaline drained out of her limbs. She took a couple steadying breaths, then straightened. Up close, he looked barely older than her—maybe not older at all.

  “She’s waiting for you back at HQ,” Mimi said, urgency snapping back into place. “I’m here to get you out.”

  “Then get ready to loosen that bolt.” He pointed to the first piston in a line of eight. “Detach it at the elbow.”

  Mimi turned just in time to snatch a crescent wrench out of the air. It nearly took her arm off.

  She stared at it, then at him. “You trying to kill me with this thing?”

  He grinned, unapologetic. “You caught it, didn’t you? So—no.”

  A laugh slipped out of her before she could stop it. “Yeah. You’re gonna fit in perfectly.”

  He nodded toward a narrow ladder to his right. “Service ladder. That’ll take you up under the pistons.”

  Mimi eyed him sideways. “And why exactly should I trust you? Also, why am I the one loosening the bolt—isn’t that your expertise?”

  “The same reason I trust you,” he said evenly. “And my insane sister. As for the nut, I need to enter some commands on the console while you release it so we can time the breakdown.”

  She hesitated—just a beat too long.

  “Move,” he snapped. “The gate’s almost fully raised.”

  That did it.

  Like a soldier jolted awake by a shouted order, Mimi lunged into motion. The service ladder was familiar enough, but hauling herself up one-handed while the wrench swung like a pendulum was another matter entirely. She climbed fast anyway—arm, legs, arm—forcing rhythm where there shouldn’t have been one.

  She reached the service platform beneath the pistons just as the gate screamed—a final, metal-on-metal shriek—and the boy released the control.

  The mechanism shuddered, then slowed. Chains snapped taut. Pistons locked. The electric whine cut out, plunging the gatehouse into sudden, unnatural quiet.

  A heartbeat later, an engine hummed to life somewhere beyond the walls.

  Hoisting the wrench, Mimi immediately understood the problem.

  The bolt sat just above her head—too high, too tight—and the wrench wasn’t even set to the right size yet. One arm burned as she tried to adjust the jaws, the weight of the tool pulling her shoulder down and throwing her balance off.

  “Hurry up,” the boy hissed. “We really don’t have time to dilly-dally.”

  “I am—I am—jeez louise,” Mimi snapped, fumbling with the adjustment.

  “You’ll be jeez-louising yourself on an interrogation table if we get caught.”

  She smirked despite herself. “That almost sounded dirty.”

  His chuckle cut through the tension, quick and involuntary, his shoulders loosening for half a second. Mimi finally snapped the wrench into place and set the jaws around the nut.

  Her communicator buzzed again. She ignored it.

  She braced, arms trembling, and pushed.

  Nothing.

  Teeth clenched, she shifted her footing, stretched higher, and heaved again. The wrench barely budged.

  “Other way, dim-wit.”

  Mimi shot him a look but flipped her grip, muscles screaming as she forced herself to try again. Still nothing.

  She rocked back for leverage—then forward.

  The wrench slipped.

  Metal clanged. The tool smacked down against her chest and shoulder, knocking the breath out of her.

  “There you go! Now start wrenching!”

  Annoying commentary aside, this was life or death. And the boy was risking just as much as she was.

  Mimi reset the jaws, twisted, reset again.

  Seconds dragged.

  Then—

  with a sharp crack—the nut finally broke loose.

  It dropped.

  Heavy. Fast.

  Mimi barely had time to register its size—shockpoot big, shockpoot heavy—before the piston arm lurched.

  “Oh shi—”

  The stored load released all at once.

  The arm swung.

  Hard.

  The next thing Mimi knew, the world tilted sideways.

  Her arms were locked around the boy’s neck, her head ringing like a struck bell as he half-dragged, half-carried her down a corridor. The ground rushed up and she was suddenly sitting on a step, breath coming in short, useless pulls.

  “Wh—what happened?” she croaked.

  No answer.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  The boy jogged down the rest of the stairs, peered around the corner, then hurried back.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “That was my fault. I should’ve warned you. When the nut came loose, the piston arm swung out to release its load.”

  Mimi blinked, pressing a hand to her throbbing forehead.

  “You took a hit,” he continued. “Pretty hard. The mask absorbed most of it—thank the twins.”

  “My mask?” Mimi muttered.

  He pointed.

  It hung loose around her neck.

  She pulled it forward and ran her fingers over the dent caved into the forehead plate.

  Aw man. First mission and I already damaged it.

  Then the thought hit her.

  He’d seen her face.

  She glanced up—and immediately noticed how cute he was.

  Heat rushed to her cheeks. She looked away.

  “I had to take it off,” he added, sheepish. “Needed to check if you were bleeding. Carrying you down that ladder wasn’t easy either.”

  A pause.

  “And… your beak’s pretty sharp.”

  Mimi bit her lip, the instinct to defend herself flaring hot and fast.

  “I may be young,” she said, lifting her chin, “but I’m capable. Actually—I’m the most capable for this job. No one else would’ve made it up that gate.”

  The boy studied her for a moment, then smiled—that stupid, empathetic smile that somehow made things worse.

