"I want to tell you exactly what I'm looking at," Raya said into the lens, "because I don't think you'll believe it unless I go slowly."
She crouched behind the concrete planter with her windbreaker gone grey and the camera operator braced against her shoulder, the plaza laid out beyond the planter's edge like something a storm had finished with.
"Minutes ago, the research tower behind me came down. Twenty-eight stories, in less time than it takes me to say so. What came up out of the ground in its place is a man this city was told, in writing, was sitting in a cell at the NovaBreed Containment Facility. He has given us a name. Bloody Berry. He says he was never in that facility. He says they kept him under this one."
The lens climbed the rubble and her voice climbed with it.
"He is no longer on the pile. He has come down off the back of it and he is crossing the broken ground beyond, and I'm sorry, I don't have a better word for this, he is walking on tentacles. Four of them, thick as tree trunks, carrying him forward the way a spider's legs would. Three more are held over his head, and in them is a ribbed metal cylinder as long as a man, lifted clear of the ground as though he were afraid to let it touch the dirt. He told us he intends to leave a statement at the Containment Facility down this coast."
"On the rubble behind him are the people in white. I count more than thirty. Every one has a number branded into the shoulder, and several are still wearing iron collars. The armed men with them wear black masks with a yellow branch across the forehead. Vanguard of Vain, the faction we were told was finished. With them, a woman in orange with silver running down both forearms, the man named earlier as Lovely Lemon, and a long shell of pale bone nobody in authority has explained."
"NCC and NKPD units hold a line behind armored vehicles that came across on the ferry. The Association has just cleared every responding hero to engage. In the air above all of it, Sol, a man you know better as a candidate than as a hero, has just stopped hovering."
Her voice caught, and she let it.
"If you are anywhere near a window that faces the water, please step away from it."
---
Sol had watched the thin man cross the broken ground for as long as he could stand to.
Berry moved like nothing that had ever been human. The four limbs under him walked in a slow, rolling rhythm, bare feet trailing, the pale body slung between them like something in a hammock, while above him three more held the casing in a cradle of dark red. He did not hurry. He crossed the island as if it were a corridor and he already knew where it ended.
Sol's chest tightened. Something was deeply wrong here—terrorists marching out of a fallen tower, yet surrounding themselves with collared prisoners who looked more like victims than accomplices. But Berry was moving, and Sol couldn't let that weapon leave the plaza.
The gold flared under Sol's skin like a sun breaking through storm clouds. He came down the sky with crushing momentum, past the smoke, straight for Berry's back.
Orange peeled off the moment Sol's shadow crossed her. She went up in a long flat jump with silver pouring from her forearms, folding into heavy gauntlets, and met him in mid-air with a fist meant to stop a locomotive.
The impact hit the plaza like a cannon shot. But Sol didn't break. His sheer weight and energy pushed through her guard, driving her back toward the pavement in a spray of crushed concrete. Sol landed heavily on one knee, light radiating off his chest, while Orange slid back twenty feet, her gauntlets sparking red-hot from the kinetic energy she had just barely absorbed.
Sol rose, holding back the full brunt of his power, his jaw set. "Who are those people on the pile? Why are they in collars?"
Orange flexed her wrist, her eyes cold and bored. "Not my department. He's leaving. Let him."
"I can't do that," Sol said, stepping forward.
Silver ran from her wrist into a long blade. She lunged, but Sol caught the edge squarely on his armored forearm, the heat burning through his cloth without shaking his stance. He drove a broad palm forward—not to kill, but to displace. The golden shockwave blew her guard wide open, sending her skittering back across the paving stones.
Realizing she couldn't match his raw output, Orange flicked her wrist, vaporizing the liquid silver into a blinding, scalding mist. It hung between them, fine and bright, searing the air and clouding his vision. Sol paused, pulling light inward to clear the screen of burning vapor, his mind racing to make sense of the conflicting scene around him. That brief moment of hesitation was all she needed to keep him anchored.
---
At that exact second, the Association mounted a synchronized assault on Berry. They hit him all at once from three directions.
From the left, War Hammer hurled his tungsten head with maximum magnetic force. From above, Diving Bell thrusted downward like a falling anvil, brass helmet aimed at Berry's spine. From the right, Fantastico's glove snapped, sending three hard-light duplicates and himself sliding in with blades drawn under a blinding flash grenade.
The triple impact shook the plaza foundations.
The three-pronged attack landed simultaneously, but Berry's appendages reacted as a single fluid defense network. Two tentacles whipped outward, catching War Hammer's tungsten projectile in mid-air and redirecting its momentum into Diving Bell's diving path. The brass dome slammed into the tungsten head with a deafening ring, sending both heroes spinning violently backward into a row of marquees.
