April 20, 2021. 15:38. Burnaby. 10 days left till Italy.
Turns out Mister did have a way in.
By the time we're on our way to Nathan's high school, he's already made the calls—fixer friends, bureaucratic favours, whatever strings he tugged. It gets us clearance under the guise of a "safety inspection."
With the city panicking over designer street drugs showing up near schools—mostly SynthCoke—Mister spins our visit as a public-safety follow-up tied to a recent case.
Which wasn't that far away from the truth.
The administration isn't thrilled, but they cooperate just enough. We're barred from classrooms and offices, but the halls, bathrooms, and commons are fair game—"observation protocol," as he calls it.
None of us complain. It's easier to play along than blow our cover.
We pull in just after classes end. The school's still buzzing—students trickling out for clubs or detention, chatter bouncing off concrete walls. Security cameras blink in every corner. Hall monitors eye us from a distance.
And of course, we stick out like hell.
A woman decked out in mercenary gear, a guy wearing a hoodie that still screams "off-world wanderer", and someone wearing a biker helmet. You know, just 'regular' investigators.
We badge in through the side lot with the credentials Mister supplied.
"Don't talk unless you have to," he mutters, while scanning the walls. "Let me handle the staff."
"Right," I say. "Wouldn't want to scare the kids."
Tetra snorts under his breath. "Assuming we haven't already."
"Fair point."
The halls smell like floor wax and teenage stress—sterile on the surface, but the rot's there if you stand still long enough. Between the student-council posters and vape-scented bathrooms, something always festers.
Mister walks beside me, phone in hand. "Admin gave us limited access to the building and security systems. Hallways, washrooms, open common areas. That's it."
"All that from a 'safety inspection'?" Tetra asks, glancing at a few students loitering nearby.
"Technically, yeah," I say. "It's kind of a grey area, but it works. Since there's an increase in street drugs and gang violence, the city's very eager to get it solved. Plus, admin didn't want bad press on them."
He hums, unconvinced. "Makes sense, still feels like a stretch to me though."
"Most schools are used to inspections," Mister replies. "They just didn't expect this one to come with tagalongs."
We pass through a set of glass doors into the older west wing. The air shifts—colder, quieter. Lockers and classrooms line the hall, but a section near the far end has been sealed off. The windows overlook the yard, cordoned off with hazard tape and fencing. A faded notice on the glass reads: Access Prohibited.
"That the spot?" I nod toward the tarp flapping in the wind outside.
"Yes, it is," Mister says. "Nathan was stabbed near the west entrance. Admin claims that the entire associated hall is under renovation, but…"
"It's too clean," I finish. "And it's too vague. Like, someone didn't want people looking."
Tetra leans against the windowsill, peering out. "Do you guys think the gangs are tied to the school too?"
"Wouldn't be surprising," Mister says, glancing at a group of whispering students before returning to us. "Let's see if anything inside links to what's happening outside."
"Hmm, we know Nathan was stabbed out there," I murmur, "but if he was targeted, whatever heat he picked up might've started inside the school. Wrong hallway, wrong bathroom, wrong face."
Tetra nods. "Maybe someone was watching him? Notes, warnings, threats—stuff the staff didn't notice."
"Or ignored," I add. "Wouldn't be the first time a school swept it under the rug because it was 'too expensive' to fix properly."
Mister gestures for us to split up. "I suggest we search different areas. We don't have long, admin's already on edge, and I think we have less than an hour to look."
Nodding once, I head toward the taped-off wing. The tarp rustles faintly in the draft from a cracked window. Behind a vending machine near the corner, something glints on the floor—fine dust catching the light.
Crouching low, I study the powder. Dust? No. I rub it between my fingers. Gritty. Familiar.
My eyes narrow and I use my free hand to text Mister. "Found something."
Mister responds. "Where?"
"Vending machine near the west wing tarp. I think I found some more SynthCoke. Same powder in Roderick's place."
"Noted. Keep moving."
A new message flashes from Tetra.
"Uh… check this out."
