The Rift Chronicles: The Neon Contract

The Riftlands swallowed the truck's rumble as Elias Voss drove deeper into the wasteland, the map from Shrike's lieutenant spread across the dashboard. Rain streaked the windshield, a thin veil over a landscape of craters and twisted stone, the rift scars overhead pulsing like veins in a dying sky. His gray eyes stayed fixed on the road, unblinking, the scar over his eyebrow a sharp line in the dim glow. The machete rested on his lap, runes glowing faintly blue, while the SIG Sauer sat holstered at his hip. The rift shards in his pocket—three now, plus the device's core—thrummed harder, a relentless beat that matched the storm's pulse. Breachpoint was close, coordinates burned into his mind: tomorrow night, the ledger promised. He'd make it sooner.

Mira Kade sat beside him, nursing her side from the camp fight, her magic flickering violet in her palms as she studied the map. "Ten miles," she said, voice low, tracing the marked spot with a finger. "Right where the scars knot up." Elias didn't reply, just shifted gears, the truck jolting over a ridge of cracked earth. The Riftlands felt heavier here—air thick with ozone and rot, shadows longer, the ground shimmering faintly from decades of rift seepage. She glanced at him, smirk faint. "You think 'her' is a beast or a boss?" He grunted, a rare sound. "Doesn't matter. Ends the same."

The truck crested a hill, and Elias killed the engine, headlights dying to leave only the rift scars' glow. Below, a valley stretched—a jagged wound in the earth, its center marked by a ring of ancient stones, their surfaces etched with runes older than Old Detroit. Breachpoint. The first rift site, sealed decades ago, or so the stories claimed. Now, it pulsed with faint purple light, tendrils of rift energy coiling from the stones like smoke. Shrike's presence was everywhere—tents, crates, armed figures patrolling the perimeter, their silver talon pins glinting in the gloom.

Elias stepped out, machete in hand, coat left behind to keep his movements light in tactical gear streaked with blood. Mira followed, boots crunching on gravel, her magic dim but restless. "Big setup," she whispered, crouching beside him as they peered down. "More than beasts this time." He nodded once, gray eyes scanning the camp—two dozen men, maybe more, with rifles and rift-tech devices like the lieutenant's. At the center, a platform rose, a figure in a silver mask directing the chaos, but larger, more commanding than the last. The Shrike, or close to it. Beside him, a cage—smaller, rune-etched, its occupant hidden in shadow.

A low hum vibrated the air—not the storm, but something deeper, from the stones. Elias gripped his machete tighter, runes flaring, and started down the slope, using the ridge's cover. Mira kept pace, her magic coiled tight, her breath steady despite the limp. "Plan?" she asked, voice barely audible. "In, out," he rasped, flat and final. "Find 'her.'" She smirked, faint but real. "My kind of poetry."

They hit the camp's edge, slipping past a patrol too focused on the stones' hum to notice. Elias moved like a shadow, machete low, runes dimmed to avoid the glow. A guard leaned against a crate, smoking, his rifle slung loose—Elias's blade flashed, silent, opening his throat in a spray of red that soaked into the mud. The body slumped, and he dragged it behind the crate, gray eyes scanning for the next. Mira's magic flared briefly—a violet spark that fried a drone overhead, dropping it soundlessly into a puddle.

The platform loomed closer, its base ringed by crates and flickering rift-tech. Elias crouched behind a tent, peering through a tear in the fabric. The silver-masked figure paced, barking orders, his voice a low growl that carried weight—definitely The Shrike. "Seal it tonight," he snapped, gesturing at the stones. "She wakes tomorrow, or we're all meat." The cage rattled, a soft hiss escaping its bars, and Elias's jaw tightened. "Her."

Mira edged up, magic ready, and risked a glance. "Not a beast," she whispered, eyes narrowing. "Something else." Before Elias could move, a patrol rounded the tent—two men, rifles up. He lunged, machete slashing one's chest, runes blazing as blood sprayed, then pivoted, driving the blade into the second's gut. They dropped, silent but messy, and he wiped the machete on their gear, gray eyes flicking to the platform. The Shrike hadn't noticed—yet.

They crept closer, using the crates for cover, the hum growing louder, vibrating in Elias's bones. The cage was in reach—small, rune-etched, its bars pulsing with rift energy. Inside, a figure knelt, cloaked in shadow, head bowed. Not a beast, not a prisoner—something worse. Elias reached for the lock, but a voice cut the air—cold, sharp, feminine. "You're late, hunter." The figure rose, hood falling back to reveal a woman, her face pale and angular, eyes glowing purple with rift corruption, hair streaked with black veins.

Mira froze, magic flaring. "Shit," she breathed. "That's—" Elias didn't wait, machete up, but the woman—the Wraith Queen, or close to it—raised a hand, rift energy coiling around her fingers. The air warped, slamming him back into a crate with a crack that jarred his spine. Mira's violet blast met her mid-flight, clashing in a burst of light, but the woman laughed, a sound like breaking glass, and vanished in a haze of purple smoke.

The camp erupted—Shrike's men shouting, rifles swinging, The Shrike spinning toward the noise. "Voss!" he roared, voice cutting through the chaos, his mask glinting as he drew a rift-charged blade. Elias rose, gray eyes narrowing, machete flaring as he met the charge. Steel clashed, runes sparking against rift energy, and Elias parried, driving a knee into The Shrike's gut. The man staggered, but swung again, blade grazing Elias's arm, drawing blood. Mira's magic hit a guard rushing in, frying him mid-step, but more closed in, rifles barking.

Elias ducked a swing, slashing The Shrike's leg, runes biting deep—he roared, dropping to a knee, but lashed out with the device, rift energy pulsing. It caught Elias in the chest, hurling him back, breath knocked out. The shards in his pocket flared, syncing with the stones' hum, and the ground trembled. Mira grabbed him, hauling him behind a crate as bullets chewed the mud. "She's gone," she hissed, magic shielding them. "And he's pissed."

The Shrike rose, limping, barking orders. "Seal it now!" The stones flared brighter, rift energy surging, and Elias's shards pulsed in time, a warning he couldn't ignore. He pulled the map and device from his coat, gray eyes scanning—Breachpoint wasn't just a site; it was a gate, and "her" was its key. The Wraith Queen, awake and loose. He handed Mira the device, voice low. "Break it." She nodded, smashing it with a violet burst, the shard inside shattering, but the stones' hum didn't fade.

The camp tightened, Shrike's men closing in, but Elias stood, machete up, blood dripping from his arm. "Out," he rasped, and they broke for the ridge, Mira's magic blasting a path—guards fell, scorched or snapped, as Elias cut through two more, runes blazing. They hit the truck, engine roaring, and peeled out, tires spinning in the mud as bullets pinged off the chassis. The Shrike's roar faded behind them, the stones' light searing the night.

Elias drove, gray eyes on the dark, the shards pulsing against his ribs. "She's rift-born," Mira said, breathless, wiping blood from her brow. "Old. Strong." He nodded once, voice flat. "Shrike's pawn. Not his queen." The Riftlands stretched ahead, Breachpoint's shadow looming. Tomorrow night was coming, and Elias would meet it head-on.