The Slothful Sovereign

Chapter 10: Disposal Problems

The heavy vibration of the metal door finally stopped, leaving a ringing silence that felt louder than the crash itself. Santiago stood over the mangled heap of the guard he’d just thrown, his chest rising and falling in sharp, jagged hitches. The internal pressure was still humming, a low-frequency buzz that made the very air in the barracks feel thick and humid.

"Hey," Nikolai’s voice cut through the haze, low and urgent. "Kid. Look at me. Snap out of it."

Santiago turned his head slowly. "I didn't mean to hit him that hard. I just... I flicked him."

"Yeah, well, your 'flick' just turned a reinforced security door into a piece of abstract art," Nikolai said, gesturing to the deep, body-shaped indentation in the steel. "We don't have time for a crisis of conscience. We’ve got three bodies and about four minutes before the next patrol cycles through this corridor. Help me get this one up."

"Where are we putting them?" Santiago asked, his voice shaking as the adrenaline began to sour in his gut. "We can't just leave them in the middle of the floor."

"The maintenance sub-floor," Nikolai said, pointing to a rusted hatch near the back of the room. "The sensors are dead in that sector. It’s full of old coolant pipes and grease. It’ll buy us an hour, maybe more if the morning shift is as lazy as usual. Grab his legs."

Santiago moved toward the first man—the one with the shattered hand. "He’s still breathing, Nikolai. His hand is... it’s fused into the gun."

"Don't look at it," Nikolai snapped, already hauling the man’s upper body toward the hatch. "Just lift. Come on, Santiago, put some of that kinetic muscle to use. He’s heavy as a crate of lead."

"I got it," Santiago muttered, gripping the man’s boots. The tactical leather was cold and slick. "God, why do they wear so much plating? It’s like dragging a statue."

"To keep people like you from killing them," Nikolai grunted, his face reddening with the effort. "Clearly, it’s not very effective. Watch the corner of the bunk. If he hits the metal, it’ll ring through the whole floor."

"I’m trying. Just... give me a second."

"We don't have a second! We have a heartbeat. Lift!"

They tumbled the first guard into the dark, narrow crawlspace beneath the floorboards. The sound of him hitting the pipes was a wet, muffled thud.

"Next one," Nikolai whispered, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of a bloodied hand. "The one by the rail. Move, Santiago!"

Santiago lunged for the second assassin, the one Nikolai had knocked out. This one was even heavier, a broad-shouldered man whose gear was bristling with sharp-edged tech. "This guy’s built like a tank, Nikolai. How did you even take him down?"

"Technique, kid. Something you should learn so you don't have to keep denting doors," Nikolai panted. "Grab his belt. Use it for leverage. There you go. Drag him. Don't worry about the noise now, just get him to the hole."

"He’s bleeding on my boots," Santiago hissed, his eyes darting toward the door. "What if the blood doesn't come off the floor?"

"Then we say someone spilled some hydraulic fluid," Nikolai said, his voice Tight. "Keep moving. Stop thinking about the blood and start thinking about the transport. If we don't finish this, we aren't going anywhere but the pit."

They rolled the second man into the hatch. Santiago’s hands were trembling so violently he had to wipe them on his trousers.

"One more," Santiago said, looking at the man embedded in the door. "Nikolai, he’s... he’s stuck. The metal is wrapped around his armor."

Nikolai swore under his breath, stepping over to the dented door. He tugged on the guard’s shoulder, but the metal groaned and held fast. "You really did a number on him. It’s like you welded him into the frame."

"I didn't mean to," Santiago whispered, his voice rising in panic. "I just pushed! I didn't know I was that strong!"

"Keep your voice down!" Nikolai hissed, grabbing a heavy pry-bar from under his own bunk. "Help me wedge this under his chest-plate. If we can just pop the seal on his armor, he’ll slide out. Come on, push with me."

"It’s not moving, Nikolai."

