The rain slicked the pavement under my worn boots, reflecting the smear of neon signs overhead like fractured jewels. Just past midnight.
Sarah.
Her voice message played again in my head. Not from a device; etched into memory. The fear.
"Dad. I don't know… the news, the rumors, things are just… changing. Getting crazier."
The words snagged on something I usually kept cauterized – a fragile, hidden nerve. Fear. Hers. It wasn't a variable to manage. It was… something else. A complication I didn't handle well.
I was en route to see her. An attempt, however clumsy, to bridge the chasm between what I am and what she needed. Needed? Maybe just wanted. It felt artificial every time. Like I was wearing stolen skin.
Then the screams cut through the rain and the distant city hum. Sharp, animal panic.
My head snapped up. Reflex. Not emotional, tactical. Pinpointing the source. A convenience store on the corner up ahead. Glass shattered, a distorted wail of a siren-like power. The neon 'OPEN' sign above the door flickered erratically, dying and then pulsing back to life in a sickly green.
I wasn't needed here. This wasn't my contract. But Sarah's voice echoed again. Getting crazier. This was the 'crazier'.
I veered off the street, melting into the darker mouth of an alleyway across from the store. Rain dripped from the fire escape I scaled, my movements silent, precise. Rooftop. High ground. Observation post.
From here, I could see the chaos inside. The Faultline Gang. Low-tier, but dangerous enough to cause this kind of localized disruption. They specialized in petty crime elevated by inconvenient, unpredictable powers.
Shockjack was inside, near the front. I saw flashes of blue arc lightning dancing from his fingertips, disrupting the store's power grid judging by the frantic lights. He was enjoying the terror.
Blinkwire – a shimmering blur near the cash registers, appearing, vanishing, appearing again closer to the liquor aisle. Looting. Fast, greedy, untouchable in bursts.
Grungeface. The brute. Inside, tearing shelves apart near the back. Just destruction for the sake of it. A living tantrum fueled by low-grade super-strength.
And Tweak. Outside, across the street, hunched over a control panel rigged to a streetlamp. His face was obscured by goggles feeding him data, his fingers flying over a wrist-mounted device. Hacking. Disabling cameras, maybe feeding schematics to the others. Support. The anchor.
I settled into the shadow of a water tower. Ten steps ahead. Always. Tweak was the vulnerability. Cutting the head off the snake's communication.
I played Sarah's message one more time. Her fear wasn't just about abstract changes. It was about the concrete reality of this world. Men like these. This kind of pointless, brutal disruption.
I exhaled. Slow. Controlled. Let the black smoke rise from under my skin like it always did, swallowing my face, my name, my past. The sound lost in the rain. My hand went to the pistol nestled under my jacket. A standard issue 9mm. Reliable. Uncomplicated. Ten rounds in the magazine. Four targets. Precision. Not power.
First move. Remove the support. Tweak.
I moved. Not a sprint, but a controlled glide across the wet rooftop. Silent. Efficient. I reached the edge of the roof directly above Tweak. He was oblivious, lost in his screens. His back was to me. Perfect.
Dropping from height requires timing and control. I hit the ground in a low crouch, absorbing the impact through my legs. Silent. Behind him. His wrist-mounted device hummed faintly. Two small drones hovered near his shoulders, providing him with different angles. Standard hacker setup. Annoying, not lethal. Yet.
My hand moved. Not for the pistol. For the throwing knife sheathed on my forearm. Optimized for balance, razor-sharp point. Not for killing Tweak. For disabling his toys.
The blade lanced out, a silver blur in the muted light. It didn't hit flesh. It sliced precisely between the two hovering drones, the electromagnetic pulse from the knife's integrated disruptor frying their internal circuits. They fell to the ground with tiny, sparking clicks.
Tweak swore, a high-pitched yelp of surprise and frustration, spinning around, goggles flashing. His hands scrabbled for something on his belt. Not fast enough.
My pistol butt connected with his temple. A sharp, economical blow. No theatrical wind-up. Just the necessary force. His eyes rolled back. He crumpled silently to the ground, unconscious before gravity fully claimed him.
First down. No bullets spent. Tweak was just a kid, really, maybe early twenties. Scrawny. Not a threat once his tech was gone. Leaving him alive was… tactical. Less mess. Less attention.
I knelt for a second, retrieving my knife. Clean steel, no blood. Good.
Then I heard it. The sound of Grungeface lumbering towards the front of the store. Tweak's yelp and the sound of the falling drones must have registered, even through the rain and the ongoing racket inside. Grungeface, predictably, was coming to investigate.
Big mistake.
I straightened up, stepping out of the deeper shadows beside the alley mouth. Grungeface filled the doorway, silhouetted briefly by the flickering neon inside. He was massive, shoulders hunched, a primitive 'repulsor' bat – essentially a reinforced length of pipe with a crackling energy field emitter at one end – gripped in his fist. His face was a mass of scar tissue and poor decisions.
He saw me. Stopped dead. Probably expecting a cop. Not… this.
He swung the bat. Predictable. Telegraphing the move with his entire body weight. A wide, arcing sweep aimed to pulverize.
I didn't step back. I stepped in. Ducking beneath the arc of the repulsor bat, the crackling energy washing harmlessly over my head. I was inside his reach, inside his guard.
My right hand, still holding the pistol, snapped out. Not to fire. The reinforced butt of the weapon slammed down with brutal force onto his left knee. Bone met hardened steel. The crack was distinct, even over the rain and the distant sounds from inside the store.
Grungeface roared, a sound of pure agony and surprise. His knee buckled inward. He dropped like a felled oak, the repulsor bat clattering uselessly onto the wet ground beside him.
He was screaming, hands clutching his ruined leg. Loud. Too loud. Alerting the others was an unacceptable risk.
I moved instantly. Dropped the pistol into my left hand, freeing my right. Straddled his chest as he lay convulsing on the ground. My right arm went around his neck, finding the carotid artery. Pulled back. Hard.
His screams cut off abruptly, replaced by gagging, then just ragged, desperate gasps. His struggles weakened quickly. His eyes bulged, then glazed over. Limp.
I held the position for a few seconds, ensuring the job was done. Then I released him. He lay still on the wet pavement, silent.
Two down. Still ten bullets.
Now. The store. Shockjack and Blinkwire. The lights were still flickering, casting grotesque, dancing shadows. Screams from inside had died down, replaced by terrified whimpers and the occasional crackle of electricity.
I glanced back at Grungeface's inert body. Just a problem solved. No malice. No satisfaction. Just... done.
The prompt was clear. En route to Sarah. This was a detour. A potentially fatal delay. But her voice... getting crazier. This was the disease infecting the city. I was the temporary, brutal cure.
I re-holstered the pistol. Checked the magazine again out of habit. The plan was solid. Now, execution.