I make my way down the hall and find him staring into a bathroom, flicking his phone flashlight toward one of the stalls. On the tile above the toilet, a symbol glows faintly—sloppy, rushed—but unmistakable. A jagged crimson spiral—wire wrapped around a neuron—twisting into the rough shape of an eye. The red paint reflects faintly under the light, corrupted by glitchy flecks of white and black along the edges.
"Huh… that's the Melders symbol." I stand beside Tetra, eyeing the surrounding area.
Tetra squints at the symbol, tilting his head slightly. "Sure looks like it. Too specific to be coincidence."
I exhale through my nose. "If they were tagging here, they were either recruiting—or marking turf."
"And that means they were watching the school."
We regroup near the admin office, where Mister's already digging through trash bins. He lifts a shredded sheet between two gloved fingers. "Student wellness report," he mutters. "Anxiety, hallucinations, nervous breakdowns. All linked to drug exposure—supposedly off-campus."
"Yeah, it's the same profile as Michelangelo mentioned," I report. "Same drugs and all."
"Right." Mister nods. "And the timing does match."
Outside the window, I catch a flicker from one of the retro security cams still mounted above the back doors. Mister notices it too and approaches it with his phone—already pulling the footage with his admin privileges.
"Luckily for us, the footage for the last few weeks weren't scrubbed," he mutters, tapping through a list of files. "It's grainy… but usable."
He shows us the screen, zooming in slightly. "Do you see them?"
Onscreen, a tall figure stands across the street—long coat, face hidden under a hood—just outside the school gates on a regular day.
"Trench coat?" I murmur, leaning in.
"Yes. They never go inside though," Mister adds. "Just stand there. Watching. And then, a few minutes later…" He swipes forward. "That."
Several cars pull up—beat-up vehicles marked by red tags and old gang stickers. The Melders.
Older members get out first, definitely past their twenties. Heavy chrome covers their arms and necks, some even across their jaws. The students trailing behind have smaller, more patchy implants—neck ports, exposed skin wiring, amateur mods.
They stroll toward the entrance, confident at first. Then something shifts.
Posture stiffens. Expressions harden. Their pace quickens.
"What the hell…" I mutter. "Why do they start freaking out?"
Onscreen, the group erupts—one shoves another, then they're lashing out, yelling at bystanders. Shoving random students. One passerby says something back.
That's when the stabbing starts.
Multiple angles catch it—blades flashing, bodies falling. The camera can't zoom in well, but the panic's obvious. Screams. People scatter. One kid drops to the ground, bleeding out on the pavement.
Tetra frowns, squinting at the footage. "Damn… that was Nathan."
"Yeah, that's just… messed up," I whisper. "He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But the gangsters—what's up with them?"
The figure on-screen still hasn't moved. Just standing there, motionless and detached, like they were waiting for things to fall apart.
"It's odd, but at least we got our answer about Nathan," Mister mutters, powering off the slate. "He wasn't caught up in the gangs, at least not as a member. He got steamrolled by something bigger."
"Great," I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Implanted student recruits. SynthCoke spreading through half of Greater Vancouver. Melders pushing it into Burnaby schools. And now this trench coat asshole just standing there, watching."
Tetra exhales sharply. "Man, what kind of person just lurks at the edge of a school while kids tear each other apart?"
"The kind that doesn't care who gets hurt," I say. "Or maybe the kind that wants it."
Mister crosses his arms. "They were definitely there to observe the fallout. The question is why. Do they usually watch the Melders—or was it just that day? Either they were scouting for someone… or testing something."
Tetra taps his foot on the floor. "Maybe they were watching how SynthCoke affects people with implants?"
I bite my lip. "Assuming they were watching for SynthCoke, maybe. But the guy could've just been studying the Melders' behaviour in general. Still doesn't explain why they flipped out like that—and I doubt the security footage alone can confirm anything."
"Then maybe it wasn't the drug." Mister shakes his head. "Maybe it was the people. A behavioural test, maybe? It could still be gang-related."
