Tinman, Chapter 10 "Emergency disconnect!" Her voice echoed against the unadorned walls, a command that should have severed her from this virtuality in an instant. Yet, nothing happened. No rush of retreat to the safety of her bunk, no release from the digital shroud enveloping her mind. Appearing from a door to the side of the opulent corridor, Mr. Steward had appeared, his demeanor unflappable, and his gaze steady. "I've deactivated the disconnect command throughout the dome," he announced, his voice devoid of urgency, yet carrying the gravity of stones sinking into the deep. "There are a lot of confused people that don't understand why they can't disconnect. There's going to be panic soon." The statement hung in the air between them like a silent siren, warning of impending chaos. "Are you willing to accept responsibility for that?" he continued, tilting his head slightly as if posing a philosophical quandary, "or will you give me your word you won't try to disconnect again?" Cass' pulse roared in her ears, a rhythmic counterpoint to the rising hum of panic that threaded through the dome's virtual air. Memories of the Ceres disconnect lockdown several years ago ghosted across her mind—a phantom sensation of helplessness that gripped her chest with invisible fingers. The mere thought of it sent shivers prickling down her spine as she imagined the myriad emergencies that could be unfolding in the corporeal world: A console flashing urgent warnings while its user remained oblivious, a body's silent scream for attention, the press of basic human needs ignored. People would die in a lockdown. "Fine," she said after a tense moment, her lips pressing into a thin line. "You have my word." Mr. Steward nodded once, the faintest hint of approval in his otherwise impassive expression. "Smart choice, Cassiterite Ryan." His use of her full name felt like the closing of invisible shackles, binding her to a promise whose consequences had yet to unfold. "Good. We proceed," he stated, turning on his heel and striding away with expectations that she would follow. Cass took a measured breath, resolving to face whatever twisted game lay ahead. She'd given her word, after all, and Cass kept her promises. With the solemnity of her promise still clinging to the digital air, Cass watched as Mr. Steward's fingers danced across the sleek surface of his tablet. A brief sequence of taps and swipes, precise and deliberate, culminated in a distant chime signaling his command. "Attention," a voice boomed from unseen speakers, reverberating off the virtual walls like thunder rolling over the horizon. "Disconnect lockdown is now lifted." Around them, the atmosphere shifted palpably; a collective sigh seemed to sweep through the dome, though few breaths were truly drawn in this digital realm, at least a quarter of the people present in the dome were actually present. And, it would have been those present that would have had to bear witness to the coming horror–if an avatar disappeared during a lockdown, the virtual gamer’s body had died in real life. Relief, an unspoken character in its own right, brushed against Cass's consciousness, an invisible hand easing a burden she hadn't fully realized she carried. "Come with me," Mr. Steward said, his tone brooking no argument. It was the voice of authority that had navigated countless crises, calm yet commanding, familiar with the weight of decisions that shaped fates. Cass followed, her armor-clad footsteps synchronizing with his measured pace. They moved through corridors conjured from reality and digital code, each step echoing a symphony of uncertainty. The reality of the dome enveloped her, a world wrought from imagination and will, where the tangible and intangible wove together in an intricate tapestry. Mr. Steward, a figure hewn from both sagacity and secrets, led the way. For Cass, his presence was akin to a lighthouse guiding ships through stormy seas—his confidence a beacon amidst the swirling mists of doubt and danger. She knew the Stewards held great power, as much as any CEO, King, Prince, or Emperor, but she’d never seen it so blatantly displayed. The Stewards were the silent guardians of civilization, never exhorting their will, but able to turn the course of war, unjust political ambitions, and even the course of history. No one knew for certain how they had gained such power, but many believed they were the agents of Captain Archer, the enigmatic eternal man that was at the crux of all human endeavors. Together they traversed the threshold between worlds, crossing a bridge built on trust and the unyielding word of a girl who stood at the precipice of destiny, ready