Equipping is filled to capacity as I stalk in. It gives me pause; the mass of humanity and their discordant landscapes are a headache waiting to erupt at the base of my skull. But I shove past the wall of detritus enough to raise my voice above the susurration of quiet conversation.

“Lead technicians, attend!” I give them no time to question my authority, instead barking out orders quickly. “All others, gear up and report to the generator floor! You have 15 minutes!”

Shock washes over the room and I almost physically feel it. Technicians scramble to obey. That comes as a mild, if pleasant, surprise. But I ignore it, instead turning my attention to the enormous workbench. My eyesight wavers behind sudden tears as I see the remnants of his presence here. This is all mine now. 

I have no time for extraneous emotion or outbursts. Four humans have gathered near. I know them all; Jakara of One, Harlayne of Two, Canry of Seven, and Perryls of Eight. Of these, Jakara has been here the longest. She is the senior lead technician, and hers is this domain in my absence. Harlayne is the one most likely to give me trouble, as I read indignation rising in small scarlet bubbles throughout his landscape. Canry is unnerved, while Perryls is merely uncomfortable. 

“Starting today, I am stepping into the role of Senior Technician. If you have a problem with that, we will address it after this rebuild. The generator comes first. I want to address all technicians first, then I will assess what we are starting with. Parts should have been sent over already; if they are not in the generator room, I want them transferred there immediately after I address the teams. We will not be stopping for more than meal breaks once this repair begins, so each of you will be responsible for making sure the technicians under you remain alert and are granted sufficient breaks. I do not know how much time overall this will take, and it may be that we will be swapping all teams multiple times. No one is to work for more than 12 consecutive hours other than myself.”

That last statement takes most of them by surprise. I do not know why it should; there is no other that can fill my role in this. Jakara is the only one who takes it in stride. Though I see a great, sweeping sadness blanket her. It makes me irate.

“I have no time for pity or sympathy,” I snap in response. The sadness in Jakara only increases. “Make certain the technicians understand that I will be manipulating their emotional states and using them as material as I work. They should already be aware of how I work, but this will be far more than any of us are accustomed to. I will address them once I have gathered my equipment. Dismissed!”

The leads look sullen and confused for the span of about two heartbeats. It is enough time for my brows to begin to draw together in anger. But again, Jakara takes it all in stride. She alone gives a succinct verbal acknowledgement.

“Sir!” Her posture snaps from parade rest to rigid attention. Though she does not salute, I feel as if she could, should I demand it. In her, I see a shimmer of respect.

The other three leads waver, startled. They take their cues from Jakara and right now, they are not certain they agree with where she leads. But Canry and Perryls echo her acknowledgement immediately. Harlayne is the only one to remain silent, though he turns to obey my instructions with the others. Likely, he feels he cannot afford to be insubordinate at this moment in time. But I will need to be watchful of him.

I set those thoughts aside as they exit equipping. Now is not the time to fret over personnel. Turning away, I make my way to the workbench instead. I must prepare myself for this undertaking.

Tool belt first. The motions are already practiced, as I have already been assisting him for five years in a full time capacity. The roll of tuning forks are the first thing to go into a pocket. I do not necessarily require a starting pitch, but in my current mental state, it is a small crutch that I will allow myself. My eyes pore over the wide variety of other small tools that I may need. Some are so specialized that they are only needed for one small part of a single system. Others serve a wide variety of uses and can be used for a multitude of things. I end up placing perhaps a dozen different devices into the pockets of my tool belt, as this rebuild is a massive undertaking and I will not be able to pause during much of it. If I need a tool, I will need it immediately with no opportunity to return here for retrieval. 

Part of me wants to linger over the process. To run my hands over the smooth metal of the workbench, seeking those fragments that tug at my heart. The reminders of his presence. He should be the one standing here alone, not me. In the past, we both would have been standing here, singing back and forth to each other in easy banter. He would be addressing the leads with his melodic bass voice awash in serenity. 

Instead, I am here in his place. I am trying to step into his role before my time. The empty place within me flares, aching painfully. Rage boils through me at the unfairness of it all. My scaling bursts forth unbidden as my fingers curl, dragging furrows into the steel top of the workbench, the displaced metal corkscrewing in a tortured shriek. It is the scream I want to voice but cannot.

I force myself to turn away from the workbench, feeling my mind begin to fray at the edges again. No. I cannot afford to have a lapse in sanity here. Yet I am still too out of sorts to return my scales to their hidden state. My anger is seething, a low pulse that I can feel in my chest. I know it will taint the crafting if I do not get it under control once more. Better to feel empty than to have flaws in such an important work.

A deep breath. Expel the anger upon exhalation. Again. A third time. Then a fourth. Let that hollow place empty out, to be filled by the Dark. It is the only comfort I know now. As a child, the strains of song that would fill that place were bright and joyous. A celebration of creation. Now, it is only a void. I feel the Dark flow in and wrap myself in it, a shield against the pain, and it settles like a heavy fog to fill every crevice of my broken soul with its alluring madness.

At least I am in control again. Sheathing my scales, I proceed to the generator room.

Eighty humans await me there. They are the only sound, their droning conversations echoing through the empty heights of the chamber. The silence where the generator should be rumbling is unnatural and sends a quake of discomfort through me. It should be towering over my small form, a lumbering beast perched upon a single egress. Instead, the gaping maw of the upper housing stands exposed and the crowd tread cautiously in avoidance of the thermal vent cowling. 

“Senior tech on the floor!” The call by Jakara pierces through the buzz of human voices. Words die in every throat as 80 sets of eyes focus on me. Or try to, at least. Most of the crowd cannot see over their peers, and my slight form is swallowed by the room. 