  “I’m young and capable too,” he said lightly. “And I should’ve warned you the arm would swing once the load released. That one’s on me. Bad comms. That’s how we ended up in this pickle.”

  He extended a hand. “Atticus.”

  Mimi hesitated—just long enough to register his confidence—then took his forearm instead of his hand.

  “Mimi.”

  He hauled her up with surprising ease. Their heads were level, though he stood two steps below her. Tall. Blue-eyed. A loose blond curl escaped from beneath his cap.

  Cute.

  Mimi cleared her throat and forced herself back into mission mode. “Alright. What’s the pickle?”

  Atticus’s expression sobered instantly.

  “The gate released abruptly, so command pinged me. I told them a nut came loose and that I was handling repairs. Bought us twenty minutes.” He stepped to the window, peered out, then looked back. “You were out for nine.”

  Mimi winced.

  “That gives us eleven minutes to get aboard Herme before someone comes looking for me. Once they fix that gate, we’ll have every vessel in their fleet sniffing our wake.”

  Mimi didn’t answer. She flicked open her communicator, scrolling past a flood of unread messages until the most recent one snapped into view.

  Mimi, we’re on board. Crew’s secured on the docks. Chip’s virus is live—the ball’s in your court. May the twins guide you, you mad, reckless, genius of a bird. Comm lines are open.

  A smirk tugged at her mouth.

  She slid her mask back on, tightened the straps, and keyed in.

  “Team, I’m in position.”

  Cheers exploded across the line—cut short when Ellia’s voice punched through.

  “Damn it, Mimi, you scared the living shit out of us. Praise Olympus, but you’re cutting it close, missy. That eye-in-the-sky trick was brilliant and stupid—stupid—stupid—you could’ve been killed. Where are you?”

  Mimi exhaled slowly.

  Yeah. It was stupid.

  But what else had she been supposed to do?

  Ellia was just being Ellia—protective, fierce, maternal—but over open comms? Amateur. That conversation would come later. Probably loudly.

  For now—

  She muted the channel and looked at Atticus.

  “Where are we?”

  “At the bottom of the stairs are the service quarters,” Atticus said quietly. “Everyone’s out—probably scrambling to figure out why Herme didn’t show on the digital log. I’ve been watching the dock. It’s swarming with troops. Looks like they evacuated the ship for the system check.”

  “Thanks—one second,” Mimi said, already switching channels.

  “We’re just outside the room where Tinga did her thing,” she reported crisply.

  “Good,” Ellia replied without hesitation. “That maintenance team won’t be a problem for a while.”

  “But where exactly are they now?”

  “Taking an enforced break. A few in a closet. One in a locker near the door.”

  A pause.

  “They aren’t… you know. Dead?”

  “No,” Ellia said dryly. “Just out cold.”

  Mimi grinned despite herself, a soft laugh slipping out.

  “Enough with the giggles,” Ellia cut in. “Time to move. As soon as you’re aboard, we extract.”

  “And the soldiers on the dock?”

  “Blend in. Mask stays hidden. Walk like you belong. Right now, you’re both Tri-Dominance. If anyone stops you, say maintenance called you over. You’ve trained for this. Don’t let the jitters win.”

  “Copy,” Mimi said. “Mask coming off. Going dark.”

  She tucked the mask under her coat, resting it against her hip, and glanced at Atticus. He met her eyes—tense, alert, waiting for direction.

  “Let’s go,” she said. “If anyone asks, we were summoned.”

  “Summoned for what?”

  Mimi didn’t break stride. “Doesn’t matter. None of their business.”

  Atticus nodded and followed.

  For him, this wasn’t just a walk across a dock—it was a step away from everything he’d known. From rank, routine, and certainty. He moved forward anyway, trusting his sister’s word enough to risk the unknown.

  Exactly the kind of person the flock needed.

  They entered the room together.

  Cold stone seeped through their boots. To the right, an L-shaped desk dominated the space, cluttered with three humming monitors and scattered paperwork. A Triarch branding stamp teetered near the edge, one careless nudge from tumbling to the floor.

  The room bore the marks of a struggle—papers strewn, a wheeled chair jammed against a bookshelf beneath the window.

  Outside, nearly forty naval Tri troops clustered together for warmth, breath fogging in the cold air. Cigarettes glowed between fingers. Hands stayed buried in coat pockets.

  Waiting.

  Mimi’s gaze snagged on the Triarchy seal resting on the desk.

  Ellia’s story flickered through her mind—Zeus’s stamp, notarized with a shrug and a lie.

  Without breaking stride, Mimi palmed the seal and slipped it into her pocket.

  A snort sounded from the locker.

  Her breath stalled.

  She scanned the room in a heartbeat. Furnace humming low on the far wall. A door beside it. A wooden table at the center—four chairs, an ashtray, five empty shot glasses, and a clear bottle tipped on its side. Two chairs overturned. One broken. The last angled toward the door, not the table.

  Mimi wondered, briefly, if this had been Tinga’s doing.

  She didn’t hesitate.

