Shaw knelt beside a fractured hatch. “This isn’t Air Force hardware. Look at those glyphs—pure calculus wearing a tuxedo.” He produced a crowbar and pried. The hatch shrieked, revealing a cargo bay littered with crystalline canisters, each bubbling like soda pop in zero-G.

From a ridge some distance off, we spotted the nest—perched atop a bluff of melted shale and sun-blasted bone. The trees nearby had been struck cleanly in half, blackened but standing. The nest itself was vast and circular, woven of ironwood and scorched sage, and lined with a yellow vapor that did not move with the wind.

Two intrepid souls, Duff and Shaw, set out to find the fabled Loch Ness Monster. Nessie, the queen of the deep, had eluded countless seekers, but we dreamed not of fame or proof—our hearts were set on a golden prize.

Our tale begins in the serpentine alleys of a town steeped in legend, where the cobblestones hold the whispers of centuries.