SECRET 411 Chapter 3 — The Visitor in the Slate-Grey Coat

vote-com in #bastion • 8 days ago

Chapter 3 — The Hive Token Marathon

The snow had stopped falling, but Val-d’Enbas was wrapped in a strange silence. A silence broken only by the municipal loudspeakers cheerfully announcing:

— “Get ready, dear residents! In fifteen minutes begins the great Christmas Hive Power Token Marathon! Come in numbers to cheer on our runners!”

On the square, garlands flickered in rhythm, like a heart beating too fast.

Naïma walked nervously between the market stalls, Junon stuck to her leg. She still hadn’t digested Abel’s disappearance from the police station, nor the screaming olives from the pizzeria. And now, kids dressed up as hexagonal tokens seemed to be falling under the spell of the infamous new tongue.

A crowd had already formed a half-circle around the first runner. A young boy, lying in the snow, convulsed slightly. His lips mumbled incomprehensible fragments:
— “Ra… sha… no… ka…”

A paramedic worked desperately, but the child seemed sucked into a dream that wasn’t his own.

Naïma tightened her grip on the starry whistle she kept in her pocket. She didn’t like coincidences. And this town was full of them.

A few streets away, the starting line was filling up. Dozens of runners, dressed in garish Hive token costumes, gathered in a carnival-like atmosphere. Some wore neon sneakers, others had lanterns dangling from their hexagonal outfits. The official goal: run 10 kilometers around town to raise money for the dog shelter and the library.

But something was… off. The runners’ faces looked too focused, almost hypnotized. Their eyes glowed like lit-up screens.

Naïma arrived just in time to see Louvel, the storyteller, standing on a small podium. He’d been given the honor of launching the start with one of his tales. But when his eyes met Naïma’s, they were troubled.

— “You have to stop this,” he murmured as she approached. “This isn’t just a marathon.”

— “Explain. Quickly.”

Louvel stroked his beard.
— “The stories I tell come alive. But tonight, it’s not me bringing them to life… Someone else is pulling the strings. These tokens… they’re running to fuel a story that shouldn’t exist.”

Before Naïma could reply, a rumble ran through the crowd. The sound system crackled, overloaded. A foreign, guttural voice slipped into the loudspeakers:
“Ra… na… sha… no…”

The runners froze as one. Then, slowly, they all turned their heads toward the town hall clock. Its second hand was spinning backwards.

Junon barked furiously. The crowd shuffled back, some laughing nervously, thinking it was all part of a “special Christmas show.”

— “This isn’t a show,” Naïma muttered through her teeth.

The start signal came. But not from Louvel.
A sharp noise, like a whip crack, split the air. The runners shot forward, not in a human rhythm, but with a mechanical, terrifying cadence. Their legs hammered the snow, spraying white geysers. Their hexagonal costumes pulsed with light.

Naïma stared, horrified: the runners weren’t simply racing. With every stride, they were sketching a massive geometric figure in the city’s streets. A hexagon that expanded with each lap, like a seal being imprinted onto Val-d’Enbas.

— “They’re drawing something, Captain!” shouted Kermorvin, rushing in as backup.

— “A rune,” Louvel answered. “A storytelling rune. When it’s complete, a tale will engulf the city. And we’ll be trapped inside.”

Naïma’s stomach knotted. She’d seen enough bizarre cases to recognize danger far beyond police jurisdiction.

Suddenly, a crack appeared. Three tiny beings leapt out of nowhere, through a beam of moonlight. Tiny mice, each carrying a minuscule bag and an oversized wristwatch. They stopped in front of Junon, twitched their whiskers like antennas, then darted into the snow toward the runners’ path.

Louvel burst out laughing, incredulous.
— “The Travelers! I know them from my stories… They come from the multiverse. And they’re always searching for the perfect cheese. If they’re here, this marathon has drawn them like the smell of gruyère.”

Naïma rolled her eyes.
— “Just what we needed. Cosmic mice.”

The three rodents leapt right into the middle of the hexagonal track. The runners, unflinching, veered around them, as though some invisible force acknowledged their importance.

Junon barked, and one of the mice raised a paw, as if in greeting.

At that very moment, Abel reappeared. Not walking, not stepping out of an alley. He was simply there, standing at the center of the square, slate coat and suitcase in hand. The crowd instinctively parted around him.

— “You!” Naïma shouted.

Abel lifted his gaze to the clock, its hand still spinning backward.
— “The race is a trap. Someone is feeding the new tongue with the marathon’s energy. When the hexagon is complete, the city will speak it. And those who speak it no longer live for themselves.”

— “Who’s pulling the strings?” Naïma asked.

Abel opened his suitcase. Inside, the strange-graduated compass vibrated furiously. Its needle pointed directly at Louvel.

The old storyteller went pale.
— “It’s not me,” he protested. “I swear it isn’t! But… my stories are being used. Someone’s twisting them.”

Naïma glanced at Abel.
— “If it’s not him… then what is it?”

Abel snapped the suitcase shut.
— “Not a what. A who. And he’s already here, hiding in the crowd.”

At that moment, one of the runners collapsed mid-stride. His hexagonal costume peeled off him but didn’t fall. It stood upright, floating, like a giant token animated by its own will. Its eyes began to glow.

— “Too late,” Abel said. “The tokens are alive.”

And in a terrifying echo, all the runners’ costumes began to swell, detach, and march on their own, leaving unconscious bodies behind.

The race had just become an army.

Naïma stepped back, whistle in hand. Junon growled, ready to leap. Louvel trembled. Abel gripped his suitcase. The Traveler mice raised their watches and triggered a deafening tick-tock.

The entire city vibrated. The Hive tokens marched in unison, chanting in the new tongue:
“Ra… na… sha… no…”

The marathon had only just begun.