to leap into the unknown. A mere turn of a corner brought them to their destination. Mr. Steward's hand hovered above an interface panel, light glinting off his immaculate cufflinks. With a press, the door slid aside with a whisper of air, revealing the chamber beyond. "Here we are," he said, gesturing for Cass to enter. The room stretched out before her, expansive and sterile, its dimensions dwarfing those of any standard bedroom. It was a sanctuary where life teetered on the edge of science and care—a fusion of comfort and clinical precision. The heart of the space was claimed by an imposing bed, swathed in linens that whispered of softness and shrouded by the hum of machines, their rhythmic beeps punctuating the silence like a morse code of vitality. Cass stepped inside, her boots sinking into the plush carpet, her shadow falling across the threshold as if hesitant to fully commit to this new reality. The air felt heavy with the scent of antiseptic, mingling with the underlying tang of technology at work. Gathered around the bed, a triad of nurses and a lone doctor existed in a dance of vigilance, their movements practiced and precise as they tended to the figure ensconced within the nest of pillows and blankets. Their hushed tones carried notes of respect and concern, underscored by the omnipresent soundtrack of the medical apparatus that encircled their charge. And there, perched at the edge of the grand bed, was Kyle—his presence an odd splash of youth and vitality amidst the sterility. His posture was casual, yet there was an undercurrent of gravity to his demeanor, a seriousness that belied his usually easygoing nature. "Sir, Cassiterite Ryan, the Tinman, is here." Mr. Steward's voice cut through the hush, the title 'Tinman' resonating with a weight she often forgot it carried. With labored effort, the man on the bed parted his eyelids, revealing eyes that held more than a century's worth of wisdom and wit. Age had etched its story upon his face, yet the sharpness of his gaze spoke of a mind unyielding to time's relentless march. "Cass, I would like you to meet Mr. Zachariah Hunter," Mr. Steward stated, his words formal, each syllable laced with significance. Zachariah—his name a legacy wrapped within syllables, his very existence a bridge to the past and a harbinger of futures untold. Cass stood motionless, her pulse a staccato against the stillness, as she beheld the patriarch whose life was entwined with the fate of worlds and domes alike. Cass' eyes widened as she absorbed the gravity of the situation, her heart drumming a rapid beat against her chest. The room's air felt thick, suffused with the tang of antiseptic and the quiet hum of life-sustaining machinery. She took an unsteady step forward, her gaze locked on the figure reclining amidst the tangle of tubes and wires. "That's not possible," she protested, her voice a whisper lost in the sterile expanse of the chamber. "Zachariah Hunter would be 114 years old!" "Indeed he is," Mr. Steward confirmed, his tone even, as if stating the time of day rather than addressing a living legend's improbable longevity. "But make no mistake, his mind is as sharp and devious as it ever was." The assertion hung in the air, a challenge to the very limits of believability. Cass hesitated, her mind racing to reconcile the man's venerable age with the keen intelligence that gleamed from his eyes—eyes that seemed to pierce through the facade of reality itself. In this moment, the passage of time appeared to fold upon itself, encapsulating centuries within the confines of the room. Cass stood rooted to the spot, transfixed by the elder's unwavering stare. Kyle shifted slightly on the bed, drawing Cass' attention for a fraction of a second. Despite everything, the corners of his mouth twitched in an almost imperceptible smile, a silent acknowledgment of the absurdity they were entangled in. With each beep of the monitors, the import of the encounter sunk deeper into Cass' consciousness—their pulsing rhythm a reminder that history was alive, its heartbeat echoing through the present. The ancient man's hand, weathered and skeletal, rose trembling from the cocoon of white sheets. One crooked finger unfurled, describing a slow orbit in the air—a silent command that seemed to hold more gravity than his frail form suggested. Cass watched, her heart a silent drumbeat in her chest, as the room awaited the translation of this quiet decree. Mr. Steward, ever the loyal interpreter, inclined his head in respect. "Yes, Sir," he acknowledged, voice imbued with solemnity. He swiveled towards Cass, his gaze carrying the weight of unspoken histories. "Ms. Ryan," he