Tetra glances between us. "But why? I mean… do you think they're building some sort of weird profile? Or maybe they're a rival gang?"
I pace around, slowly, with my arms crossed. "Well, if Nathan was just a victim… then whoever's watching clearly isn't interested in the average person, that's for sure. They're targeting specific groups—like the Melders."
Mister sighs. "As of right now, we don't know their reason yet. They didn't intervene. Didn't clean up. Just watched—and left. That's not gang work. That's data collection."
Tetra mutters, "So who the hell wants data like that?"
"That's the question. And right now, we don't have the full picture. Yet."
I glance toward the nearest classroom door. Voices buzz faintly behind the walls—just a normal school day continuing like nothing happened.
"So, uh…" Tetra tilts his head. "What now? We've got traces of the Melders, the drug, and a mystery in a coat. Do we wait for Remi to dig up more gang info?"
"Remi's chasing the dealers," Mister says. "That'll take time."
I click my tongue. "Then we follow the other lead. Roderick's workplace."
Tetra lifts a brow. "Right. That's where his trail goes cold, right? He worked there for at least several months—so, there's gotta be something left."
Mister nods. "My thoughts exactly. I propose that we let Remi handle the street—we'll focus on the mercenary angle."
No one disagrees.
We leave the school, the din of lockers and kids fading behind us. The security cam above the back door hums faintly as we step into the drizzle.
Outside, the wind's picked up. Rain dots the cracked pavement while Mister finishes a practised handshake with the admin at the front doors.
"We'll submit the report by the end of the week," he says, tucking a fake ID back into his coat. "I appreciate your cooperation."
The admin nods, still wary, and lets us go.
We hang back by the curb while Mister finishes wrapping things up.
Leaning on the truck's cold metal, I watch the rain ripple across the hood. Tetra crosses his arms and exhales.
"So," he mutters, "are we taking one vehicle or splitting up?"
"Best to stick together," I say, glancing toward the lot. "Parking in Richmond's a nightmare. And we don't want to roll up to Redpoint like a convoy."
He tilts his head and glances at the truck. "Right. By the way, do you always drive this thing around?"
A smirk quirks my mouth. "It's my heavy-duty vehicle."
Tetra raises a brow. "Heavy-duty?"
I walk to the door, hand pausing on the handle. Is this a good idea?
A quick list runs through my head—reasons not to show him more than he already knows: keep work and life in separate boxes, avoid questions, keep the people who know me as Gina from seeing the things that make me Artemis.
But there's a smaller, unnamed tug inside that loosens for a beat—curious, oddly hopeful. Not a plan, not a decision, just a flicker that wants to test whether this person can know more of me without it backfiring.
It'll be fine. I can trust him. I lift the latch by the backseat and pop the hidden compartment. Inside: a compact assault rifle rigged for urban CQB, a collapsible drone, a toolkit for bypassing car security systems, and an EMP no bigger than a lunchbox.
"There's more in here than this—consider it a sample," I say.
"Whoa." Tetra blinks in surprise. "And here I thought your duffle bag was the best you had."
"Most of my real toys are at home," I say, shutting the compartment with a satisfied grin. "But yeah, I keep this one stocked. Just in case."
Tetra smiles, half-impressed, half-shocked. "What about that sedan you drove a while back?"
"Oh, that one?" I tap my chin. "She's got her own tricks. Nothing crazy, but enough to turn heads—or lose a tail."
"You must be rich. Or ridiculously overprepared."
"Both," I reply, a glint in my eye. "But it comes with the field. Do enough contracts, and you learn to invest in good wheels."
He chuckles. "So how many do you have?"
"Oh, my rides?" My energy perks up instantly. "Oooh, let me show you~! One sec."
Pulling out my black phone, I scroll to a folder labelled "Garage Babies". With a quick swipe, the gallery fills the screen—each photo more ridiculous than the last. Past the truck and sedan are my favourites.
First up is a matte-black SUV, military-grade, bulky as hell with infrared masking and enough thermal shielding to sneak through a warzone.
