Corven

"If history refuses to advance, give it a shove." —Unknown Corven had built the safe himself. That was the detail irritating him most. Not the darkness, not the heat. Not even that Vera had stuffed him inside like an unpaid debt. No, what truly offended Corven was its craftsmanship. Triple-locking tumblers, reinforced hinge plates, air vents too narrow for even his mechanical arm to pry apart. Air vents… yet no inner release mechanism. "Marvelous," he muttered. "Outsmarted by my own specifications." Outside the safe, the Oasis Orphanage carried on as usual. Children sprinted through the halls. Pipes rattled. Somewhere above, two boys violated the laws of physics with what sounded like a homemade combustion engine. Corven adjusted his top hat in the cramped dark and sighed. Truthfully, this was not the worst place he'd ever slept. Before founding the Oasis, Corven had been many things: treasure hunter, inventor, professional liar. He drifted through cities selling outlandish gimmicks to wealthy patrons, financing one invention with money borrowed from another investor. Rob Peter. Pay Paul. Pocket the difference. He cultivated the image of an industrial visionary because, inconveniently, he was one. Beneath the cunning theatrics lurked a mind that understood machinery instinctively. He could glance at a broken automaton and tell you exactly which cog had failed and why its designer deserved ridicule. Corven's true interest, however, lay in older technology—ancient machinery that shouldn't exist. The trail began with a journal won during a game of liar's dice. Most pages were water-damaged nonsense, but one passage arrested him entirely: "The city opens only for the blue-marked heirs. Children of azure filament shall inherit the Core." Beneath the writing sat sketches of impossible machinery: towering brass men, shifting architecture, otherworldly pillars of energy. Corven became consumed with finding what he believed to be the lost city of Mechapolis. He started off by chasing rumors, begging and bribing any and all archeologists for the faintest hint of a clue. Getting himself nowhere, he conceived of his "orphanage," for children made excellent scavengers. Small hands went unnoticed in deep pockets, and orphans asked few questions when fed properly. After Vera and Akira landed in his lap, though, blue-haired and sharp-eyed, everything changed. Devices reacted to their touch. Locks fully disengaged. Hidden compartments unfolded. And when they found the map, Corven's suspicions were confirmed: Mechapolis wasn't myth. It was waiting. They were legends in the making. Corven felt it. And yet the first expedition went south—all the way down. If only he had— A heavy series of metallic clicks interrupted the memory. The safe door creaked open and light spilled in. Vera stood with her pulse rifle aimed at him, one eye behind the sight. Beside her, Akira's blue phantom shimmered faintly. Corven smiled. "My dearest daughters," he said warmly, fussing with his vest. "I suppose there's only one reason you returned." "The journal," Vera said coldly. "Hand us the journal, and start talking. Now."