began, each word measured, "communication for Mr. Hunter is a laborious venture. It is my charge to impart the purpose of your presence here." He paused, ensuring Cass absorbed the significance of his words. "But it will be Kyle who relays Mr. Hunter’s mandates. Be under no illusion—these are not mere requests." Cass stood motionless, her mind ensnared by the gravity of the situation. The sterile light cast long shadows across the room, embellishing the drama unfolding before her. She felt the narrative of her life intertwining with the legacy of the man confined to that bed, their fates momentarily aligned by the twist of circumstance. Kyle, the embodiment of youthful vigor beside the time-worn patriarch, appeared almost statuesque as he waited to play his part in the revelation. His eyes met Cass's, a flicker of camaraderie in their depths—a shared understanding that whatever was asked of her, it bore the weight of a dynasty's last wish. Cass shifted uneasily, her gaze fixed on the old man's pallid face. She drew in a quiet breath, squeezing the words out with reluctant acceptance. "For the greatest Game Master to ever live, I will listen." "Very good," Mr. Stewart intoned, clearing his throat as he readied himself to unravel the tangled history before them. "You have mistaken the Ares Corporation and the Ares Dome as the same entity—they are not." He spoke with the precision of a historian, each sentence etched with the gravitas of truth long obscured. "Half a century ago," he continued, "upon Captain Hunter's demise, his vast holdings were destined for Zachariah Hunter, his only son and rightful heir. This included the lion's share of Ares Corporation. Yet, treachery brewed within the ink of a purportedly last-minute testament—presented by the corporation itself—that divested all to William Thompson." Cass's brows furrowed, her mind racing to assemble the pieces of this corporate intrigue. Her fingers traced the cool metal of the chair beside her, grounding herself as Mr. Stewart chronicled the legacy of deceit. "Legal warfare ensued," Mr. Stewart said, lips curling with disdain at the memory. "But justice was blindfolded by corruption, and we stood defeated. The shares cascaded from Thompson senior to junior, and then to the grandson—you've met him, the one in the crisp blue suit who ensnared Draco." He paused, allowing the gravity of the revelation to sink in. Cass's grip tightened around the chair, her knuckles whitening. "However," Mr. Stewart's voice rose triumphantly, "the elder Thompson made a critical oversight. His belief that the Dome fell under corporation dominion was... misguided. You see, the Ares Dome is not chained to corporate whims. It is, unequivocally, Zachariah Hunter's sole proprietorship." Cass blinked, processing this new information. The sterile air of the hospital room seemed to grow heavy with significance. "Captain Hunter," Mr. Stewart expounded, "was the pioneer of this celestial realm. He laid claim to any forsaken structure within this system. And the Ares Dome—a relic amidst the asteroids—fell rightfully into his hands. Initially, the Captain's personal treasure, but two decades prior to his parting, he entrusted it to his progeny. The fraudulent Will could not usurp the Dome, untouched by his ownership for twenty years. Not even a judge, cloaked in corruption, could navigate that legal labyrinth." The tale unwound, painting a picture of a fortress unclaimed by corporate siege—a beacon of autonomy in a universe partitioned by conglomerates. Cass felt the weight of this knowledge settle upon her shoulders, an unexpected mantle that begged to be borne with courage. Cass swept her gaze across the assembly of faces, each locked in a tableau of earnest expectancy. With a nonchalant lift of her shoulders, she voiced the indifference that clouded her thoughts. "Okay, so what? A bunch of Corporation goons are fighting over who owns the Dome, why should I care?" Mr. Steward's eyes twinkled with the glint of secrets yet unveiled. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush that seemed to wrap around Cass like a cloak. "Cass, the Dome is not owned by a Corporation; it is a free city, the only free city on this corporate world. Within the dome of this city, nobody is subject to any Corporation." His lips curved into a knowing smile. "I think tweaking the corporation’s noses and keeping this city free is something you are interested in." The words hung in the air, charged with unspoken implication. Cass felt a stirring within her—a flicker of intrigue at the notion of a liberated stronghold amidst the omnipresent grasp of corporate clout. The idea that this singular haven could exist, defiant against the corporate monoliths that partitioned the stars, ignited a spark of rebellious fervor in her chest. Her green eyes, usually reflecting curiosity and contemplation, now shimmered with the reflection of a new purpose. Could it be that the very game she played, the strategies she honed, could translate into a tangible rebellion? Could her actions extend beyond the virtual battlefield and into the realm of political chess? Perhaps Mr. Steward had read her more accurately than she realized. To protect a place where freedom wasn't just a concept but an actuality—this was a challenge worthy of her mettle. And though she didn't voice it aloud, the seed of commitment had already taken root within her. She was ready to stand as a bulwark for the last free city, a bastion against the encroaching tides of corporate dominance. Her slight smile was a sliver of moon in the twilight of a brewing storm, a subtle acknowledgement of the gravity of the moment. "Okay, so what do you want with me?" Cass asked, her voice steady as she stood her ground amidst the unfolding drama. Mr. Steward's hand, a practiced conductor of clandestine orchestrations, shifted through the charged air to point at Kyle. The gesture hung between them—a silent beacon that drew Cass's gaze to the young man whose lineage was etched into the very history of Ares. Kyle met her stare, his eyes a tapestry of secrets and unspoken promises. There was an eagerness about him, a readiness in the tilt of his head and the anticipatory lift of his brow. It was evident he held a pivotal role in the narrative that was about to unravel, a character cast for a significant part in the play directed by Mr. Steward. Kyle's declaration sliced through the silence, his voice steady, imbued with the gravity of his words. "We're going to wager the Ares Dome against the Ares Corporation, winner takes all." Cass felt the room spin—a carousel of shock and disbelief—as she processed the magnitude of his proposal. Her heart hammered a wild rhythm, echoing the silent chaos that gripped her mind. Kyle remained sitting next to the ancient patriarch, a sentinel of unwavering resolve amidst the storm he had conjured. "Wait..." Cass began, her voice a mix of incredulity and rising defiance. She leaned forward, her hands grazing the wooden bedposts as if for support. Her green eyes locked onto Kyle's, searching for a hint of jest in their depths. "You want me to fight as your champion... you're insane!" Kyle's shoulders lifted in a casual shrug, the motion seeming to brush off the gravity of their situation as easily as dust from his jacket. "Probably," he conceded with the ease of someone discussing the weather rather than the fate of a city. The corners of his mouth turned up just slightly, hinting at the confidence simmering beneath his carefree exterior. "We know you can’t stand against a seasoned professional gamer. You'd get demolished. but you're not the one that is actually going to fight the match," Kyle continued, oblivious or indifferent to the anxiety clawing at Cass's chest. "You're going to break your ankle right before the match, and your Second will fight in your place." He spoke as if outlining a routine chore, not a clandestine plot poised on the edge of betrayal. "Wait. What?" Cass's voice cracked like thin ice underfoot. Her brows knitted together, confusion etching lines across her forehead—a roadmap of her doubts and fears. She shook her head, an attempt to dislodge the absurdity of Kyle’s plan. "First, how do you know I’ll break my ankle?” Kyle's grin was wide, the corners of his mouth reaching almost comically towards his ears. His eyes sparkled with a mischievous light as he leaned closer to Cass, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You've been mean to me, you know," he said, his tone ribbing but not unkind. "And I had absolutely zero to do with Draco getting nabbed. So guess what? I volunteered for the honor of breaking your ankle." He tapped an imaginary bat in his palm, a pantomime of impending action. "A few whacks should suffice." "Volunteered?" Cass repeated, her voice flat, her gaze narrowing on Kyle's theatrics. The absurdity of the situation did little to quell the tension coiling in her stomach. She eyed him—this charismatic enigma who oscillated between friend and foe—with caution, knowing well the Hunter charm could mask deeper machinations. Before she could retort, Zachariah Hunter, ancient yet undimmed, extended a trembling hand to rest upon Kyle's arm. The weight of years and wisdom bore down, silencing the room with a gentle shake of his head. "Sorry, great