  Hand on the knob, she leaned close to Atticus and murmured, “We’re exactly where we need to be. Remember that.”

  She opened the door.

  Cold slammed into them—sharp, biting, unforgiving. The kind of cold that crawled under collars and settled into bone. Outside, troops clustered together for warmth, breath fogging the air, cigarettes glowing like dying embers.

  Mimi held the door as Atticus stepped through. He nodded once. She closed it softly behind them.

  They descended.

  Every step felt syrup-thick. Too slow. Too loud. Heads up. Shoulders squared. Eyes forward. The gangplank waited ahead—so close it felt unreal.

  Halfway across—

  A hand clamped onto Atticus’s shoulder.

  Mimi’s instincts screamed run, but she crushed the urge flat and turned with him.

  “Atti?” rasped a voice like lungs still recovering from death. “This where they’ve got you now? You’re moving up, lad.”

  Atticus snapped into a salute, hand to brow.

  “At ease,” the man said, waving it off. “You’re not my crew—not yet. But keep climbing like this, and I’ll put in a request.”

  Atticus smiled. His voice didn’t.

  “Good—good to see you, sir. My good fortune’s thanks to you. I’d be honored to serve under your command.”

  The man studied him. Curiosity. Calculation. Then amusement.

  “You’ve got grease on you, boy. What’ve they got you doing?”

  Atticus hesitated—just a hair too long.

  “I’m a mechanic.”

  “Fast promotion.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Got experience?”

  “No, sir—but I learn quick.”

  “Quick learner, huh?” The man grabbed Atticus’s hands, turning them palm-up, thumb grinding across the base of his fingers. “You don’t have a mechanic’s callouses.”

  The air went tight.

  “I—I—” Atticus started.

  “You needed to get your ass moving ten minutes ago, cadet.”

  The voice came from the bridge.

  Tinga.

  “I need to show my apprentice something,” she said coolly, already brushing past the man like he was furniture. “And your breathing down his neck isn’t helping.”

  She flicked a hand, dismissive.

  “Do you want your ship sooner—or later?”

  Silence.

  The man stepped aside staring at Tinga for a heartbeat too long.

  Then he bowed—deep and theatrical—sweeping a hand toward her.

  “Apologies, your highness. Didn’t realize the boy was yours.”

  The sarcasm dripped.

  As he straightened, he leaned toward Atticus, voice lowered but not enough.

  “Sorry, kid. Didn’t know your superior was a woman.” A grin pulled at his beard. “Explains the soft hands.”

  Heat flared behind Mimi’s eyes.

  She said nothing.

  Atticus dipped his head once and moved toward the gangplank. The man clapped him on the shoulder.

  “I’ll get you placed with the men. Don’t worry, Atti. I’ll look out for you.”

  The moment their boots hit deck—

  The lines were cut.

  The ship lurched forward, engines screaming as Herme surged away from the dock. Mimi and Atticus stumbled, dropping low on instinct, fingers clawing for the railing.

  Behind them, the gangplank snapped free.

  Ropes screamed. Wood slammed against stone—then vanished into the black water below.

  Gunfire erupted.

  Rounds sparked and shrieked off the hull, metal singing under the assault as shouts echoed uselessly from the dock.

  Behind Mimi, Atticus twisted toward the gatehouse, eyes snapping to the control tower.

  “If they launch now—”

  He didn’t finish.

  Atticus slammed his palm down on his communicator.

  The sea gate screamed.

  Not the smooth grind of regulated motion—but a sudden, violent shriek of metal losing its argument with gravity.

  “THE GATE!” someone bellowed from the dock. “IT’S FAILING WE NEED TO KEEP IT—!”

  The gate dropped.

  Not lowered.

  Dropped.

  Pistons failed in sequence—one, two—then all at once. The massive slabs of reinforced metal plunged unchecked, slamming into the bay with bone-breaking force.

  Water detonated upward.

  A tidal wall surged across the dock, sweeping crates, tools, and men alike off their feet. Troops closest to the gate vanished under the white churn, bodies skidding, colliding, scrambling for purchase as alarms howled.

  “Gate’s jammed!” someone screamed.

  “It won’t open—by the Twelve, it won’t MOVE!”

  Mimi felt the shockwave through the deck as Herme surged forward, engines screaming louder, freer.

  The dock dissolved into chaos—shouting, slipping, drowning noise—eyes pulled to the catastrophe instead of the ship slipping away.

  “Prax unit—hold!” someone roared.

  Mimi caught a flash of orange light—heat coiling, hungry—then snapping out of existence.

  “NO PRAX!” the officer bellowed. “You want that ship back or burned to scrap?”

  The glow died.

  The guns kept firing.

  Atticus exhaled once.

  “That gate’s not opening again anytime soon.”

  Mimi rose.

  Salt wind tore at her coat as the ship pulled clear, distance opening fast. She turned back just long enough to lift one finger high.

  “SCREW YOU, YOU CALLOUSED BASTARDS!”

  “WOMEN RUUUUULE!”

  Herme cut into open water.

  The dock shrank.

  The shots faded.

  And Mimi laughed—wild, breathless, alive.