At the exact same instant, Berry's remaining lower limbs lashed across the ground. They cut through Fantastico's three light-clones instantly and seized the real Fantastico by the neck before his foot could hit the pavement. Whatever Berry's limbs tracked, they weren't fooled by light tricks. Fantastico's signature smile vanished as his face turned grey. Color drained out of him like ink in water, and Berry casually dropped his limp body into the dust like an empty glove.
Fifty yards away, Saboteur, Airbrush, and The Mandrake moved in to establish a perimeter, intercepting the Vanguard forces and keeping the crossfire away from the trapped, collared civilians.
---
Forty yards behind the clash, Lucius moved.
Now that Sol had drawn Orange away and the hero team had created an opening, Lucius came out from behind a fallen girder at a dead run, his long coat snapping in the wind. The Lord was seated in his right hand. He locked his sight onto the three red limbs cradling the ribbed cylinder above Berry's head.
'Not the man,' he thought. 'Just the arms.'
Clack. Clack.
He raised the heavy revolver with both hands and squeezed the trigger twice in rapid succession.
BANG. BANG.
The compensator ports spat two blinding crosses of white fire. The double report cracked across the plaza like thunder. The first heavy round blew through the primary joint where the three upper limbs met. The second round struck the exact same spot an instant later, completely severing the connective structure.
Smoking, bloodless flesh gave way. All three limbs lost tension and dropped like cut cables. The metal casing slipped free and began to fall toward the shattered pavement.
It would have smashed against the stone, but the ground beneath it surged upward.
Lemon stood on the slope of the rubble with his palm pressed flat to the stone. A slab of limestone curled upward like a massive hand, catching the cylinder a foot above the ground. Red tendrils immediately shot down from Berry's back, five of them digging into the metal to pull it back into his control.
And for the first time since the fight began, Berry stopped and turned his head.
His eyes lit with a cold, dark crimson. They swept past the fallen heroes, past the smoke, and locked onto Lucius and the massive gun in his hand.
Berry's pale lips parted. "Kill him."
A theatrical laugh echoed down from the pile. The pale bone shell on the ledge split down its center, and Jack stepped out into the open, spreading his arms as if greeting an old friend.
Jack's eyes immediately locked onto the smoking barrel of the heavy revolver in Lucius' hands. His smile widened in sheer delight.
"Look at that magnificent piece of iron!" Jack cheered, admiring the lethal frame of The Lord. "You're still alive! I told the dark you were far too rude to die!"
"Of course you're awake," Lucius muttered, bringing The Lord up to line up another shot.
Lemon paid no attention to Jack's antics. He turned toward the slope where the freed captives stood shaking, surrounded by Vanguard rifles.
"All of you," Lemon's voice cut through the air. "Fight. Or go back to the cells we took you out of."
A panicked heartbeat passed. Then a Vanguard rifleman fired blindly into the NCC line, and total chaos erupted.
The plaza dissolved into gunfire. Vanguard fighters poured rounds down into the NCC and NKPD barricades. Armored windshields spiderwebbed with cracks as officers returned fire. Some of the freed captives charged desperately at the perimeter; others scattered or collapsed to their knees, covering their heads in terror.
Sol saw a collared woman pushed directly into the line of fire. Abandoning his engagement with Orange, he surged forward, shielding the woman with his body and taking a burst of automatic fire across his back. Orange didn't pursue him; she stepped back, keeping her distance as the battle shifted.
Lemon slammed his gauntlet onto the stone. The slab under Lucius' boots stood up on edge, snapping closed like a jaw. Lucius threw himself sideways, rolling over broken rebar just as Jack descended on him. Bone blades sprouted from Jack's forearms, striking in a blur of blinding speed.
Lucius dodged the first five cuts, jammed the heavy muzzle of The Lord directly against Jack's chest plate, and pulled the trigger.
The bone armor shattered into powder. Jack was lifted off his feet and launched backward, laughing maniacally as he crashed through a reinforced concrete wall behind Lemon.
"Oh!" Jack's delighted voice echoed from inside the dust cloud. "Now that has some kick!"
Lucius brought the gun back up, steadying his grip as Berry turned his back once more, drifting away across the broken ground with the retrieved cylinder clamped tight to his body.
---
In the command tent, the NCC commander watched the tactical feeds fracture across six monitors.
"That's enough," he said grimly. "The Association had its shot. Pilot."
Out on the dock, the heavy canvas tarp was tossed aside, revealing the project built over ten years of secret development.
The Beast Machine stepped out of its transport crate on six jointed, crab-like legs, its heavy armored pads denting the wooden docks. The low, wide chassis was plated in overlapping slate and black armor, bearing the white NCC wings and wreath. A tinted blue canopy housed the pilot, flanked by twin chin-mounted autocannons, a heavy back turret, and a cluster of dark optical sensors. Hydraulics hissed as it adjusted its stance.