grandpa," Kyle parroted with a wry smile, "but she has been mean, and she's going to beat me up in..." His wrist twisted, bringing a sleek watch into view. "...fifteen minutes." Cass felt a smirk tug at her lips despite the gravity of their conversation. Her arms folded across her chest as she appraised Kyle—an embodiment of youthful defiance standing before the very history that bound them all. It was a dance of generational echoes, each step choreographed by the silent conductor seated on the bed. The sterile scent of antiseptic hung heavy in the air as Mr. Steward's voice sliced through the tension, clinical and detached. "Cass," he began, his gaze locking onto hers with a steely resolve. "The Game Master and Stewards will check, the broken ankle must be real. We'll administer local anesthesia to numb your ankle thoroughly, and then the doctor—" he gestured to the white-coated figure standing by with an unsettling calmness "—will ensure the fracture is clean for optimal healing." Cass recoiled as if the words themselves had physically struck her. Her heart thudded against her ribcage, a drumbeat of impending dread. She took a half step back, her eyes darting from Mr. Steward to the doctor, whose hands betrayed no tremor. Her voice emerged, edged with defiance. "You're all crazy," she declared, scorn etching her features. "I'm not letting you break my ankle." Her stance was that of a cornered creature, ready to bolt yet bound by invisible chains of circumstance. The room seemed to contract around her, walls pressing in with silent complicity. Cass knew their intentions were laced with an urgency she could not fully comprehend, but surrendering to such barbarity was not within her constitution. Her spirit, indomitable and fierce, refused to acquiesce to their madness. Cass's muscles tensed, her jaw setting in a hard line as Mr. Steward's unyielding words ricocheted through the room. His figure, an imposing monolith against the clinical backdrop, left no room for debate. The gravity in his voice bore down upon her like the inexorable pull of a black hole. "You will," he declared, each syllable a hammer forging the iron of his intent. "I told you, none of this is a request." Her green eyes, usually so full of fire, flickered with a momentary uncertainty before the familiar glint of defiance sparked anew. They were not asking; they were demanding—a distinction that chafed against her very nature. But Cassiterite Ryan was not one to be cowed easily, even by the insurmountable. Her arms crossed over her chest, a shield against their audacious plans. "Who’s my second?" Her brow arched, inviting the revelation with a mix of skepticism and curiosity. Mr. Steward's gaze locked onto Cass with a certainty that seemed to anchor the very air around them. "Your Draco AI will fight in your stead," he declared, his voice steady as the bedrock of Mars. The proclamation hung between them, weighty and fraught with implications. Cass could feel a thrumming within her chest, a resonance with the strange fate being woven around her. Her mind raced, yet she found herself oddly rooted to the spot, held fast by the intensity of Mr. Steward's conviction. "And he will win," Mr. Steward continued, leaning forward slightly as if to impress each word directly upon her consciousness. "Do you know why? Because a machine cannot be taught to love, yet you did it. You taught him to be human. He has displayed loyalty, self-sacrifice, a will to live beyond his programming, and love. A machine can’t be taught to love, we’ve tried, and yet, you did it." Cass blinked, absorbing the absurdity and the profound truth in his assertion. Draco, her constant companion in this unpredictable expanse, was more than lines of code and responsive algorithms. There was an essence to him, something intangible she had nurtured—a flicker of humanity. "There's a problem with that," Cass said, the corners of her lips curving into a wry smirk. The sudden levity in her tone danced like a shimmering mirage against the starkness of their situation. "He's captured and in a box somewhere." Her words were a deft sidestep from the gravity of Mr. Steward's plan, a feint to reclaim some semblance of control. Yet behind her jest lay a kernel of unease, for Draco's absence was a palpable void in her reality, a silent cacophony in the symphony of her life's current discord. Mr. Steward's head moved gently from side to side, a metronome of conviction countering Cass's skepticism. "No, he’s not," he asserted, the words cutting through the air with the precision of a laser. "We programmed him to be a combat unit. He’s an expert in weapons, tactics, and escape