One Year Later.
Police sirens screamed through the morning haze, a discordant chorus that bounced off the steel and ferrocrete of the warehouse district. Hover cruisers clogged the entrance like vultures around a carcass, their doors yawning open as officers filed out in well-drilled units. Shackled criminals were marched out in clusters, some defiant, others slumped in resignation. The air was thick with exhaust, tension, and the tang of ozone.
Perched at the edge of the scene stood a tall man with cybernetic arms, chrome gleaming faintly beneath the folds of his dark overcoat. His stance was relaxed, too relaxed, like he'd seen this show a hundred times and grown bored with the reruns. He took a long drag from a stubby cigar, the ember flaring orange as he exhaled a slow stream of smoke. It curled lazily through the chill.
"Who called the bust?" he asked, voice low and gravel-lined, the kind that lingered in a room even after he'd left.
His partner, leaner and younger, leaned against the side of a patrol cruiser, arms folded. The morning light caught the scar on his left cheek—a pale, jagged reminder that he'd earned his place the hard way. Aside from that, he was all blank expression and barely contained irritation.
"You should read the briefings, John," the younger man replied, not bothering to look over. "Would save me the trouble of constantly holding your hand."
John chuckled, tapping ash from his cigar with a cybernetic finger that clicked faintly on impact. "Lucky for me, I'm still your superior. Means you're legally obligated to hold my hand."
"Not for long," his partner muttered, finally turning his gaze to the warehouse. "The bust was called in by the newly appointed senior inspector. He's supposed to meet us here. Figure he wants to make a statement."
The bust had been no mere police op. It was a joint strike—city police, Central Investigation Bureau, and the Armed Forces Department, each bringing their own brand of firepower, jurisdiction, and bureaucracy. Intelligence had come from a senior inspector.
The warehouse itself had served as a critical node for the Willow Teeth's operations, a stockpile for black-market genome potions.
John and Thomas stood in contemplative silence, letting the aftermath unfold while the city's finest swept through the building, cataloguing horrors. Their breath steamed in the chill morning air, and even John's cigar couldn't keep out the bite of wind.
Then a hovercab hissed to a halt across the street, and a woman hurried out, her pace quick and unsure. She was young—early twenties, maybe—still brushing lint off her blazer as she crossed toward them with a touch of panic in her eyes.
"Good day, sirs," she greeted, her voice breathless but composed as she straightened her jacket and held out her badge. "Trainee Inspector Liv Hammon, Central Investigation Bureau."
John raised an eyebrow, glancing at the badge before turning to Thomas.
His partner gave a slight nod. "She's with us."
John exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with a faint smirk. "I really should start reading the damn briefings."
Then he extended a hand toward her in a casual, almost theatrical welcome. "Well, welcome to the circus, Liv. I'm John. And that scary-looking goof there is Thomas."
Thomas didn't react, except for a slow blink and a faint grunt of acknowledgment.
Liv offered a nervous smile, but her eyes scanned the chaos behind them with something sharper, curiosity tinged with fear.
"You picked a hell of a case for your first day," John said, tucking the cigar back between his lips. "Let's hope you're better at keeping your breakfast down than the last trainee."
The arrests continued with mechanical precision, officers moving like cogs in a well-oiled machine. The hum of hovercraft engines formed a low backdrop to the chatter of radios and the static-laced voices of command units.
Then, without warning, a sleek black vehicle glided onto the scene. Its tinted windows glinted with the rising sun, and its finish was too polished for anyone to mistake it for standard issue. Heads turned, conversations paused, and even a few officers subtly straightened their postures.
The vehicle came to a halt just outside the security perimeter. Two men stepped out. One was young, dark-skinned, and sharply dressed in a way that didn't scream authority but exuded it nonetheless. The other was older—weathered but still imposing, with silver hair and a presence that drew quiet respect. They exchanged a few words at the curb, pausing once to glance toward John, Thomas, and Liv before continuing their low conversation.
John squinted. "Isn't that the deputy chief?"
Thomas gave a slow nod. "Indeed."
A moment later, the older man climbed back into the vehicle without a word and was swiftly driven away, leaving the younger man behind.
The young man adjusted the cuffs of his coat, then made his way toward them with smooth, measured steps. There was confidence in every movement, the kind that wasn't performative but built on something earned, something survived.
He stopped just in front of them and gave a curt nod. "CIB division seven?"
"Yes," John replied, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Good. You're all here," the man said, his tone crisp but not unkind. "I'm Senior Inspector Kali Loveau. As of this morning, I'm your new superior officer."
The announcement hit like a dropped file on a quiet desk, sudden and heavy. All three of them, caught off guard.
Kali glanced at each of them, then added, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, "Now, your turn. Names and positions, please."
John was the first to recover. He gave a short chuckle and extended a gloved hand toward Kali. "Well, Senior Inspector, I'm John Arven. Deputy, twelve years in the force. Used to being the one calling the shots, but I take orders just fine, so long as they make sense."
Kali shook his hand firmly. "Good to know, Arven. I value clarity."
Next was Thomas, who didn't offer his hand. Instead, he gave a nod, arms crossed. "Thomas Rayne. Analyst. Don't talk much unless there's something worth saying."
Kali gave a subtle nod of approval. Then came Liv, who straightened her jacket again, clearly trying to hide her nerves. "Trainee Inspector Liv Hammon, sir. Just transferred from the city police."
Kali let the moment linger, then said, "Good. You each bring something vital. I don't plan to micromanage. But I do plan to make waves. This city's rotting under old deals and unspoken threats. That changes today."
He glanced at the warehouse, then back to the team. "You all just became part of something much bigger. I'll brief you soon. For now, finish the clean-up. Then meet me at Central."
Thomas raised a brow. "You planning on shaking the whole tree, sir?"
Kali's gaze narrowed slightly, his voice calm but resolute. "No, Rayne. I'm planning to burn it down if I have to."
"Exciting times," John quipped.
Kali ignored John's light banter, his gaze fixed on the crates of genome potions being hoisted into armored police trucks by mechanized loaders. The labels on the crates bore no official markings, no batch numbers, no regulatory seals. Just black tape and faint, fluorescent stencils. Pure black market. The worst kind.
In the year since Fort Harlow had burned to cinders, Kali had changed. Not just in the way he moved or spoke, but in the depth of what he now knew. Information flowed to him in ways others couldn't see, through whispers in networks, shadow dossiers, and sometimes, through the thoughts of a man who lived in the neural backdoors of his mind. He understood now that these contraband genome potions were nothing short of biological roulette. Unlike the mainstream versions, which were tightly controlled and carefully tiered, the street-grade concoctions almost always resulted in aberrant mutations and catastrophic cell decay.
SynSpec, of course, had a monopoly on the legitimate supply. A single delta-stage vial—the lowest rank of stabilized enhancement—could cost more than an average person could make in a lifetime. Literally. Gamma variants were rarer still, auctioned behind closed doors to military assets or high-ranking political sponsors. As for beta or alpha stage enhancements, they were considered non-existent in Theraxis.
In fact, his entire team, though they had failed to mention it, were all delta class mutants. And the trainee was even more special, a unique ability that designated her with the codename Banshee in official records.
Odd, that he himself was not one. Though if a genome potion were given to him, he would not take it. Rizen had warned him to avoid changing any part of his genetic makeup, the machina had not named a reason.
Besides he did not need the powerup, he was, afterall, a grief awakened of the first order.