The ancient wrench creaked against the stubborn bolt as Bran's dendricals, wrapped in mismatched brown maintenance gloves, worked to tighten it. Steam hissed from the joint, its warm breath ghosting across his face in the dim light of Engineering's underbelly.
His brown uniform, once pristine, now bore the marks of countless hours spent wrestling with temperamental pipes. The lack of lightning symbols that once traced their way proudly across his chest served as constant reminders of his former position - back when he'd carried messages through the higher functions of the ALEx rather than fixing the plumbing.
The bolt finally gave way with a satisfying crack. Bran's lips curled into a half-smile as he adjusted his lanky frame to peer more closely at the repair. His reflection in the polished pipe showed what he'd become - a tall, thin figure with scruffy reddish hair and that perpetual hang-dog expression that seemed permanently etched on his features.
"At least the pipes don't judge," he muttered, watching the steam dissipate as the seal took hold. The dendricals of his right hand traced the newly tightened joint, testing for any remaining leaks. Finding none, he allowed himself a small nod of satisfaction. Down here in the depths of Engineering, among the honest labour of maintenance, there was a simple pride in fixing what was broken - even if he couldn't fix his own fallen status.
The steam's hiss faded to a whisper, and Bran's thoughts drifted like the dissipating vapour. His dendricals traced the pipe's smooth Vitalex surface, remembering how he'd once carried messages through the upper reaches of the ALEx with pride and purpose. Now he dwelled in these depths, as far from the Bridge as one could get.
A memory surfaced - TiGer's voice reciting an ancient tale during their messenger training: "A sower went out to sow his seed..." The words echoed in his mind as he stared at the scattered bolts and tools around him. Like seeds cast upon rocky ground, his potential seemed to have landed in barren soil. He'd sprouted quickly enough as a Beta Wave Messenger, yet when challenges arose - the opportunity to win favour through his familiar cruel habits of spreading rumours and sniggering in shadows - he'd shrivelled away just as swiftly.
The pipe's warmth beneath his maintenance gloves felt almost accusatory. Here he was, hiding among the machinery, unable to put down proper roots. No nutrients, no growth, just existing on the surface like those seeds that fell on shallow soil. The parable's truth stung - he'd received his position with joy, but in times of testing, he'd fallen away.
Bran leaned his forehead against the cool flexishell wall, letting out a long breath. The constant thrum of Engineering's machinery pulsed through him, a reminder that even in exile, life continued its relentless cycle.
A familiar grunt echoed through the steam-filled chamber. Bran's spine straightened instinctively as he caught the Chief's distinctive silhouette approaching through the haze. His short, broad-shouldered frame carried an air of authority that seemed to part the steam itself.
"Ach, still at it then?" The Chief's Scottish brogue carried both warmth and steel. He peered at Bran's handiwork with those piercing yellow eyes, his reddish hair catching the dim light. "Interesting approach with that wrench configuration."
Bran glanced down at his improvised tool setup. "It was the only way I could reach the…"
"Aye, but perhaps we need to transform our thinking about these blockages." The Chief tapped his temple with a clawed finger. "Not just conform to the old patterns of fixing things, eh? Like that verse TiGer's always on about - something about renewing minds?"
Heat crept up Bran's neck that had nothing to do with the steam. He'd heard TiGer quote Romans 12:2 often enough during their messenger training days. The Chief's knowing look suggested he understood more than he let on.
"Sometimes the old ways need fresh eyes," he continued, running a practiced hand along the pipe. "Speaking of which, I've got another job that might benefit from your... unique perspective."
The way he emphasised 'unique' made Bran wonder if this was more than just another maintenance task. The Chief rarely gave compliments, even backhanded ones, without purpose.
Bran shifted his weight, encouraged by the Chief's rare praise. Behind them, a group of Automotons worked steadily on a junction box, their broad shoulders hunched in concentration.
"You should've seen Cropper's face," Bran found himself saying, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "There he was, trying to look all important while the Corti Souls swirled around him like his personal storm cloud."
