This toilet really stank of sweat. It was 2054. And unfortunately, the washrooms hadn't been improved much. Wiping the sweat from his face, Kostas just kept on staring at the doorknob of that lavatory. The ruthless captain of the mighty troopers was sitting on the loo, trying to breathe and process.
"We are so screwed this time."
You see, the Troopers… his team… they'd done it again. Killed someone before the jurisdiction could even blink. It'd not be that big of a problem if it were just some lowlife or nameless thief or mercenary. They had gotten away with a lot of shit before.
But this time, it wasn't just anyone. It was a face the entire country knew - a man who had sponsors, fans, and a theme song called: "I like it red."
"One ugly song, though," Kostas sighed.
A freaking superstar. Tom Stallon. And Kostas was the one to pull the goddamn trigger. He could recall that moment beat by beat. That rape convict had raised his hands to surrender - not a weapon, not a threat, just those wide, trembling hands, but... with that wide, creepy smile.
The smile that was screaming, "You can't do shit about it." Yeah, the smile was the one that caused it, and Kostas' fingers had already moved.
The shot rang out, cutting through the noise of the street. And there he fell - Tom 'The Superstar' Stallon. His chest was bleeding out on the pavement. His expression froze, looking to his left at his own shadow.
"I hate famous people."
Kostas exhaled shakily, staring at the toilet's floor tiles. Good thing the media hadn't caught on to the story yet. But soon they would. They always did. They'd rip troopers inch by inch on the live TV.
The Troopers had definitely done reckless things before. Public burnings, on-spot executions, 'justice displays' to remind the sector and the nation who was in charge. But this?
This was different. Killing someone that high-profile wasn't a message anymore. It was suicide.
"Oh god," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face, "People outside our sector are going to be so mad." He pictured it already. The outrage, the protests, the hashtags. Troopers trending for all the wrong reasons. And he, at the center of it all, the face of the mistake.
"Out of all the times, I had to do this now."
Right after the policy legalizing the Troopers had been published. It could backfire no matter how you look at it.
Kostas leaned back against the water closet. He tried to fake a laugh, but that weak sound got caught in his throat.
"Yeah," he mumbled, "Fucked."
10 A.M. The day already felt like a losing battle. Kostas flushed and finally stood up. Couldn't sit here all day. Have to start the patrols. He adjusted his belt and pushed open the door. The hallway outside was dark. You could barely see anyone, and he nearly walked straight into someone.
A wiry man. Standing uncomfortably close to the toilet door. As if he'd been debating with himself whether to knock or run.
The stranger froze in front of Kostas's presence, caught like a kid outside a confession booth. He was in his mid-twenties, wearing glasses, and had a weird, nervous energy. That gray colored hair made him look older than he probably was. He wore a turtleneck under a black coat, and his eyes under those glasses flicked from corner to corner, always calculating. There was something so fragile about him, like his bones had been borrowed from someone else.
"Who the hell are you?" Kostas growled, his voice carrying the weight of someone who didn't ask questions twice. "And what the hell were you doing outside my-?"
The short man's Adam's apple bobbed before he spoke. "Harry. I'm from the capital." He extended a shaky hand.
Kostas didn't take it well. Just hearing the word capital ruined his mood further. He crossed his arms instead and just kept staring at Harry, "And what does the capital want with us?"
Harry's grin faltered instantly. "They…." He glanced down and then looked up again. "Uh, they're heavily upset with the Troopers' recent actions." He paused. Not to breathe, but to gather courage.
"And I'm just a messenger, here to deliver their thoughts and a special message for troopers. Please don't think these are my words, okay? I'll be leaving this sector as soon as possible."
Kostas took a step forward at Harry with no expression. That made Harry's smile twitch. He instinctively took a step back, bumping his back against the metal edge of the sink.
"You look nervous," Kostas was amused by his reaction.
"N-not at all," Harry stammered, "Just here to do my job. Why would I be nervous... ha ha... khe."
The fake laugh died halfway through his mouth, turning into a cough. Kostas smirked, looking at him, "Good. Let's talk somewhere more… civilized. Shall we?"
Kostas and Harry stepped out of the restroom. Kostas took the lead and started moving. The sharp, heavy smell of bleach faded into the warmer air of the common area. As they walked, they could hear the faint drone of voices from a television - growing louder with each step.
The common area was a wreck. Half-eaten meals, empty bottles, and armor plates left scattered across a table. That table had seen more fist-banging than actual maintenance reports. The Troopers weren't really known for tidiness. Messy people.
Kamala -- one of their members was leaning against the wall, her arms crossed tight. Her posture was rigid but elegant in its own way.
Freddie, meanwhile, was the total opposite -- legs spread wide on a metal chair, a bucket of popcorn between them. He shoveled the stuff into his mouth like a machine.
On the TV, a heated debate was unfolding. Two women on a panel were shouting over each other, the kind of political circus the Troopers had grown used to being the main act of. Some defended their legalization as a "necessary leap in justice enforcement." Others spat the opposite, calling them "mercenaries in uniform" and "state-sponsored killers."
Kostas stopped in the doorway, his gaze lingering on the screen. The audio was chaotic as hell - one of the women screamed, "Who gave them the right to decide life and death?" Another fired back, "Someone has to do what the courts won't!"
Kostas exhaled, "I wonder how they'll react when they find out we killed their beloved Superstar."
Kamala turned first, eyes narrowing. Freddie, on the other hand, didn't even blink at hearing Kostas' voice. He just snorted and kept chewing.