"Yes, it is. Push! Use that spark of yours! Just a little nudge, Santiago. Not a blast, just a nudge!"

Santiago closed his eyes, focusing a tiny, needle-thin stream of kinetic energy into the gap between the guard and the door. He felt the metal protest, the molecules screaming as they were forced apart. With a sharp, metallic pop, the guard fell forward, landing on Santiago with a sickening weight.

"Oof! Get him off! Get him off!"

"Shh! I’ve got him," Nikolai said, hauling the man away. "Last one. Into the hatch. Go!"

They shoved the third man into the sub-floor and slammed the rusted metal plate back into place. Nikolai kicked a tattered rug over the hatch, his chest heaving as he looked around the room.

"The blood," Santiago pointed out, his finger shaking. "Nikolai, there’s a smear from the door to the hatch."

"I see it. Grab the cleaning solvent from the supply locker. The heavy-duty stuff. It’s in the blue bottle."

Santiago scrambled to the locker, his movements frantic and clumsy. "I can't find it! It’s all just grease and—wait, I got it. I got it!"

"Hurry up. I can hear the boots in the hall. They’re coming back from the North Perimeter."

Santiago poured the pungent, chemical-smelling liquid onto the floor, scrubbing at the dark stains with a discarded rag. "It’s not coming up. It’s soaking into the grit!"

"Just spread it around," Nikolai commanded, grabbing another rag and helping him. "Make it look like a spill. If it smells like solvent, they won't smell the copper. Keep scrubbing, kid! We’re almost there."

"I’m trying! I’m trying!"

"The door," Nikolai said, suddenly stopping. He looked at the massive dent. "There’s no way we’re hiding that. If anyone looks at this door, the game is over."

"What do we do?" Santiago asked, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "I can't un-dent it, Nikolai! I don't know how to pull things, I only know how to push!"

Nikolai looked at the pry-bar, then at the bunk next to the door. "Help me move the storage locker. If we slide it two feet to the left, it’ll cover the worst of the impact. It’ll look crowded, but it’ll hide the hole."

"It’s bolted to the floor!"

"Then break the bolts! You’re the anomaly, aren't you? Break the damn bolts!"

Santiago grabbed the side of the heavy metal locker. He felt the cold iron beneath his palms. He didn't think; he just let a surge of raw, unbridled pressure flow through his arms. The floorboards shrieked as the bolts snapped like dry twigs.

"Now slide it!" Nikolai whispered. "Slide it, you beautiful freak!"

They shoved the locker across the floor, the screech of metal on metal sounding like a siren in the quiet barracks. It slammed into place, covering the dented door frame with only inches to spare.

"Did anyone hear that?" Santiago gasped, collapsing against the locker. "That was so loud. Everyone must have heard that."

"Everyone in this sector is either dead or wishes they were," Nikolai said, his eyes fixed on the barracks door. "Get in your bunk. Now. Pull the blanket up. Hide your boots."

"What about you?"

"I’m going to be the grumpy technician who can't sleep," Nikolai said, smoothing his hair and sitting on the edge of his cot. "Hide, Santiago. Don't make a sound."

Santiago dove into his bunk, pulling the coarse, scratchy wool over his head. He could smell the ozone and the cleaning chemicals, a suffocating mixture that made his eyes water. He forced his breathing to slow, trying to mimic the rhythmic, deep inhalations of sleep, but his pulse was a drumbeat in his ears.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The boots were right outside the door now. They stopped.

A heavy, rhythmic knock echoed through the room—not a security override, but the impatient rap of a bored patrol guard.

"Hey! You in there!" a voice shouted from the corridor.

Santiago squeezed his eyes shut, his entire body tensed. He felt the kinetic energy in his chest wanting to flare up again, a defensive reflex that he had to fight with every ounce of his will. Stay down. Be the dirt. Be the nothing.

Nikolai didn't answer immediately. He let the silence hang for a second, then groaned loudly, the sound of a man being rudely awakened.

