Act III — Games To be Played
The underground tunnels smelled of damp metal and ozone, like the city itself had decided to take a deep, electrified breath. Pipes twisted along the walls, pulsing faintly with Syndicate energy, glowing veins winding through concrete like arteries feeding some unseen, omnipotent heart.
Thrum… hum… hiss…
Hacker crouched beside a panel, soldering iron in hand, muttering curses under his breath. I leaned over, boots squelching in shallow puddles, squinting at the maze of conduits and blinking lights. "Oh, perfect," I said, voice dry. "Just a city-sized spaghetti monster humming at full voltage. My favorite."
Drip… clatter… tap…
He didn't look up. "These lines feed control nodes. Cut the wrong one, alarms. Touch the right ones, and we can cripple a sector for a few hours."
I squinted at a glowing junction, noting the pattern in the pulse. "Cripple a sector? Sounds like fun. I love playing electrician with potentially lethal consequences. Keeps the résumé interesting."
Thrum… metallic scrape… hum…
My fingers traced the conduits carefully, following their rhythm, the hum of energy coursing beneath my skin. Every panel I touched felt alive, responsive, almost sentient. Sparks flickered briefly when a misaligned wire brushed a conduit, and I muttered, "City screams when you cut it open. Wonderful. I always wanted an angry infrastructure symphony."
Buzz… drip… hiss…
Hacker handed me a clamp. "Don't overthink it. Just follow the sequence."
I raised an eyebrow. "Oh sure. I'll follow your techno-orchestral sheet music while the city decides whether to murder me for style points. No pressure."
Sweat prickled at my hairline as I worked the junctions. Sparks danced like miniature lightning storms, reflecting off wet walls and the tiny pool of water at my boots. I kept counting pulses, noting slight irregularities tiny deviations that could spell alarms or disaster. Attention to detail, patience, a little luck… and a good dose of sarcasm. My trifecta for surviving Syndicate amusement.
Clatter… thud… drip…
Finally, the last clamp snapped into place. A soft hiss of released pressure and a faint change in the hum signaled success. The veins dimmed, the network temporarily subdued. I leaned back, chest heaving, letting a slow, dark laugh escape. "If I survive this, I'm billing the Syndicate for emotional damage. Line item: extreme existential dread, plus sarcasm therapy."
I glanced at Hacker. His hair was sticking up in jagged spikes, eyes wide. "Not bad," he muttered. "You might actually make it out alive… if the alarms don't catch up first."
I smirked, glancing at the dim corridors ahead. "Well, congratulations, Dylan. You've poked the beast and it didn't eat you… yet."
Thrum… tap… clatter…
And somewhere beneath the sarcasm, a pulse of dread threaded through me. This wasn't just sabotage. It was a declaration. The Syndicate knew we were here. And now that we'd touched the veins, the city itself seemed to watch, waiting for our next mistake.
Click… drip… hum…
I sighed, muttering to the tunnels more than to Hacker: "Alright, city. You're awake now. Let's see how badly you bite."