"Don't worry, boss," Freddie said with his mouth half-full. "I'm always with you. Screw these people."
Kamala shot him a glare. "You're gonna choke one day, Freddie. Don't talk while eating."
"Better than dying sober," he mumbled.
Then her eyes shifted to the stranger standing awkwardly behind Kostas. "Who's this?" she asked flatly, the words came out with less curiosity and more suspicion.
"This is Harry," Kostas replied.
Harry straightened his posture immediately, his voice carrying that rehearsed politeness of bureaucrats who feared the wrong tone more than death. "One of your members… Rachel, I think? She let me in," he said, "I'm just a messenger from the capital."
Kamala's brow arched. "Messenger? From the capital?" She tilted her head slightly, "What's the message?"
"We're getting to that," Kostas cut in and looked at Freddie. How Freddie was chewing those chips definitely interfered with the whole vibe. That guy was still licking the salt off his fingers.
"Freddie. Maybe quit eating for two seconds?"
He held the bucket out like an offering. "Popcorn helps me think, boss."
Kamala rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath before addressing Harry again, "Alright, messenger. Spill it. What does capital want from us?"
Harry hesitated, glancing nervously at Kostas. "Uh, well, I was about to explain that…"
Kostas held up a hand, "Not here. Let's take this to the hallway. You all continue with your programs."
Kamala : "Bu-"
"It's fine. Let me hear him out first. And Kamala, could you please tell Rachel that I need her to repair my chains from Storpedo Market? I just don't have the time to do it now. Please."
Kamala sighed, already looking away. "Sure, whatever."
With that, Kostas gave Harry a small, unreadable smile - half politeness, half warning - and motioned for him to follow. And soon they entered a dimly lit corridor. Just as Kostas figured they were far enough from the others, he turned to face Harry.
"Alright," he demanded, "Out with it now, boy. What's the big message?"
Harry paused, fingers toyed nervously with the hem of his coat, "The higher-ups from the capital want you, Troopers, to take on a mission."
"What type of mission?" Kostas asked.
"There's a rogue. He breached Sector 1's vault." Harry replied, voice low. "We don't know what he took, but he's dangerous. Last we tracked him, he was in your sector - Sector 5. The capital wants him… alive."
Kostas's face didn't move at first. He was still trying to analyze the situation, "Is he with anyone? Backup? Contractors?"
Harry shook his head. "As far as we know, he's alone. But…. we can't take him on, thinking too soft and all. There's something else, Kostas." He gulped, "He is dangerous."
Kostas took a step closer. "You all know his identity?"
Harry let out a breath like a prayer. "Yeah. We gathered. That rogue… he's one of the survivors of Operation Fivefold."
For a beat.... For a second.... Maybe for a whole minute.... the entire hallway went completely quiet - except for the distant TV and the drips from a stupid pipe. That name hit Kostas like a heavy fist to his stomach.
Operation Fivefold.
Those words carried a lot of weight. They barely talked about it anymore. Mentioning it was like coughing up blood: dangerous and definitely shameful. Kostas's jaw locked. His mouth was dry.
"And they dumped this on us now? Right after what happened yesterday? They knew the shitstorm we were gonna get from the media. And now they want us to get involved with something so notorious and hated."
Harry's eyes pleaded. "I know. I know it's not an ideal situation. But the capital doesn't trust anyone else to handle a Fivefold survivor. You understand, it's messy, political. They want it contained and quiet."
Kostas laughed once, "Don't sell me that. If they had wanted to keep it out of politics, they'd not have dropped it on us. They don't trust us, not even a percent. They need a damn scapegoat. If it all goes south, we take the fall. Troopers take the fall. Simple."
Harry's face reddened, but he didn't deny it. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone. "I can... uhhh…. I'll call Ronin. You talk to him. He can explain better for sure."
Kostas let the phone hover in front of him. He said nothing as Harry handed him the phone. Kostas pressed that device to his ear. From the other side, a middle-aged man's voice came through that cold metal - so controlled and heavy. Ronin -- One of the officers from Capital.
"Kostas, is it?" Ronin smirked, "I hope you're not giving our Harry a hard time."
Kostas didn't bother with pleasantries. "You bet, I am. Tell me... why us?"
"Because Alex recommended you," Ronin snapped back. "And because you owe us. Look, you know the heat is coming at you for the stunt you pulled yesterday. If you screw this mission up, it'll be the end of you. But see, if you manage to catch that motherfucker, which Alex thinks you will, we might overlook the whole Tom situation."
Kostas's grip tightened on the phone, "So now it's a threat? You expect loyalty after you throw us in the fire? You know you and your capital folks need us - native officers for the Dead Coral Project in our sector."
"You really believe we couldn't replace you with another native officer for the project? Don't believe those media ladies. Maybe Troopers as a unit aren't replaceable at the moment, but you are, boy. You never know who might replace you. It can be someone from your office, too. Don't trust everyone."
Kostas's lungs felt tight. Ronin continued, "And Kostas, don't forget, your entire team, and you only exist because of Alex. So be thankful to him."
"Where is Alex? I wanna talk to him," he asked.
"He'll call when necessary," Ronin said. "Now listen, boy, you take the job. I am repeating. You don't have a choice."
The line went dead. For a moment, Kostas just stood there with the phone warm against his ear, feeling the world compress into the narrow tunnel of his ribs.
"Man, I hate Ronin."