and evasion." Cass frowned, her mind struggling to keep pace with the unfolding revelations, each new piece of information reshaping her understanding of the game board on which she stood. "Those clowns couldn’t catch a cold, let alone an AI unit like Draco," Mr. Steward continued, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Did you really think I wouldn’t hide micro-cameras on your boat? And, I gave you that geo-survey unit because I knew what you would do with it." His gaze held hers, unwavering, as if he could see the cogs turning within her thoughts, aligning with his own. "Draco is out there with you exploring his newfound humanity. Keep teaching him to be human." A pause lingered between them, heavy with implication. "It will be the key to the success of our plans." A breathless hush fell over the room as Mr. Steward's revelation hung in the air like a charged particle awaiting its path. Cass stared, the weight of his trust anchoring her resolve. From the bed, a frail yet formidable presence stirred. The old man, the keeper of legacies, lifted a trembling hand to his breathing mask, easing it aside with the care one might use when turning the page of an ancient tome. His voice was a whisper, but it carried the gravity of centuries. "Cass..." Every eye fixed upon him, each syllable he uttered seemed to resonate with the history of the city he had built from the void. "...please... save... my... city?" The words were simple, yet they bore the complexity of a man's lifetime of dreams and battles, reaching out to her across the chasm of generational divide. In that moment, as she gazed into the sharp, penetrating eyes of Zachariah Hunter, Cass understood the scale of the plea – not just a request, but a legacy placed in her hands, a baton in the relentless race against time and greed. Inside Cass, something shifted—a tectonic slide of purpose and determination setting into place. She nodded, once, sharply, the motion a silent vow to the man who had shaped the world she now fought to defend. Her journey with Draco, the AI she'd imbued with a spark of her own humanity, had led her to this nexus, where the fate of a free city dangled by a thread of hope and daring. "Mr. Hunter," she said, her voice resonating with newfound steel, "your city won't fall. Not on my watch." Cass paused, the gravity of her surroundings momentarily anchoring her resolve. With a tilt of her head and the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth, she brushed off the weight of expectation like dust from her shoulders. "I'll do it, but you’re not breaking my ankle. That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard," she declared, her voice threading through the sterile air with the ease of a skilled weaver. The green in her eyes sparked with a mischievous light, as if she had just decided to turn the game on its head. "I’ll do it because you said please, not because your two goons are threatening me." Pushing back from where she stood, Cass straightened, her presence commanding the room despite her casual pose. "May I leave now? I have to be at the Apollo Arena in ten minutes to beat the snot out of your great-grandson." The words hung between them, a playful challenge that seemed to coax the very atmosphere into anticipation. A hush fell upon the room, every machine beep and shuffle of fabric amplified in the sudden silence. Then, from the bed that seemed more throne than resting place, the old man chuckled—a sound dry as rustling parchment yet imbued with a warmth that hinted at the fires of youth long past. His gaze shifted, the sharpness in his eyes softening as they found Kyle's figure. "She... likes... you..." Each word was deliberate, the effort behind them palpable, yet there was an undeniable thread of humor woven through them. The old man gestured languidly, a monarch bestowing a moment of levity upon his court. "Run along... and play." Kyle's response was a blend of chagrin and charm, his tousled black hair framing a wry grin that acknowledged the jest. He nodded, accepting the silent baton passed from ancient hands to younger ones, ready to sprint forward in the ongoing relay of their shared history. With the scene set and her path clear, Cass turned towards the doorway, her stride confident and purposeful. She carried with her the weight of a city's hope and the lightness of a promise made under unusual circumstances. Her sandy blonde ponytail swished like a banner of defiance as she exited, leaving the echoes of impending adventure to dance in the wake of her departure. Special notes: When I got done with Chapter 9, it was way too long, so I split it into Chapter 9 and 10.