Next is my custom street bike—sleek, aggressive, low-slung with neon blue underglow and modified purely for slicing through city streets like a needle.
Then a cherry-red convertible, vintage, the kind of car you drive just to be admired in traffic—a personal favourite of mine when I'm just flaunting my wealth.
I pause on the next one, and a smile curls at the corner of my mouth.
The '69 Mustang Fastback. Pristine paint, custom engine tune. All bite under a classic frame. A ride that could wake the dead.
Then I swipe again—and grin wider. The recent addition to my collection.
"And then… this one."
Sleek and black. Porsche 911 GT3. Blood-red racing stripes across the hood and sides like claw marks.
Tetra whistles. "Oh wow. That one's really nice."
"Yeppp. Best car I've ever stolen," I say, almost proudly. "Ripped it from AXIS during a bad gig."
He looks at me with a raised brow. "Wait, the same guy that got involved with you and Remi? The same car that Blake was talking about?"
"Yeah... same one. Honestly, for the car's value, I should've put in more effort to steal it. It was mostly a bonus for myself after putting him down."
"Huh, so that's how it all lines up."
"Yeah, so anyway—that's the story."
He pauses. "Was it worth it?"
I grin. "Grabbing it? Absolutely. The semantics are… questionable , but at least I still own it. The more I think about it, the more satisfied I feel with my choices involving the Dead Kings."
Tetra shrugs and shakes his head. "Can't say I get the whole 'car collecting' thing… but hey, everyone's got their hobbies."
"You don't get attached to your ride?" I glance over at him.
"I do, but it's just that—a ride. All it does is just get me where I need to go." He pauses, then stares at the surrounding neighbourhood. "Then again, I haven't really driven anything in the city yet. I've mostly just been relying on transit."
"Right. Forgot you're not really a city guy. Remind me to toss you the keys sometime." I faintly smile and lean back against the truck. "To me, my rides aren't just transportation. Each one's tuned differently. It's like a… toolkit—but with wheels."
"Oh, you don't need to go that far, but thanks for the offer." He returns my smile with a slow nod. "Still don't think I fully get the hobby, personally—but I get the love behind it."
That earns a quiet laugh from me, the kind that fades quick but lingers all the same.
Mister approaches just then, adjusting the strap on his helmet. "Let's move. Everything's wrapped up—we won't need to come back here."
…
April 20, 2021. 17:02. Richmond. 10 days left till Italy.
Redpoint sits wedged in the outer stretch of Richmond's mercenary district—not quite slums, not quite downtown, but that greasy middle layer where work is loud, credits move fast, and laws are more suggestion than rule.
Cops only show if the blood spills too far past the sidewalk. Otherwise? You're on your own.
Unlike the hyper-corporate coldness of Vancouver proper—at least when you ignore the sections that aren't controlled like the Dead Kings' area—or the wild and reckless chaos of Surrey, Richmond's scene simmers in a constant state of functional anarchy.
We drive past it all—the truck sliding by alleyways where a muffled pop of gunfire bounces off brick, where arguments end with fists instead of paperwork, and where a noodle stall two doors down hawks both soup and wrapped clips.
You learn not to ask questions.
Tetra leans forward, eyes scanning the loud street filled with neon signs and too many people packed into not enough space. "It's… busy."
"Don't stare too long," I murmur. "They'll think you're either a narc or a target."
He straightens. "Got it."
"This part of Richmond's different from the docks," I add, scanning the crowd. "The docks sit between Vancouver and Richmond—mostly warehouses, gang leftovers, not much else. Redpoint's the real heart of it. Packed, filthy, and loud. No one runs it clean, but everyone plays by their own rules."
I pull the truck into a side lot between a pawnshop and an old cyberdoc den with flickering signage. "Stay close, don't ask questions, and let me handle the talking."
"Understood," Mister says evenly, watching the street with that practised calm. "I've never operated here, but I can keep my head down."
Tetra nods but still looks uncertain, eyes flicking toward the passing mercs and dealers.