The nearest Automaton's head tilted, its deep-set eyes fixing on Bran with unexpected interest. The others paused their work, their massive hands stilling on their tools.
"He was ordering them about, right? But they started going the wrong way - scattered like smoke in a wind tunnel." Bran demonstrated with his dendricals, making swooping gestures. "Left him standing there looking like a plucked mynah bird."
A series of low, appreciative growls rumbled through the group. One of the burlier Automotons made a gesture that might have been a thumbs-up, if their hands weren't quite so gnarled and industrial.
The Chief translated with a grunt: "They're saying it's about time someone caught those wraiths making trouble."
Warmth spread through Bran's chest at their approval. These weren't the refined audiences of the upper levels, but their straightforward appreciation felt genuine. He knew he shouldn't take pleasure in others' misfortune - it was exactly the kind of behaviour that had landed him here - but surely building connections with his new colleagues was different?
The Automotons exchanged knowing looks, their rough features creasing into what might have been smiles. One made a shooing motion with its massive hand, mimicking dispersing smoke, and the others responded with deep, rhythmic sounds that could only be laughter.
The Chief led Bran to a quiet corner of the Basement, away from the hissing pipes and rumbling machinery. Steam curled around their feet, creating shifting patterns in the dim light.
"I need you to speak with Sher Gar," the Chief said, his yellow eyes intent. "Ask him about previous calcium storms - their patterns, their effects. Something's not right with these recent disturbances."
Bran's dendricals twisted nervously inside his maintenance gloves. "Sher Gar? But he's..." The words stuck in his throat. The thought of approaching the Chief Librarian, with his penetrating gaze and encyclopedic knowledge, made his stomach clench. "He probably won't even acknowledge me now."
"Ach, none of that self-pity." The Chief's voice carried a sharp edge. "This is important."
"I'll have to take the old tunnels," Bran said, trying to keep the hope from his voice. "Since I'm not cleared for tube access anymore-"
The Chief cut him off with a snort. "The walk will do you good. Give you time to think about whether spreading tales about Cropper is really the path to redemption."
Bran's face burned. Of course the Chief wouldn't intervene with the tube restrictions. He knew the hierarchy - officers gave orders, they didn't take them. Even from the Chief.
"The tunnels it is then," Bran mumbled, his earlier satisfaction at entertaining the Automotons souring in his stomach. The long walk through the abandoned passages would indeed give him plenty of time to reflect on how easily he'd slipped back into old habits.
The abandoned tunnels stretched before Bran like dark arteries, their walls slick with condensation. His footsteps echoed off Vitalex beneath his boots as he ducked beneath low-hanging pipes and squeezed through passages made narrow with the growth of tendrils. The maintenance gloves caught against rough edges, reminding him of the blue and red messenger gloves he'd once worn with such pride.
Romans 12:2 played through his mind as he walked: "Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind." The words felt like a reproach. Even after his fall from grace, he'd defaulted to his old patterns - finding amusement in others' misfortunes, spreading stories about Cropper.
An Automaton repair crew worked ahead, their massive forms hunched over an access panel. They barely glanced up as Bran approached, their movements precise and purposeful. One shifted slightly, creating just enough space for him to pass. Their acceptance was pragmatic, professional - nothing like the easy camaraderie he'd experienced earlier when mocking Cropper.
The tunnel widened into a junction, where more Automotons methodically checked gauges and adjusted settings. Each knew their place, their purpose. They belonged here, their rough hands and sturdy frames perfectly suited to their tasks. Bran's dendricals twitched inside his ill-fitting maintenance gloves. He didn't belong in their world, yet he no longer belonged in his old one either.
"Be transformed," he muttered, ducking under another pipe. But transformation meant change, and change meant admitting there was something wrong with the old patterns. The thought sat uncomfortably in his mind as he navigated the maze-like passages toward the Library.
The tunnels grew darker, the industrial hum of Engineering fading behind him. Ahead, ancient emergency lights cast weak pools of illumination, marking the path to Sher Gar's domain.
