Six Years Before – The Slums of Ghost City
The walls here didn't just look diseased—they were. Layers of grime, soot, and something darker clung to the corroded steel, flaking off like dead skin.
The air stank of rust and rotting synth-meat, a miasma so thick it left a film on the tongue.
Jack's boots crunched over broken glass and the brittle remains of glow-rat bones.
He didn't hurry.
Men like him never did.
The night breeze licked at his scars, the old knife wound along his jawline pulsing faintly, as if warning him.
Bad idea.
But Jack had stopped listening to his instincts the day his daughter married into the Spire.
A shadow detached itself from the alley's throat.
Tall, too thin, draped in a wool coat that cost more than this entire block.
The man's face was half-obscured by the brim of his hat, but Jack didn't need to see it to know.
Vector.
The name tasted like battery acid.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
The silence wasn't just absence—it was a living thing, coiled between them, waiting to strike.
Vector broke it first.
"Jack."
Just his name.
No apology.
No explanation.
Jack's hand drifted to the revolver at his hip, his thumb tracing the notches carved into the grip.
Five for kills.
One for regrets.
"Cut the shit," Jack said, voice rough as gravel. "If you weren't my son-in-law, I'd have put a bullet between your eyes the second you stepped into this sector."
Vector's lips twitched.
Not a smile.
"I need your help, I don't know what to do anymore." Vector said plainly.
Jack barked a laugh. "You're really feigning ignorance after what you have done?"
A flicker in Vector's pupils—red, not from augments, but from something worse.
He exhaled hard from his nose as if mocking the words that came out of Jack's mouth. "I never even once felt I've done anything wrong with her but—." He paused as to stop his voice from breaking.
"She's gone." Jack's voice cracked like dry timber. "Because of you."
Vector didn't flinch. "I'm trying to get her back."
Jack's revolver cleared its holster before he'd decided to draw.
The barrel hovered an inch from Vector's forehead.
"We both know that what you are doing right now is a blasphemy," Jack whispered. "Please don't desecrate her existence any further."
Vector didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Just stared down the barrel like it was nothing interesting.
"They've got her," Vector said, the words slick with something between confession and threat. "They've taken interest in my work."
Jack's body locked.
His finger ached against the trigger, the cold metal biting into his skin.
Work.
That sterile, corporate word for what Vector had done.
For what he'd become.
Jack had respected his daughter's choice to marry him.
Back then, Vector had been brilliant—not just smart, but alight, the kind of man who could pull miracles from scraps and aether fumes.
The kind who might have dragged her up from the gutters of Ghost City and into something better.
But life didn't care about better.
The Aether Incident had scraped Vector raw, left him hollowed out and seething.
Jack had seen the change—the way his son-in-law's hands shook when he thought no one was looking, the way his voice frayed at the edges when he spoke her name.
The way he whispered promises to the dark like prayers.
"I'll bring her back."
That was the time Jack had seen another form of true madness.
Not the kind that raged, but the kind that calculated.
The kind that looked at death and saw only a scientific problem.
Vector's expertise was in aether and machine.
The way they intertwined, the way they could be forced to intertwine.
After the Incident, Jack had seen things that still curdled in his gut—bodies moving without souls, conduits grafted to flesh that shouldn't have survived.
He didn't know how Vector intended to do it.
Didn't know if it was even possible.
But the man's madness had a terrible, gravitational pull.
And Jack—
Jack wanted to believe.
That was the worst of it.
He lowered the revolver, just an inch. "Talk."
***
11:46 A.M. – Steel Talon's Base
The corridors buzzed with the usual pre-lunch chaos—boots scuffing against worn metal grating, laughter even in the face of adversity bouncing off the walls, the occasional curse as someone shoved past.
The air smelled of gun oil and the faint, ever-present tang of the base's aging ventilation system.
Jack moved through the crowd with the slow, deliberate pace of a man who had learned long ago that rushing only got you killed.