Redpoint's entrance could pass for an old arcade—faded LEDs buzzing above a steel door, worn couches out front, and vending machines sparking from overuse.
Inside, the air's thick with smoke and synth-oil. A massive digital bulletin board dominates one wall, scrolling through contracts, kill orders, courier runs, and missing-person bounties.
We split up to cover ground. Mister and I head for the terminals to dig through archived postings while Tetra checks the job board. I log in under one of my older aliases—nothing traceable—and start filtering for Roderick Hale.
Sure enough, his name pops up.
Dozens of gigs—back to back—cluster around familiar zones: a private delivery job near a burned-out clinic in New Westminster, armed escort work for a shady corporate shipment in Delta, and two asset-protection gigs near schools in Coquitlam and Richmond. The last entry is a solo sweep through a supposedly "low-risk" Red Zone just outside Surrey.
The timestamps line up a little too neatly with known virus outbreak sites. All post-Nathan.
"Shit, man," I mutter under my breath. "I get taking whatever that can pay. But this is workaholism on steroids."
Mister scans the job tags beside me. "These gigs weren't normal. They were pushing him closer and closer to hotspots."
"He knew what he was walking into," I say quietly. "He just didn't care anymore."
A soft chime draws our attention. Tetra's checking his phone, expression easing. He types a quick reply before noticing us watching.
"Oh—it's my family," he says with a faint smile. "They just wanted to check in."
Mister nods and gives him space. I stay quiet, leaning back against the terminal. It's good someone still checks on him.
We make our way to the back, where the older fixers and handlers usually linger. The office behind the counter is cluttered but alive—stacks of datapads, half-gutted weapon parts, a thermos of something that definitely isn't coffee.
The man behind the desk barely glances up. His nameplate reads G. Hermanas—Gustavo, the one who keeps Redpoint's chaos from eating itself alive.
I clear my throat and tap the edge of his desk. "Hey. Looking for old job logs—name's Roderick Hale. Used to run contracts through here. Big guy, neck cybernetics, Redpoint tags."
Gustavo squints, tapping a battered keyboard. "Haven't heard that name in a while," he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. His eyes narrow. "You his handler or something?"
"Something like that," I say smoothly. "Just tracing patterns. Making sure he wasn't working rogue."
He stops typing, studying me. "That's all? Following up on patterns? You don't sound like corpo cleanup—and you're too calm to be grieving. So what's your angle?"
I don't flinch. "No angle. Just cleaning up the mess before it turns into a bigger one."
He leans back, arms crossing. "You working for Gestalt?"
"Not directly or officially."
"Lone freelancer?"
"If I say yes, does that make you more or less likely to help?"
A grunt escapes him. "You talk like you know this place, but so do half the wannabes who walk in. So let's say I do have old logs—how do I know you're not sniffing for a rival outfit? Or trying to sting one of my boys?"
I glance over at Mister, who remains silent, calmly scanning the area. Then back at Gustavo. "Because I'm not asking for active job data. I asked for dead contracts, archived listings, posted through the system. Nothing more."
I take a step closer. "I'm not here to burn Redpoint. I'm just here to trace a merc who's already self-imploded. You've got nothing to lose by helping me, and I'm not here to waste either of our time."
He studies me for a long beat, expression unreadable—then his posture softens. Something clicks.
"Y'know," he says slowly, "you talk like someone I used to hire, years back. Loved working with her—real professional, tight gigs, good attitude, always delivered." His eyes flicker with recognition. "Damn shame she dropped off the map though. Think her name was Kyu—"
"Doesn't matter," I cut in, voice a touch too quick. "That's irrelevant."
Gustavo blinks, then gives a knowing half-smile. "Right. Doesn't matter. Hope she's doing alright, wherever she is."
Crisis averted.
"I think so." I smile back. "She probably misses you too."
Mister doesn't react—his gaze glued to a screen, unmoving.
"Anyway," Gustavo mutters, scrolling again, "Roderick was a regular. Ground-level work—security, courier runs, containment gigs. All high-risk. Either he was trying to forget something… or he just didn't care if he lived through it."