The Library's entrance loomed before Bran, its ancient Vitalex archway twined with memory tendrils that pulsed with stored information. His dendricals trembled inside the maintenance gloves as he stepped into the vast chamber. The last time he'd crossed this threshold, Cropper had been listing his crimes with theatrical flourish while Bran's protests of innocence rang hollow.
Thirty-six moncycles. The weight of that time pressed against his chest as he navigated between towering racks of memories, their contents shimmering like captured starlight.
"The prodigal returns." Sher Gar's rich voice cut through the silence. The chestnut stallion stood in a pool of soft light, his white blaze stark against the shadows. "Though you seem to have misplaced your messenger's uniform."
Bran's face burned. "The Chief sent me. About the calcium storms-"
"Ah yes, the disruptions." Sher Gar's ears flicked forward with interest. "Like the ones that preceded your... departure from the messenger service."
"That was different," Bran protested, but the words felt weak even to his own ears.
"Was it?" Sher Gar moved to a nearby memory rack, his hooves clicking against the Flexishell deck. "The ALEx is constantly rebuilding itself. Like a garden that shifts and changes with each season," he mused, gesturing to a glowing memory strand. "When the white floods come through our pathways, they can either strengthen our connections or wash them away. It all depends on how we've tended to our environment."
The horse's knowing gaze fixed on Bran. "Last time you stood here, you insisted the soil of your character was pure. Yet the seeds of gossip found such fertile ground."
Bran stared at his maintenance gloves, unable to meet those penetrating eyes. The tale of scattered seeds struck deeper than ever before, its thorny truth snagging at the weeds of his own conceit.
"Ah here it is." Sher Gar's head bobbed as he held a glowing strand of memory between his teeth. The stallion's snorts and whinnies merged into what sounded to Bran's ears like "blah blah blah" - though he knew better than to mention this observation.
"Ah yes, that was it. Magnesium." Sher Gar's eyes lit up. "And spread by Endo's Orfins - as they get the best results."
Bran watched as the Chief Librarian expertly extracted a message packet from the shimmering memory strand. The horse's movements were precise despite his massive frame, delicately handling the fragile data.
"Here take this back to the Chief. He'll know what to do."
Before Bran could reach for the packet, a sharp clang echoed through the Library as something small shot out of a nearby tube exit, bouncing across the Flexishell decking.
A metallic sphere pinged across the Flexishell decking, coming to rest at Bran's feet. Bob Beta emerged from behind a memory rack, his silver uniform pristine and unmarked - everything Bran's maintenance garb wasn't.
"Urgent message for you, TB." Bob's professional tone carried an edge of anxiety.
"Can't. I'm on Chief's business." Bran gestured to the packet Sher Gar had just extracted.
"This is from Nora. Critical blockage in the Hammies fuel line. Needs your personal attention."
"Look, Bob, you take it. I've got to-"
A sharp click cut through the air as Bob's mouth opened impossibly wide, his jaw unhinging like a snake's. "NOW! BRANDON. TAKE THE MESSAGE IMMEDIATELY. NOW!" Nora's commanding voice boomed from Bob's tiny frame, echoing off the Library's memory racks. Bran flinched at the sound, his dendricals curling inside his maintenance gloves.
Bob held out a glowing message packet, his expression returning to neutral as if nothing unusual had happened.
"But I have to take the tunnels," Bran sighed, eyeing the packet with resignation. He turned to Sher Gar, snatching the Chief's message and thrusting it toward Bob. "Here, take this to the Chief. He'll be in the basement or engineering."
Grabbing Nora's message from Bob's outstretched hand, Bran headed for the tunnel entrance.
His mind raced through the layout of the lower passages - Sciatic Highway P-tube 4 would be closed after so many moncycles of disuse. He’d take that and find an old branch somewhere down to the Hammies near L2 or L1.
The Library's soft glow faded behind him as he plunged into the darkness of the abandoned tunnels, Nora's message pulsing in his hand like a second heartbeat.
