Every answer, every test—utter rubbish! If the contender’s answers to Illian’s questions weren’t dribble, they certainly weren’t true. “Yeah, I seen it flare up, or whatever.” The man accidently spilled beer on his vest, soaking his mustache.

“Gaia’s vessel came to you—just you?”

This man cocked his head back to finish a tall glass of auburn brew. “Yep.”

“And not a congregation of, say four or five or-“

“Yep.” He belched, sprouted a relieved smile.

“We’re done here.”

And forget the sad batch that got far enough for demonstrating purposes. Chucking vomit was, in fact, not harnessing Gaia. His fourth tall pint of Red Trolley burned the least going down.

Running Breathalyzer:

0.089%

WARNING! Inebriation detected in Messenger:

ILLIAN

“Go fuck yourself.” He massaged his temples. Much to his surprise, Titan came to retrieve his glasses personally. “How’s the hunt going?” he asked.

“Well. I started at around 6:38.”

“Sweet Mary, kid. Four hours?” Titan seemed more interested in the bar's digital display past the counter; it was fourth down with seven minutes to go on an IFL game.

Illian groaned, trying to beat his pilsner before he puked. I’ll show you four hours. Wait, no-

Titan clocked his view to encompass the entirety of the bar’s dwindling patrons. "Hey," he said. “You like billiards?”

The boy bubbled his lips pouty. “I’d like to find my guy.” Titan’s hand nestled Illian by the shoulder; they went to a nook lively with clapping cues and sour sneers. Milky smoke had trailed past which ensnared Illian’s lungs and burned something chronic. When he bent down to cough, a man had scratched his shot to race off the felt and wheeled around Illian’s boots. Could’ve been the death of him if he hadn’t stopped.

No lions here, but plenty of snakes. Glad to know East sect L.A. and that Rayvine had that in common; he was practically home.

Titan undid the lock on an oak-trim pool table. Just as he started to rack the balls, a display—flecked with dead pixels—started to broadcast across their overhead lamp fixture. A roaring crowd, casters giving commentary on some sour years for East L.A., and two IFL teams gunning for gold. There was a brief shot of the stadium. It was an edifice atop what Illian knew to be an oroplain disk: more an anchor for less stable chunks of the Earth. Builds of these plates varied, but the IFL went full ivory—in color, too. The boy brightened at the sight.

That was when a chalky blue tip poked the boy’s shoulder. “Done dreamin’?” said Titan. “You break.”

“I heard that East Sector’s commerce retreat’s got the most eccentric loons.” Titan banked a good shot of the 13 ball. Clean pocket. “Couldn’t hurt to check there.”

Yet, all Illian could find were deep pockets. Nothing spiritual in the slightest. One younger lady did ask to speak to Gaia, but there was no way in hell Illian was going to indulge this chick’s “first to interview god on stream!” fantasy.

He shot blind, and sunk the 8-ball by accident. Titan won that night.

Illian didn’t bother with a rematch and went back to his stakeout at a nearby garrison town they call Yunque. Its iron curtains, its secluded hillside gave Illian safety. But ultimately, these walls won’t hold against The Powers. For their form, Illian remained unsure. But the rumor mill warns of gold. Terrible, terrible gold. He didn’t sleep much that night.

Illian came back for another round the next night.

“You know,” as Titan rolled a chalk cube against the tip of his cue, “it might be in your interest to look a little lower on the chain. Who’s to say this guy’s not running with smugglers? West Sector’s lousy with options.”

The next night, Illian had to opt out of pool due to a severe stab wound dug through his hand. Titan laughed it up: “Drink’s on the house—if you can hold it!” The whole place buzzed with West Sector hospitality.

“Don’t worry,” a patron assured Illian, mouthful of vomit. “You’ll get the girl and save the world.” And despite everything, Illian believed it.

That night in Yunque, he tended to his growing correspondence list. The Dallas Coalition sent a query, being the most apt so far to set a defense for The Powers. However, Illian spared his typing hand when he realized he had nothing to report yet. Nothing?

Has it really been a year?

The following week, Titan and Illian kept their games rolling. Titan slurred, “You know-” before Illian shut him up with a cold look. 

“Yeah?” Illian retracted his shot, ready to pounce.

“You’re not supposed to shoot that close after scratching.”

So close, yet so far.

Illian met the sweetest guy visiting from Bosnia. He recognized who Illian was from the coat alone. They discussed at great length his studies in Gaia. He couldn’t quite pinpoint why, but Illian felt—without a shadow of a doubt—that this dude might be it. He was sure to get his information for later: Chace, age 27, queued for transfer to the Rayvine Institute of Learning out of community college.

When Chace inevitably fell through, the boy decided to take Bosnia’s brightest out for some well-deserved enlightenment.

The next night, Illian won his first game against Titan. He smirked with a row of Frosxs at the ready. “Next one’s on me,” he said.

Titan declined: “It’s about closing time.” He regressed to his backroom office duties to finish the case he’d forgotten to drink last week. Both Illian and Titan partook.

“So, how much can you tell me?” Titan poked, a few drinks in.

“About what?”

Titan chuckled, braved his next swig: “The upholstery.”

Illian obliged, “Well, these booths smell awful.”

“Dammit—I mean the search!—Jeez.” Illian cracked up. He scooted atop Titan’s shanty desk.

“Alright—alright.” He paused, belched. “I had a big break yesterday.”

