Marcus leaned against the wrench with all his weight and clenched his teeth. Just one more turn and he could get the panel free to fix the stupid gearshift that once again dislodged itself while in transit. He growled and extended his leg to pin himself against the gunner’s seat of the upright tank he worked on, to add more force in the hopes of loosening the nut. Everything at and near floor level rusted and corroded from the unforgiving Arcadian marshlands.

  And he didn’t look forward to then going to have to crawl into a space barely shoulder-wide to reattach the shifter. That was because the machine was designed by a team of alcoholic monkeys who secretly moonlighted as saboteurs bent on the downfall of lowly mechanics such as Marcus.

  Layne, his best friend, called out from the engine compartment behind the pilot seat, "Did you get it opened yet?"

  Before Marcus could respond, the nut loosened. The wrench drove forward with all of Marcus's weight plus the force of his leg. In the blink of an eye, his fist launched into the gunner's left foot pedal and his forehead into the lower half of the metal gunnery control panel with a hollow smack that echoed deep into the bowels of the machine.

  In a half-scorpion with his ears ringing, Marcus groaned. He reached up with a clawing grasp on the side of the control panel nearest the hatch and slowly righted himself. "Yeah, one sec." He pushed aside his beige corduroy hat and patted his forehead with his fingertips, then pulled them away and waited for his eyes to focus, looking for any sign of blood. Seeing nothing, he straightened his cap with his sore hand.

  If this wasn't an inline twin-seat cockpit, he might have had more room to work. But for some reason this thing could needed two people to operate.

  "It's hot in here, the engine is still a million degrees." Layne's muffled whine filled the space.

  He needed Layne’s help because after pulling the assembly apart, someone had to make sure the two control shafts didn't fall into a narrow gap between the upright’s torso chest armor plating and waist joint. The monkeys worked hard on that part of the design.

  With hesitation, Marcus leaned down again and pulled the final nut off the shoulder-wide kick plate and placed it on the gunner's seat behind him. "I'm going in, can you get a hand on it?"

  "Yep, yep, going for it now." Layne echoed out.

  As Marcus slid his head into the crawlspace, a resounding holler boomed into the cockpit from outside.

  "Hey!" A nasally voice shouted. It was Amurad, the current, temporary, owner of the upright.

  Marcus jolted and slammed the top of his head into the metal crawlspace, the thud rang throughout the core of the upright. "Yeah." He craned his neck and yelled a chesty reply over his shoulder as he maneuvered to lean out of the open cockpit hatch on the floor to the left of the gunner’s seat.

  "Is it done yet?" Amurad grunted, then spit on the ground at his own feet. What strands remained of his jet-black hair on the top of his head danced in the intermittent wind of the marshlands. The rest of his wispy, long locks flicked along his fur half cape and around his neck onto his leather chest piece.

  "Does it look done?" Marcus flared his nostrils, hidden behind his arm, meeting the Brigade Commander's gaze from over the shoulder.

  "Don't give me that tone, boy. The right answer is either 'Yes, sir.' or 'No, sir.' Nothing else." Amurad gritted his crooked, yellow teeth and scowled.

  Marcus stifled a growl and cleared his throat. "No." He took a deep breath. "Sir." He flashed his eyes wide for a moment.

  "Then what are you lounging around for? Get it done!" Amurad shook his head. "You're lucky you're the best mechanic we have in this brigade, or you'd be reassigned to being a chamber boy catching shit with your bare hands." He flicked his wrist and walked away.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  As Marcus's focus panned from the hatch back toward the crawlspace, he caught sight of the trigger on the gunner's control stick. His mind immediately wandered to the thought of strapping Amurad to the end of the 3-inch cannon and letting a round fly. A fate the Brigade Commander himself reserved for those he viewed as treasonous or the most disloyal. After everything Marcus had to go through, it would be a fitting end for the barbarian.

  Marcus crouched down, turned on his back, and wormed himself into the gopher hole that was the crawlspace to get to the underside of the gearshift. As he inched around the slight bend and toward the far side, the inside would be nearly pitch-black, if not for the dim glow of Layne's headlamp diffusing off the top of the metal substructure.

  Echoes of a whisper filled the miniscule space. Marcus stopped his advance and slowed his breathing. The sound of someone speaking again arose from above, in front of his face.