I do not let that stop me. “As of today, I am the Senior Technician for Internal Order.” My voice sounds so youthful as it caroms off the stone walls of the silent chamber. It has yet to break and resolve into my adult timbre. About the only part of me that has yet to break. “I expect to be addressed as ‘sir’. Or ‘Darkwalker’.” The second appellation tumbles out of my mouth before I have actually reflected upon it. But it feels right. The Dark seems to shiver in pleasure within me to hear such acknowledgement. “Londinium needs this generator to survive. And we will give it to them. I will apply my entire self to this rebuild, and I expect the same of every one of you. It will take some time for us to learn how to all work together, which is an unfortunate circumstance for this rebuild. But this cannot wait. I know that the sub-city is struggling right now for lack of this single generator. And so we will rebuild it. Starting now. 

“Team Eight, get safety equipment organized and distributed, including hydration and arranging for meals. Seven, set up the infrastructure for parts assembly, Two and One, double check that all necessary parts have been requisitioned and are brought in. If anything is found missing, I want you to bring it over personally from central storage. Leads will coordinate individual team members. I expect this build to run well past shift change, so leads should also draft up plans for replacement teams to relieve all members. Utilize the reserve teams first. Upon dismissal, all lights in this room should be switched over to red bulbs and white light is forbidden until that order is rescinded by myself. Any questions should be addressed to team leads first. If you feel you are unable to fulfill your duties under my direction, you are hereby instructed to notify your team lead and then remove yourself from the premises immediately; termination papers will be drawn up for you at earliest convenience.” 

That announcement, more than any other, elicits a stirring of discontent.  But I will not tolerate anything less than total obedience to my authority. 

“I am not finished!” The mutterings die down beneath my bellow. “This build will be arduous. If at any time you feel faint, light headed, sleepy, nauseous, or otherwise ill, you should immediately take a rest break. You will not be penalized for such, and continuing to work in such situation may put you at risk of permanent effects. Monitor yourselves, and monitor each other. Anyone caught taking advantage of this condition, however, will face immediate termination. Take hydration breaks as work allows, as there will be times when I need all personnel present and breaks will not be permitted. Most importantly, there will be times when I issue an order for all personnel to freeze. I expect such an order to be obeyed immediately, with immobility lasting until I personally rescind it. Failing to obey this order may result in your demise.” They do not need to know that their demise would likely be at my own hands. I can feel the seething anger starting to build again as I consider any of these individuals disobeying my orders. Let them think it will be an order given in the event of an environmental hazard. 

“If any further special instructions arise, I will issue them at that time. For now, we have a generator to rebuild. Dismissed!”

I watch humans scatter to the four winds. Jakara bellows over the din. “Lights to red!” Three breaths it takes for the order to be followed. Unacceptable. But there is time to work on that. 

Cautiously, hesitantly, my hands reach for the precious goggles protecting my sensitive vision from the hostile light. I dislike having them off in public spaces. For many reasons, but primarily because of the headaches caused when too much light falls into their depths. The searing agony of ocular overload has been my bane since infancy. Yet another reason to embrace the Dark. Certain situations can even cause an overload when my eyes are protected, though that is far more rare. 

But right now, I need to see without the darkening lenses occluding my sight. And so I ease the goggles off to hang loose about my neck. Exposed to the red glow, I blink a few times to refocus. 

Emotion is everywhere. My filters are still lacking from my time in solitude, so the detritus I usually find so effortless to look beyond is a burden to behold. Not quite enough to instigate a headache, but it leaves me distracted. It unfortunately also means that I can clearly see the remnants of three months ago.

There. A smear of panic colors the floor in a streak from an access ladder toward the door. It ends in a wide swathe of agony about halfway across the distance. Surprise dots it like sprinkles on a sundae. I know there should be two trails, but one overpowers the other. 

This was where he died. 

My feet have carried me to the spot without my permission, and now my knees refuse to hold me up. The hand spread upon the stone floor is mine, but I feel separate from it. Do not cry, damn it! You are not a mewling spawn any more! There is no time for this pathetic display. Get up! We have work to do!

I miss him desperately.

Perhaps it is my imagination, but I feel like I can still smell the copper of his blood upon the ground. Is that a smear of the blue-purple tint his blood had? Or some ingrained flakes, dried and stained? Is that the reddish-purple of my own lifeblood?

My arm twinges in remembrance. I can still feel his weight as his corpse bears me to the floor. The sharp crack of bone echoes in my ears. Pings of metal ricocheting off the stone of the chamber ring in my memory. I see the faint gouges nearby, where metal shrapnel dug furrows into the rock, and my fingers plumb the crevices. There is a faint scritching sound as my scale drags along stone. When did I express my scaling?

I feel the pressure of my grief building to frenzied pitch in my chest. It wants to escape, dragging with it a scream from the depths of my broken soul, but I dare not loose that howl. I cannot show them just how unhinged I truly am. But I can sing. I can give purpose to all that useless grief and despair.

Denzani pours forth. I use it to curse the room and all its occupants. In expressive, flowing sound, I give voice in the language of creation just how much I want to destroy everything around me. Something within me seems to slip and fracture. Black feels as though it is pouring out with each lyrical syllable. 

No. I am in control! My mouth snaps shut with a clicking of teeth that sends a shock through my jaw. Silence. 

I look about to find that all those around me are either staring in slack jawed shock or studiously avoiding my gaze. The edges of a snarl bubble about in my throat. Why are they staring? Can an adolescent not mourn in peace when someone they care about has been ripped from them? Each one that is staring gets the glare they have earned. Beneath my judgmental and seething gaze, they all look away.

But it also serves to rip me free from the hold this place retains upon my cognition. I refuse to be thankful for it.