His hands were stuffed in his pockets, fingers brushing the familiar weight of his revolver.
Observe.
Listen.
Wait.
That was the game.
And right now, his target was Flick.
The kid was loud, obnoxious, and had the survival instincts of a glow-rat in a sniper's nest.
But stupidity didn't mean innocence. Jack had seen enough rats in his time to know the dumb ones were sometimes the most dangerous—because no one expected them to bite.
He rounded a corner, catching sight of Flick up ahead, already holding court near the cafeteria entrance.
The kid was grinning, slapping some rookie on the back hard enough to make him stumble.
His augmented arm gleamed under the flickering lumen lights, the Myriad serial number near the joint barely visible beneath layers of grime.
Jack slowed his steps, letting the crowd carry him closer.
Then—
A memory sliced through his focus like a blade.
Vector, standing in that ruined lab six years ago, his face pale but eerily calm as he laid his left hand flat on the table.
The knife flashed.
The blood welled.
His pinky finger hit the metal with a soft, wet thud.
"A reminder,"Vector had said, voice steady even as his pupils dilated with pain—or something worse."For her. For what I have to do."
Jack's expression darkened.
"Vector," he muttered under his breath, the name sour on his tongue. "Were you serious about what you said?"
The question hung in his mind, unanswered.
Around him, the Talons laughed, shoved, lived—unaware of the ghosts walking among them.
Jack exhaled through his nose and stepped into the cafeteria.
Time to see what Flick was really made of.
But suddenly the weight of someone's gaze prickled the back of Jack's neck—light but persistent, like the brush of a knife's edge before the cut.
He didn't turn.
Didn't tense.
Just kept walking at that same unhurried pace, letting his shoulders roll slightly with each step.
Then—
A shift in the air behind him.
A stifled giggle.
The faintest scuff of boots against metal.
Jack sighed, swaying his head just enough to catch Lily mid-creep, her small frame hunched in what she probably thought was a masterful stealth approach.
Her wide eyes locked onto his, and she froze like a glow-rat caught in a light.
"Tch." She straightened, crossing her arms with a pout. "No matter what I do, Gramps really has impeccable senses."
Jack snorted.
The kid had been pulling this same stunt for years—ever since she was small enough to hide behind supply crates.
Back then, she'd barely reached his knee.
Now, at twelve, she was all limbs and sharp edges, her dark hair perpetually messy from scrambling through vents and crawlspaces.
"Hey, kid," he grunted, eyeing her. "Aren't all the kids supposed to be evacuated behind the base already?"
Lily's face lit up, her earlier frustration forgotten.
She bounced on the balls of her feet, her boots squeaking against the floor. "I heard we're finally facing those damn Red Dogs!"
She punched the air for emphasis, nearly smacking a passing Talon in the ribs.
The man shot her a look but didn't stop—likely used to her chaos by now.
Jack pinched the bridge of his nose. "Where the hell did you learn to talk like that?"
Lily blinked, then grinned. "Uh. Everywhere?"
She gestured vaguely at the corridor around them, where at least three separate conversations within earshot included the words "shit,""bastards," and an impressively creative threat involving a grenade and someone's unmentionables.
Jack exhaled through his teeth.
The people around here were definitely not great role models.
Lily was one of the only few kids who is not intimidated by Jack's face.
Jack don't have to think to hard as let Lily come with him towards the line and get some tray for him and Lily.
Jack as handed over an empty tray towards Lily "It's lunch time already anyway let's eat here."
Lily fell into step beside Jack without hesitation, her small frame weaving effortlessly through the crowd of towering Talons.
Most kids in the base flinched away from Jack—whether from the scars carving across his face like a topographical map of bad decisions, or the way his silence carried the weight of a man who'd seen too much.
But Lily had never been most kids.
She'd been six the first time she'd marched up to him, sticky fingers clutching a half-melted candy bar, and demanded he teach her how to "look scary like you."