"Standing by, sir," the pilot's voice came over the comms.
"Authorized to engage," the commander ordered. "Weapons free on the pile. Priority target is the man with the cylinder. Move on my mark once the Association clears out."
"Sir," Teo interjected, staring at the screen. "Half the people on that pile are prisoners."
"They are armed combatants until cleared."
"Those collars aren't weapons," Leah said softly.
The commander didn't respond. At the back of the tent, Toby stood motionless against a support beam, staring at the monitors with hollow eyes.
---
Across the city, in a windowless room, Julian watched the destruction on three screens with a quiet, triumphant calm.
A fourth monitor displayed 'The Absolute', where a download counter ticked steadily upward.
"Thirty-one accepted," the girl at the end of the row reported. "The transport boats are launching."
"Good." Julian leaned back into his leather chair. "The signal is out. Soon the entire city will be forced to look."
Thirty-one strangers, unaware of his name, were about to ignite a fire that authority could no longer smother. He allowed himself a faint smile.
Then every monitor in his den flickered and went pitch black.
White text carved across the screens, line by line:
YOU WERE TOLD THESE PEOPLE WERE DANGEROUS.
YOU WERE TOLD THEY WERE CONTAINED.
WHAT FOLLOWS WAS RECORDED BY THE PEOPLE WHO CONTAINED THEM.
IT WAS SIGNED FOR. IT WAS PAID FOR.
EVERY NAME YOU ARE ABOUT TO SEE BELONGED TO A PERSON.
WATCH IT ALL.
An IP address appeared beneath the text, accompanied by a rapidly filling progress bar.
FULL FILES. FULL NAMES. FULL RECORDINGS. DOWNLOAD THEM. KEEP THEM. SEND THEM ON.
The screen held for five seconds before cutting to video footage of a stark white corridor.
The feed hijacked every monitor in Julian's den, the command tent, the Association's main floor, the giant holographic displays along the Neon Mile, and millions of mobile screens across Kwan Market and Victoria Park.
On screen, identical cell doors lined both sides of the corridor. Numbers were stenciled above each glass window. A calm technician's voice read off a clipboard: "Third floor, east block. Awakening trial resumes."
Cut. A twelve-year-old boy strapped to a metal restraint chair, an iron collar locked around his neck.
"Increase the stimulus," the voice ordered. A horrific scream strained the audio feed. "No response. Log it. Increase."
Cut. A black screen displaying a ledger of names, ages, and dates. Down the right margin, one word repeated endlessly: DECEASED. Ages scrolled past: 16... 9... 30... 11... 14... 8.
Cut. An official document stamped with high-level clearance seals: FAILURE TO AWAKEN WITHIN NINETY DAYS: REDIRECT TO LETHAL TRIAL. DISPOSAL VIA FURNACE, SUB-LEVEL SIX. At the bottom sat an official signature beside an approval stamp, framed by the official crest—wings spread around a central wreath.
Cut. Blackness, accompanied by the muffled roar of an industrial furnace and casual background chatter: "Count's thirty-one for the week." / "Short week."
The final frame focused on a bare, emaciated back branded with an identification number, followed by another, and another, as the camera panned down a long line of captives.
---
In the command tent, the commander froze mid-command. "Mark... pilot, engage—"
Every screen in the tent flickered white with the leaked broadcast.
Silence fell over the room. On the center monitor, an intake manifest scrolled past, clearly showing the official NCC crest stamped at the bottom of every page.
Leah looked at the commander. "That's your insignia," she said softly. "The wings."
The commander's hand hovered over the console. The comms speaker crackled with the pilot's anxious voice: "Sir... Sir, this is broadcasting directly onto my HUD. It's everywhere."
"Engage," the commander demanded, his voice tight.
A long pause followed over the radio. "...Copy. Engaging." On the docks, the Beast Machine's six legs began to advance.
At the back of the tent, Toby remained frozen against the support beam, his eyes locked onto the list of deceased names scrolling across the screen.
Raya's earpiece fell silent, but her phone vibrated non-stop. She looked down at the broadcast playing on her screen, then raised her eyes back to the camera lens, knowing no words could match what the city was watching.
Julian stood up so fast his chair slammed against the wall. "That's my file," he breathed, his voice trembling. "The corridor... the chairs... that manifest was only stored on one encrypted drive! In this room!"
He turned on his tech team, shouting, "Where is this broadcast coming from?! Trace the relays! Kill the feed now!"
Nobody moved. The lead analyst sat with his hands raised away from his keyboard, pale.
"Boss," the analyst whispered, turning around to face Julian. "I ran three traces. There are no external relays. No upstream hops."
He looked directly into Julian's eyes. "The signal isn't coming from outside. It's originating from right inside this room."
---
TO BE CONTINUED