“Hmm. Then it fell through.” Illian said nothing. “Ah, really?! I—can’t even believe that, brother. “Look at me, Illian.” He downed his last allotted bottle. “You’ve come around with this pod here, lookin’ like some fucking bounty hunters. Maybe you should be cooling the mood down some.”

Illian hunched over and twirled his bottle: “I think you’re right …”

“Tell me the deal with the last one.”

Illian had to think about it: I fucked him senseless.

“Uhh, he had Gaia’s beauty-“

Titan laughed: “No wonder you blew it. What did he fail at?”

Foreplay.

“It’s complicated.”

“Illian—and be honest here!” He made eye contact as best he could. “What did you do wrong?”

He finally yelled, “I fucked him senseless!” Titan was taken aback. He tipped his bottle for more drink, but it only cried one tear. Illian’s eyes began to swell with several more.

Titan was quick to rebound. “One rule we have here is keepin’ business and romance separate. Time-tested parable: mixin’ can only lead to trouble.”

Illian swallowed, kept face with an agreeing nod: “You’re right. Shit’s too important.” Silence claimed the room. Illian sniffled. “Do we have any more to drink?”

Titan said, “Plenty,” leaving his chair with too much effort.

“Thank you.”

Just as he did, there was a massive explosion stemming from the barback. Thousands of dollars worth of shattered glass rung out to a drunken Titan as the most expensive thing he’s heard in a while. Illian sprang from his stupor, caught himself on his pod and went to investigate.

Robotics regressed, hot to the tip.

Illian and Titan witnessed a white interface reveal from an oily, artificial shadow. This thing lacked any care for collateral, skulking further to smash even more exotic booze. Beyond a shelve maze and chicken wire, their obtuse, wire-shambled silhouette glowed with gold: bipedal, deadly. This was a combat unit out for blood, no doubt.

“What the hell?” said Titan.

It stared back.

Twitching, it broke at the two like a feral animal; Titan’s first instinct was to brace. He caught the droid to subdue as he would be used to catching drunkards. The droid then shanked white crystals out of a spindling aperture from its palm. They stabbed through Titan’s hands, got a rise out of him. The droid then bucked so hard that Titan went flying and destroyed his receiving door—and all the glasses left behind from the night.

Illian reached out, panicked. Those crystals then came for the Messenger. The boy ducked aside the now bent shelf braces. He managed to scurry through an opening at his feet.

That pissed it off.

It tore through anything and everything. Illian could hear the droid tailing just a shot away—and gaining! Glass shattering, bars bending. He felt the need to scream, but his words died. Don’t you fucking dare, Jones! Keep going!

His tunnel cut off near the back door. The droid’s heavy irons stomped in the way, denying the slightest breath. It had no reason to talk; a shrilled algorithm, though made an effort. Safe to say, Illian didn’t speak droid, so he scurried back in. Illian saw his next move: the receiving door. Toothed metal scraped his side when he hoisted up, but he got through intact.

But the droid wasn’t one to be fooled. He crashed further through the opening to chase. Illian’s pod then rushed to his aid. It prowled in walker form with full firepower. Quad-barreled chain guns then unloaded on the droid.

The boy took cover, in awe. “The Powers.” Gold plate now fluxed and shimmered against the bar’s muted lights. He was certain, The Powers were here.

The gold droid—shaven by gunfire—ducked under the counter, cornered. As the pod kept hailing ammo, Illian could sense through the noise very peculiar shifts. That was when the droid emerged, firing off a new weapon attached to the integrity of its left arm. And a new set of eyes to boot amongst its chaotic white algorithm. There was a telling puncture, single-fire from the weapon. The pod crashed to the ground.

What was once static now rendered Dyre slits. They turned to Illian, at once. Didn’t even give a second look at the pod before hurdling over to finish what it started. Suddenly, a projectile then speared through, cracked some more gold. The droid then fired near the pool tables and punctured Titan’s chest. He lost his grip of the felt and slumped over.

The droid poised invigorated, said “Now then” in perfect definition. It marched with a more dignified step than before, as though its very cognition had been overwritten bartering for that gun. The fire came again, and Illian was forced to scramble. He made his way through to Titan’s body, begging, pleading Gaia for his soul and spare ammo.

Finally, he got to Titan. He reeked of iron. Might be the blood.

Illian turned to brace the fire, but caught a glimpse of Titan’s primitive hand cannon. Evident by the smoking hole in the droid’s chest, it would do for now. There was an attempt to grab it. Wood chips flew, slapped Illian with a dusty shroud. He ducked back down. That was when its systems reloaded.

Ten shots—ten shots.

The boy hastily snatched the gun on a prayer and shot off. Missing tremendously, he barely braced the kickback. He had to soothe his aching wrists. The droid kept up, gnashing the table to several chunks. Illian checked his rotary clip; eight slugs. Full clip. He clapped the clip back in.

Illian knew he had to act fast. Curiously, it stopped at shot number 5, began lurking forward. The boy took a dive between the table’s walkway partition; the sudden movement sprang the droid back into action. One bang after bang after bang—Illian could barely concentrate! As if spurred by fate, he emerged just as the droid began its reloading cycle.

Bang after bang, Illian grazed the chest. He let loose with a feral trigger. The last one clipped the head. Its mechanized cannon then appeared to regress back into the chassis, right before all systems seized completely. Illian kept still until a droning whir died and let silence reign.

He immediately darted to Titan and hovered over him. “Please …”

Subject: TITAN

No vitals detected

This war now had a casualty.