The Glass Crater of Fresinova started to gleam under the morning sun like a vast, mocking lens, every fleck of gold and silver dust winking with cruel indifference. Melkath loomed at its far edge: a walled fortress of forced cheer, its duralloy ramparts crowned with black ray rifles that tracked the horizon like patient predators. The air still carried the metallic tang of the dead Drill Tooth, and the distant choirs of its kind had vanished into hidden fissures, but the memory of their circling shadows clung to the Gamma Knights like frost.
Arkadiusz spat into the glass and stood. “I’m not staying one more minute out here with those things around.” He unbuckled his weapons one by one—pistol, knife, spare magazines—setting them in a neat pile beside the cold fire. Hands raised high, he strode toward the main road, boots crunching on the fused surface. “Like I said last night!” he bellowed at the silent walls. “We only want to talk so we can help people. If your guns blow me up, so be it—we’ll probably die tonight anyway.”
The rifles swiveled. Red targeting dots danced across his chest, then steadied, then… did nothing. No crack of energy, no sizzling air. Arkadiusz kept walking. Closer. Closer still.
The others watched, breath held. Mordecai’s cannon hummed low in his grip. Paul Best’s fingers twitched toward his holstered plasma pistol. But the guns stayed quiet.
When Arkadiusz reached the gate, he paused. Scattered across the approach road lay the husks of machines—androids, crude robots, maybe even quasi-sentient constructs—reduced to blackened plating and exposed wiring. A junked police bot with its Kojak light shattered. A square-shouldered frame that might once have been a security drone. Nothing recent. Nothing worth salvaging. Just old deaths, left to rust in plain sight.
One by one, the Gamma Knights followed, hands raised. The rifles tracked them, unblinking, but never fired.
The entrance itself was strangely ceremonial: a wide break in the gleaming wall, only two meters high, framed by five broad circular pillars. The top half of each pillar was transparent, revealing identical robots inside—featureless metal faces, heads crowned with tall police lights that pulsed a slow, patient red. Between the pillars stretched solid metal bars, barring easy passage. Above it all arched a three-meter stone roof, as though the park itself were trying to look dignified.
Mordecai stepped forward, Paul at his side. The robots’ voices issued from hidden speakers, polite and flat: “Entry requires gesture in gold. Ten sovereigns per adult.”
The party looked at one another. Junk aplenty—salvaged circuits, spent casings, even a few pre-war coins of base metal—but gold? Not a single glint.
Mordecai muttered something in a dead language and began rummaging through the shrubbery near the entrance. After a few minutes of swearing and tugging, he dragged out a toppled machine half-buried in dirt and vines. It was man-height, half as wide, lying on its side like a drunk. Three small windows near the top showed faded pictures: cherries, lemons… and BAR? A rusted lever protruded from the right side.
Garet knelt beside it, tools already in hand. “One-armed bandit,” he said with grim amusement. “Ancient gambling relic. Still got a payout mechanism inside.”
He worked carefully, prying panels, coaxing corroded gears. After twenty minutes of swearing and the occasional spark, the machine gave a dry, mechanical cough. Coins spilled from the slot—three hundred British Gold Sovereigns, St. George slaying the dragon on every face. Paul Best’s eyes widened in recognition; even in the wastes, some symbols endured.
They paid the toll. The bars retracted with a hydraulic sigh. The Gamma Knights stepped through.
Inside, Melkath was immaculate at first glance—wide paths swept clean, vending stalls bright with fresh paint, knee-high white picket fences lining every route. But the illusion frayed quickly. Cracks spiderwebbed through the concrete. Paint peeled in long, curling strips. Junked robot husks lay scattered in corners like broken toys—former threats, long extinguished, left to rust.
A lone android approached, white-clad, red cross emblazoned on its chest. “Medical assistance?” it asked in a calm, pleasant voice. “Who needs medical assistance?”
The party exchanged glances. Wounds still wept from the night’s battle. Vulgaris’ stalk oozed. Garet, ever pragmatic, raised a hand. The android glided to him, scanners humming softly. Questions followed—probing, clinical. Soon Garet’s wounds were dressed, a mild stim dose administered with a polite hiss. The android offered a courteous nod and drifted away.
Garet watched it go, eyes narrowing. He flexed his bandaged arm. “Did that thing just take a blood sample?”
Before anyone could answer, the main plaza opened before them. Vending stalls lined the edges, their wares gleaming behind glass. A fenced flower garden bloomed improbably in the center, grass clipped to perfection. Beyond the plaza rose a long hill, roads forking left and right, one vanishing into a tunnel, the other doubling back out of sight.
Floating among the flowers were head-sized abominations—baby Drill Teeth, their cloudy eyes unfocused, bodies bobbing clumsily as they bumped into petals and one another. They paid the Knights no mind, but the sight tightened every jaw.
On the far side of the fence, a furry creature danced—man-sized, enormous ears, smile stretching a full meter across its head. It capered silently, making exaggerated gestures, as though welcoming them to a carnival that had long since gone wrong. The Knights indulged it for a few minutes before moving on.
They chose the tunnel east, under the hill. In the distance, artificial Mount Vesuvius loomed, its roller coaster track spiraling around and through the peak like a serpent wrapped around a corpse.
The path ended at a dead end: a flat, grey, curved wall rising five meters high. A small black doorway pierced its center. Above it, in bold sci-fi font, the sign read: **The 5th Dimension Theater**. Only Paul could properly read it, with Garet catching the word “Theater” but having no understanding of the other symbols quite yet, or the true meaning behind them.
Inside the doorway, colored lights moved in slow, hypnotic patterns. An attendant bot waited just beyond the threshold, voice cheerful. “Four gold pieces for entrance, please.”
Noelani and Garet stepped forward first. They paid, were ushered to black chairs in the lobby. A countdown began on a screen overhead—ten… nine…
The doors swung wide. Mordecai, Paul, Vulgaris, and Arkadiusz saw it at once: Noelani slumping in her seat, eyes fluttering shut. Garet swayed, fighting the same pull.
Paul and Arkadiusz rushed in, paying the toll with gritted teeth. They found the same irresistible weight dragging at their limbs. The lobby smelled of ozone and old popcorn. The lights dimmed.
One by one, they fell.
When they woke, snow dusted the ground. Classic two-story homes lined a peaceful cul-de-sac, each glowing with thousands of colorful Christmas lights. Candy canes towered along walkways. Nativity scenes and reindeer silhouettes graced front yards. Wreaths hung on every door. Fresh snow clung to evergreens. Chimney smoke drifted into a starry sky. Golden light spilled from every window—families decorating trees, wrapping gifts, setting out milk and cookies. Children’s bicycles with red ribbons lay half-buried near porches. Inflatable Santas and snowmen bobbed gently in the breeze.
It was perfect.
Too perfect.
And somewhere beneath the warm glow, the faint, mechanical whir of hidden gears kept time with the season’s endless song.
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