  "What'd you say?" Marcus called out.

  "Free me." An unfamiliar, baritone man’s voice hushed out from a hair’s width away.

  The mechanic startled and smacked his head on the top of the crawlspace. Then he pivoted his shoulder to find only the metal of the shaft overhead.

  "I'm melting, hurry up!" Layne cried out.

  Deciding to press on, after about three body-lengths, Marcus reached the next barrier, a vent.

  Pulling a screwdriver off his tool belt, he began loosening the screws for the grate. Despite the whine of the slowly rusting screws being freed, Marcus wanted nothing more than to be done with this job.

  "You think he's going to give you the rope this time?" Layne piped up with a grin. He was also on his back, pinning his shoulders and legs on either side of a narrow gap beneath him. Above, he latched onto a thick gear shaft that ran the length of the crawlspace to the engine, three or four body-lengths away, leading opposite the direction Marcus entered.

  "Me?" Marcus smiled and shook his head. "Nah, he likes me too much. You on the other hand..." He dislodged another screw, placed it in a pocket on his tool belt, then shrugged.

  "Oh good." Layne let off a whimsical sigh. "Don't have to deal with this God-awful mud anymore. I'll finally be able to get some good sleep too."

  Marcus finished pulling out the last screw and let the plate down onto his chest. Then he raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. "Now that you say it like that, you’d get the better end of the deal. Wanna trade?"

  "What are you whining about? This whole thing was your idea in the first place." Layne spoke lower and clicked his tongue.

  Marcus began rearranging the underside of the gearshift. "You're not wrong, but being technically correct is the most annoying kind of correct."

  "For not having much of a plan, we got far, but we need to actually put our heads together and figure out how to get this thing away from these goons." Layne hushed.

  Marcus wiped sweat from his face with his shoulder. The inside of the crawlspace was sweltering, the heat from the second engine wafted down the whole length. "Yeah, they're a little more organized than I first thought. A bunch of barbarians shouldn't be this put together."

  "They've been rampaging through Arcadia for a whole season now, what did you expect?" Layne shook his head. "The most resistance they had is the relentless mud and wet from the marshland."

  Marcus unbolted and rearranged smaller shafts within the panel. "Look, in my defense they weren't doing much of anything when we first found them. How was I supposed to know they were going to suddenly blitz through some of the worst terrain on the Aegian continent?" He wiped more sweat with his shoulder.

  "And what about Max, Simon, and Ekkehard?" Layne started panting, his arms visibly shaking, still holding the massive shaft in place over his face.

  A loud ping rang out in the crawlspace as Marcus readjusted the mechanism within. "I'll figure it out." He grunted as the internals gave him little finger room. He twisted his elbows to avoid getting his hands pinned by the countless gear teeth.

  As Marcus struggled with the mechanical work, he squelched any desire to half ass it enough to get it working. While whoever put this gearshift in didn't do the best job, this was his upright and he wanted it done correctly.

  "Don't tell me you're just going to leave them behind." Layne's arms started to tremble, but he didn't relent in his job. "They're our friends."

  It wasn't Marcus's upright because he was responsible for its upkeep. It was passed down through his family for generations; stolen from his father years ago. And after months and months of searching, with a little luck, Marcus found it amidst this brigade of Western Barbary raiders moving east to plunder, as barbarians tended to do.

  "Man, they're prisoners." Layne groaned, his arms vibrating but still latched onto the shaft overhead.

  Marcus wiped away more sweat and snapped one last gear into place. "Alright, let go."

  Layne winced and let his arms fall limp around his body. Realizing the shaft wasn’t going to smack him in the head, he slowly relaxed the tension in his shoulders.

  "No. I'm not going to leave them behind." Marcus started to screw the plate back onto the panel.

  Layne breathed a sigh of relief.

  "But we're also in the same position as them." Marcus flicked his tongue.

  "Did anyone ever tell you that being technically correct is the most annoying kind of correct?" Layne groaned.

  Marcus heard a commotion outside and panic set in. "Enough yapping, let's get this buttoned up."

  Blight Witch Haru, and if you haven't I invite you to check it out especially if you're looking for something a bit less intense and raw. The first arc is also complete and will be starting soon, so don't miss it!

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