The timestamps confirm it—the guy's life fell apart after his son died.
I nod once. "We'll take a copy."
Gustavo reaches into a drawer and pulls out a datashard, sliding it across the desk. "Here," he says, tone dry but not unfriendly. "Good luck, stranger."
We turn to leave; I glance back once at the office—the memories crawling up through the walls. I used to have a name here, back when I dropped out of university just to pay the bills after Dad died. Before Wissen. Before the modelling gigs. Before Artemis.
But none of that's for today.
Outside, Redpoint swells around us: merc chatter, engine growls, the sour tang of oil and neon. I take a breath and shake off the weight of old ghosts.
Back at the truck, I load the job-logs datashard into my phone and angle the screen so the others can see. "Take a look," I say, letting the list of contracts project across the display. I zoom in and highlight a few key entries. "His recent jobs are all clustered near cyberpsycho zones—or places with Melder activity."
Mister crosses his arms. "Alright. So now we know, for certain, he was working in infected zones. Did Michelangelo ever confirm how the virus spreads?
I shake my head. "Nope. Nothing."
"Right. So it's unclear if he was exposed to the virus, or if he picked it up from a local seller. Either way, it's progress."
"It'd be wild for someone to sell drugs deep in Surrey's combat zones," I say. "Either it was a very capable vendor, or the supply was closer—his neighbourhood, or here in Richmond."
Mister taps the screen, marking locations that line up with Roderick's frequent stops. "The Melders have footholds in Surrey and Richmond, but Roderick didn't run enough in Surrey to make regular pickups there. Still, they could be pushing product into Surrey from here."
Tetra leans over my shoulder, frowning. "Wait, don't forget they're in Burnaby too. Remember the graffiti? They're expanding into Burnaby too."
"Yes, which ties into the spike in gang wars and general violence," Mister mutters. "I don't know if it's connected yet, but it's worth keeping in mind."
I chew my lip. "Shit. That doesn't really narrow down where the SynthCoke first got to Roderick."
"Yeah… but at least it confirms what we already suspected," Tetra says. "I guess all three locations are crawling with Melders. How did they even grow so fast? Even the Dead Kings aren't that big."
"Desperation breeds recruitment." I don't mean to say it aloud, but I do.
Mister folds his arms. "They didn't start big. The Melders used to be a fringe gang with maybe one or two blocks under their control—mostly junkies and implant scavengers. But after the economic crash, half the city was left scraping by. When people lost homes, jobs, and everything else overnight? Suddenly, even the worst gangs started looking like salvation."
I nod. "Sell a kidney. Smuggle a chip. Burn a storefront. The Melders don't care what you do—as long as you're useful."
"They offer fast credits with no questions asked," Mister adds. "You either join willingly or get buried trying to resist. Either way, they grow."
Tetra mutters, "Damn. No wonder we're seeing their tags in Burnaby now…"
"And it's not just graffiti anymore," I say, eyes still on the screen. "They're organized now—more than they've ever been."
Mister nods, tone grim. "Remi's the one tracking the gang side. If anyone has leads right now, it's him. Otherwise… I'd have to burn a few more favours to dig deeper, and I'd rather hold off unless he hits a dead end."
"Then we should check in with him soon." I lock my phone and slide into the driver's seat.
As the engine hums to life, Tetra's gaze lingers on the map. "Hey, wait—before we dive into the next step," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "Mind if I grab something first? Family errand. They asked me to pick up a package—tech parts."
I raise an eyebrow. "Nomad errands, huh?"
He chuckles. "Yeah. Docking near the southern beaches tonight. Small group, nothing major. I said I'd bring it by."
Mister tilts his head. "How far out?"
"It's not far. It's still in Richmond."
"Alright." I start shifting gears. "We'll swing by before touching base with Remi."
"Appreciate it. I'll return the favour, promise." Tetra grins. "They'll probably feed us if we show up too."
"Free food and a favour owed?" I smirk. "I'm sold."