"What?" Nikolai shouted back, his voice thick with a perfectly feigned irritation. "What the hell do you want at this hour?"

The door hissed open a crack—just enough for a sliver of yellow light to cut across the floor, stopping inches from the rug that hid the bodies.

"Everything alright in here?" the guard asked, his silhouette leaning into the frame. "We heard a hell of a racket. Sounded like someone was moving heavy machinery."

"It’s the damn locker," Nikolai snapped, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. He looked like the picture of a man who had reached his breaking point. "The bolts on the floor gave way because the hull is shifting again. The whole thing nearly tipped over on the kid while he was sleeping. I had to shove it back before it crushed his legs."

The guard paused, his flashlight sweeping the room. The beam flickered over the lockers, then the floor, then stayed on the rug for a heartbeat too long. "Sounded louder than a locker. Sounded like a crash."

"Everything in this dump sounds like a crash," Nikolai retorted, standing up and walking toward the door with an aggressive stride. "The ventilation is rattling, the pipes are humming, and now I’ve got guards knocking on my door every five minutes. Do you want to come in and bolt it back down for me? Because I’d love the help."

The guard hesitated, the light moving back to Nikolai’s face. "Watch your tone, tech. We’re on high alert. The Overseer’s getting ready to pull out, and everyone’s jumpy."

"I’m jumpy because I haven't slept in thirty-six hours," Nikolai said, leaning against the doorframe to block the guard’s view of the dented door behind the locker. "Is there a problem, or are you just here to keep me company?"

The guard lowered his flashlight, sighing. "Just keep it down. If I hear another bang like that, I’m calling a full security sweep, and you’ll be spending the night in the brig instead of your bunk."

"Fine by me," Nikolai muttered. "At least the brig has better mattresses. Get lost, will you?"

The guard grumbled something under his breath and stepped back. The door hissed shut, the magnetic lock clicking into place with a finality that made Santiago finally release his breath in a long, shaky shudder.

He stayed under the blanket for a full minute, listening to the fading rhythm of the guard’s boots. When he finally dared to peek out, Nikolai was still standing by the door, his head pressed against the metal, listening.

"Are they gone?" Santiago whispered, his voice cracking.

Nikolai didn't move for another ten seconds. Finally, he let out a long, ragged exhale and slumped against the locker. "Yeah. They’re gone. For now."

Santiago sat up, the blanket falling to his waist. "He saw the rug, Nikolai. He stared at it."

"He saw a dirty rug in a dirty room," Nikolai said, turning to look at Santiago. His eyes were wide, the mask of the calm strategist finally showing the cracks. "But he’s right. The Overseer is moving. Which means Vane is going to notice his strike team is missing any minute now."

"We have to go," Santiago said, standing up and reaching for his tactical vest. "We can't wait for the hour. We have to move now."

"I know," Nikolai said, his voice regaining its sharp, clinical edge. He walked over to the rug and kicked it, ensuring the hatch was still secure. "Get your gear. We’re going to the hangar. And Santiago?"

"Yeah?"

"If we run into another patrol," Nikolai said, looking at the dented door behind the locker, "don't flick them. Just... try to be a little less effective, alright? I can only lie about so many lockers."

Santiago managed a weak, lopsided grin, his hands finally steadying as he gripped the hilt of his knife. "I’ll try. But no promises."

"Good enough," Nikolai said, reaching for his own rifle. "Let's move. The stars are waiting, and I’m tired of looking at these walls."

They slipped out into the darkened corridor, two shadows moving with a desperate, newfound purpose. The air felt charged, the atmosphere of the settlement thickening with the scent of an impending storm. Santiago felt the energy beneath his skin, no longer a landslide, but a focused, lethal current.

He was ready. And as they turned the corner toward the North Pad, the only thought in his mind was the guard’s final question, echoing in the hollow spaces of his heart.

Everything alright in here?

"Not even close," Santiago whispered to the darkness. "But it's about to be."