Bran's footsteps echoed through the narrow maintenance shaft as he descended deeper into the ALEx's lower reaches. The familiar hum of the Hammies engines grew stronger, a deep vibration that resonated through his boots. Ahead, a mass of tangled Vitalex tendrils blocked the passage he'd planned to take.
"Brilliant," he muttered, examining the growth with his maintenance gloves. The tendrils had completely overtaken this section, their searching fingers intertwined like an organic puzzle. He'd have to find another way down.
A faint memory surfaced - something about a service tunnel that branched off near the old cooling system. Bran squeezed through a gap between pipes, his tall frame barely fitting the space. The message packet from Nora pulsed insistently in his pocket.
The thought struck him as he navigated another junction. Was it actually the fuel line? He'd heard Bob Beta complaining about blockages in the Blue line last week. Common enough in older vessels, but the ALEx was practically new compared to most...
His dendricals twitched inside their maintenance gloves as a horrible possibility occurred to him. That loose coupling he'd fixed earlier - if he hadn't tightened it properly... The recent Calcium storm could have...
"No, no, no," he whispered, quickening his pace. The passage narrowed further, forcing him to crawl on hands and knees. The Flexishell decking here felt different, almost brittle under his weight. Clearly, this section hadn't seen maintenance in cycles.
A distant rumble shook loose particles from the ceiling. Bran froze, his heart pounding. Was that normal engine vibration, or something worse? If his shoddy repair work had compromised the system...
He pushed forward, ignoring the voice of doubt growing louder in his mind. There had to be a way through these passages. He'd explored every inch of the upper levels as a messenger - surely he could navigate these lower depths just as well.
The tunnel opened suddenly into L3 Station, its Flexishell walls gleaming dully in the emergency lighting. Bran's legs carried him forward at full tilt, his mind still racing with possibilities about the Hammies situation. The message packet throbbed against his chest, demanding attention.
Movement flickered at the edge of his vision. His dendricals twitched in warning inside their maintenance gloves, but his momentum was too great. The spike appeared as if conjured from nowhere - a metallic protrusion exactly at chest height. Time seemed to slow as Bran registered its presence, too late to alter his course.
The collision forced his being to stutter and fizzle. Pain exploded through him as he ricocheted off the spike, his lanky frame spinning wildly. The opposite wall rushed to meet him with brutal finality. The crack of his skull against the Flexishell echoed through the station.
Something shifted - a grinding sound that shouldn't have been there. Through blurring vision, Bran watched in horror as the L3 junction point twisted, dislodged by his collision. A sharp chemical smell filled his nostrils as thick liquid began seeping around the damaged station.
The substance touched his exposed dendricals, and white-hot agony shot through his hands. The maintenance gloves offered no protection as the viscous fluid ate into his sensitive nerve endings.
TiGer's voice echoed in his mind, quoting Romans 12:2: "Be transformed by the renewing of your mind." The words took on new meaning as pain clouded his thoughts. He'd been running - always running - from change, from responsibility, from truth itself.
The chemical burn spread up his dendricals, each picos bringing fresh waves of agony. Darkness crept in from the edges of his vision. His last coherent thought was a desperate prayer for transformation, before consciousness slipped away entirely.
MAD Coaching Habit: Intentional Formation - Pattern Recognition through a Formation Audit.
Kim’s Story
Thank you for joining us for this Difference Makers Season 1 Episode. We're excited to bring you this Episode thanks to the incredible support of partners like you.
Are you Ready to make a difference?
We have linked to the MAD Coaching Habit for this episode on the show notes at our website difference makers dot substack dot com.
As a premium member, you enjoy immediate access to every thrilling episode and gain exclusive insight with MAD Coaching Habits.
And remember, we love to hear from you. Your feedback means the world to us and helps us to learn what works for you and what we could do better. Share your thoughts about this episode and join the conversation.
Coming in Episode 2: Moonlight Awakening
As Bran awakens after his crash, painful memories clash with unexpected hope. Can his encounter with Cropper's guards become the first step toward transformation?
Share your thoughts and experiences in the comments—your feedback truly warms our hearts. (Yes, even your constructive critique!)
Share this post