He'd snorted and told her to get lost.
She'd taken that as a yes.
Now, Jack didn't even bother arguing as he grabbed two trays from the stack, shoving one into her hands.
"It's lunchtime anyway," he grunted. "Might as well eat here."
Lily beamed, balancing the tray like a seasoned soldier. "Does this mean I get extra rations since we're going to war later?"
Jack shot her a look.
She blinked up at him, all wide-eyed innocence—or at least, the closest approximation she could manage, which was about as convincing as a glow-rat in a party hat.
"...Fine," he muttered. "Oneextra bread roll."
Lily pumped her fist, nearly smacking the Talon behind her.
The man—a grizzled veteran missing two fingers—just sighed and stepped around her, long since resigned to the chaos that followed Lily like a personal storm cloud.
In Jack's mind, he was slightly annoyed that with Lily with her right now, it would be awkward to observe flick right now.
Jack guided Lily toward a table near Flick, his movements casual—just a tired old man picking the closest available seat.
But Lily's sharp eyes narrowed as she pointed toward the far corner of the cafeteria, where Jack's usual spot sat empty, a dented metal cup still waiting at its place.
"Aren't you gonna eat at your table?" she asked, voice just a little too knowing for a kid her age.
Jack didn't falter. "Busy day," he said, sliding into the seat across from Flick with deliberate nonchalance. "No time to be picky."
Lily opened her mouth—probably to call him out on the obvious lie—but snapped it shut when Jack dropped an extra bread roll onto her tray.
Bribery.
She smirked but took the hint, plopping down beside him with exaggerated innocence.
Flick, halfway through shoveling protein mash into his mouth, glanced up.
His gaze flicked between Jack and Lily, a muscle in his jaw twitching.
"Uh," he said, swallowing hard. "Didn't peg you for a family man, Jack."
Jack grunted, stabbing his fork into the grayish lump on his tray. "Didn't peg you for a chatty one, Flick."
A beat of silence.
Then—
Lily with her mouth full and gulping his food before speaking. "Your aug's shiny. Does it do anything cool?"
Flick's fingers twitched toward his mechanical arm like he wanted to hide it.
Jack took a slow sip of his coffee, watching.
Flick's fingers twitched toward his augmented arm, rubbing at the polished metal plating like he could wipe away Lily's scrutiny. "N-no? It's just a normal augmented arm," he said, voice cracking slightly.
Lily tilted her head, her curiosity sharp as a knife. "Really? But it looks new to me."
"I—I just polished it," Flick stammered, his knee bouncing under the table. "That's why it's shiny."
Jack remained silent, his coffee cup hovering near his lips as he observed.
Every word out of Flick's mouth was too quick, too defensive.
His eyes darted between Lily and the cafeteria door like a cornered animal calculating escape routes.
This wasn't just nerves.
Jack had pegged Flick as a loudmouth, all bluster and no bite—but now, watching the way his hands trembled around his fork, the way his breath hitched when Lily leaned in closer...
This wasn't the behavior of a traitor.
This was the behavior of a man who was terrified.
Jack set his cup down with a quiet clink.
Flick flinched.
The clatter of utensils and chatter died in an instant as Jack's voice cut through the noise like a blade.
"Flick."
Just his name.
No accusation.
No threat.
But it was enough.
Flick froze, his augmented arm locking mid-reach for his tray.
Across the table, Lily stopped chewing, her wide eyes darting between Jack and Flick.
The air thickened with tension.
Jack didn't raise his voice.
Didn't need to.
"Who?"
A single word—loaded and deliberate.
Flick's breath hitched.
His fingers trembled against the tray's edge.
Then, with a sudden, jerky motion, he stood, sending his utensils clattering to the floor.
"I—I gotta go." His voice cracked, raw with something beyond fear—resignation.
Jack moved faster than a man his age should.
