The clattering of steam-powered contraptions echoed through the narrow alleys of New Benthic, twisting between shadows as thick as the fog that swirled and mingled with the cloying scents of grease and burnt coal. Street lamps, gaslit and sputtering, lined the pathways, casting a flickering light that murmured secrets best left unheard. I knew these streets all too well; they were etched in the twisted lines of my memory, like scars marking a battleground of a different war, fought beneath the guise of brass gears and whirring pistons.
I was Nathaniel “Nate” Thorne, a name more a remnant than a moniker, remnants of a soldier once feared across the lines of warfare. Now, I threaded through the underbelly of a city rife with desperation and tenacity, searching for what little remained of my sanity—though the black market offered no guarantees. I’d sworn I wouldn’t go back to that life, but the aching hunger for something, anything, had pulled me into the deep night, where dreams rotted and nightmares reigned.
As I rounded a corner, wrapped in a battered trench coat that smelled of gunpowder and crushed hope, a vision broke through my thoughts. It was a flash, a rapid throbbing in my chest: the face of Michael Tesryn reflected in the steam, a comrade lost to the war—a bombed-out hellscape that could scarcely be described without a shudder. The details of his last breaths clung to me like the humid air, and I forced my gaze to the ground, willing it to retreat into the clutches of darkness that gripped these streets.
The black market in New Benthic thrived under the oppressive nose of the law, a devil’s own playground where peddlers of contraband mingled with the wretched and weary. Here, one could find anything from illegal automatons capable of complex thought to shards of aetherium, the precious essence that powered our elevating dreams, hard-won and banned. Those who sought to ascend beyond their station paid dearly or risked what little morals might remain.
The corner I approached boomed with laughter—a den of infamy, The Clockwork Roost. Above the low-hung awning, the half-animated sign flickered, its message struggling to align: “More than just time, dear traveler!” I snorted at its attempt at cheer, then clenched my fists. Inside, figures draped in obscurity exchanged furtive whispers, and the air buzzed with tension thick enough to split.
I pushed through the door, greeted by a wave of heat and the stench of desperation. A band played somewhere in the shadows, their tunes reminiscent of a once-celebrated life—a cacophony clashing with the memories of a war fought abroad, in valleys scorched by cannon fire and fields filled with lost faces. God help me, I missed the simplicity of that visceral horror; it rid me of the complex anguish I faced now.
The bartender, a rotund man with thick, gnarled fingers, fixed a knowing glance in my direction as I approached the bar. He wiped the counter, further smearing the midnight smudges into a grotesque art piece. “Back for the usual, Nate?” He asked, his voice like gravel sliding into a well.
“Not here for drinks, old friend. I’m on the hunt.” For what, I hadn’t pretended to know. In the cracked recesses of my skull, all I heard was the buzz—the shrill of high-pitched artillery and the screams of men bursting through the fog like ether-born demons unchained.
“Seek no more, you may find the devil biting your heels,” he cautioned, glancing over my shoulder as though the shadows themselves conspired against me.
I followed his line of sight, my heart pounding as I leaned closer. “I’m looking for something that doesn’t breathe.”
He nodded knowingly. “Find Mathis. He deals in darkness.”
As I turned away, a shiver coursed down my spine—not because of the warning, but from the knowledge that Mathis was as dangerous as they came. He had connections with those who sold souls, hearts, and memories. I inhaled sharply, regretting the path I tread, but the accumulated guilt of survival burdened me.
The streets turned labyrinthine, and I became a ghost drifting amid casting shadows. My mind rehashed fragments of the past, where I had fought bravely to save lives, only to lose them all in the blinking of an eye. The aetherium spark—there was no redeeming it now. If Mathis held what I sought, perhaps it could free me from the clutches of the specters lingering in the recesses of my mind.
I found the alleyway littered with broken automaton parts, the rust consumed by time. The air shifted, cloaked in something darker. Mathis stood at the base of an entryway, slouched, his coat a tattered abstraction—a man hunted, echoing the silent dread I held close to my chest.
“Thorne,” his voice rasped, and I felt my breath hitch, caught once again in that chasm of war. “I expected you to return. Are you here for a trinket or a moment of forgetfulness?”
“Need memories,” I replied, though my tone sounded heavy with disdain.
“Ah, precious memories. The world is awash with them, but theirs comes at a price.” He gestured to the stripped remains surrounding us. “People are always selling their past.”
I gazed at the machinery and the discarded memories that had long succumbed to the gears of avarice. “Show me.”
He led me deeper into the dimness, and there it lay—a modified automaton with a crystalline core beating rhythmically, pulsing like a second heart. “Memory-mender,” Mathis explained. “Install it, and it will reclaim what you’ve lost, or perhaps spin new threads of reality, piecing together fragments of the past.”
I stared at it, heart somersaulting in a sickening ballet. “Is it safe?”
His smile was a curled smirk, revealing bare teeth like those of a wolf—fanged, predatory. “That depends on how eager you are to erase the pain.”
I hesitated, knowing that the scars remodelled could lead to further anguish. Perhaps uselessness was the only byproduct of reclaiming what once was? But then I remembered Michael and the way he watched the sunset during our last tranquil evening before the world collapsed like a house of cards. The weight of guilt propelled me forward.
“Consider your memories before you change them,” Mathis murmured as he prepared the automaton. What gave him the right to play god? Beneath the sorrowful reality of regret lay the faint hope of salvation.
In a flash of gears and air hissing, the device was affixed to my chest, a flicker of energy pulsating as it took hold. All at once, memories erupted before me—Michael’s laughter, the warmth of shared rations, the specter of loss mingling with the scent of sulfur and smoke. No euphoric utopia unfolded; I witnessed the truth of it all—the beautiful, terrible chaos of war.
Visions spiraled away from me, pouring like tempestuous rain; each flicker a reminder stitched into my soul, a reminder that I had lived and existed through the horror, and there lay the power of survival. All while the tinders of regret simmered beneath my skin, I battled the rising despair of haunting truths.
“What are you waiting for, Thorne?” Mathis demanded, an echo of impatience lacing his words.
With a surge of strength born not of memories but of something far more primal, I reached out and withdrew my hand from the coldness of time. I could not erase this tapestry of existence I held within. Perhaps these scars would evolve into something more—it could be the abhorrence that shaped my living essence, binding me to the world I thought I knew.
The synthesizing noise of the automaton fell silent, but the pull of my battered soul remained. The warmth of remembrance cocooned me in a chaotic embrace—an acceptance of the past, intertwined with the present, forever carving its legacy within my mind. I stepped away from Mathis, the storms of war still raging in my heart but now under my command.
As I stumbled back to the street that wrestled with shadows, I swore I saw Michael’s silhouette there, wreathed with luminescence, both a figment and a fragment of what had been taken from me. I was not chained to the memories, nor was I past the point of forgiveness. Black market or not, I tread these streets as both a warrior and a vanquished dreamer.
In the end, the darkness didn’t swallow me whole. Rather, I learned to dance within it, the edges of my existence hummed anew—a melody splintered yet harmoniously woven together within the symphony of life. And New Benthic throbbed beneath me, alive under the weight of memories—both ours and those yet to come.