His hand clamped down on Flick's wrist, the grip unyielding.
Flick didn't fight.
Didn't even try.
His face crumpled.
"I'm sorry, old man," he whispered, tears welling. "I never intended for this to happen."
Around them, the cafeteria had gone deathly still.
Every Talon within earshot had turned, their meals forgotten, hands drifting toward weapons.
At Vey's table, Karen stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor.
Her gaze locked onto Jack—onto Flick—and she started forward, her pulse rifle still slung across her back but her fingers already curling into fists.
Flick's augmented arm hissed, the joints stiffening as if pulled by invisible strings.
The gunshot cracked through the silence like a bone snapping.
Flick's body jerked backward before he could take another step—before his aug could finish its unnatural hiss, before whatever control had seized him could force him to act.
Jack's revolver smoked in his hand, his grip steady.
His face was stone.
No hesitation.
No excuses.
Not even in front of the kid.
Lily sat frozen, a half-chewed bite of bread roll still clutched in her fingers.
Her wide eyes locked onto Flick as he crumpled to the floor, the light already fading from his gaze.
A wet cough.
A shudder.
Then stillness.
Across the cafeteria, Karen's voice tore through the air.
"NO!"
She was already moving, shoving past tables, her pulse rifle swinging into her hands.
But she was too late.
The Talons around them erupted into chaos—shouts, chairs scraping, weapons drawn.
But Jack didn't move.
He kept his revolver trained on Flick's body, his finger still on the trigger.
Because he knew.
Augs didn't just stop when their users died.
And Flick's was still humming.
The hum from Flick's aug intensified—a high-pitched whine that set teeth on edge.
Then, with a sickening click, the metal plating along his forearm split open.
A segmented limb, thin and jointed like a spider's leg, unfolded from the wreckage of flesh and steel.
Jack didn't wait.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Three precise shots, each one striking the skittering aug as it detached from Flick's corpse and scrambled across the floor.
The first round shattered its central processor, the second tore through its thrashing limbs, and the third—point-blank—reduced it to sparking shrapnel.
Silence.
Then—
A faint, distorted voice crackled from the wreckage:
"Directive… failed. Initiating… purge."
The aug's remnants glowed red-hot before erupting into a plume of acrid smoke.
Around them, Talons coughed, swore, stumbled back.
Karen slammed her rifle stock into the emergency vent controls, the fans whirring to life to suck the fumes away.
Jack didn't move.
His revolver stayed raised, his eyes locked on the smoldering debris.
Lily's small hand gripped his sleeve.
Jack exhaled.
No.
It hadn't been.
The stench of gunpowder and scorched metal clung to the air, thick enough to taste.
One of the rookies—a kid barely old enough to shave—doubled over and retched, his breakfast splattering across the floor.
Others stood frozen, their faces pale, their hands hovering near weapons they didn't dare draw.
Karen didn't flinch.
She understood.
If she had been in Jack's position, she would have pulled the trigger just as fast—maybe faster.
There was no room for hesitation when corpo tech was involved.
No time to gamble on mercy.
Kneeling beside Flick's body, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a faded handkerchief—stained with old blood, frayed at the edges from too many washes.
With deliberate care, she draped it over his face, covering the empty stare that had once been Flick's.
Behind her, Vey's voice boomed across the cafeteria, cutting through the murmurs like a blade.
"EVERYONE SHUT THE HELL UP AND LISTEN!"
The room fell silent.
Vey's ruined face twisted into a snarl as he jabbed a finger toward the exits. "You—seal the doors. You—get the medics. And the rest of you goddamn vultures, if I hear one fucking word of gossip before Karen gives the order, I'll feed you your own teeth."
The Talons scrambled to obey, but the whispers had already begun—hushed, frantic, slithering through the ranks like poison.
Flick was the mole.
Flick was controlled.
Flick was dead before he hit the floor.
And worst of all—
Who's next?