Chapter 1: Beginning

The sun rose sluggishly over the sprawling skyline of Neo Austin, painting the steel skyscrapers in muted oranges and pinks. The city was always alive, but it never felt awake—just a constant hum of activity, a pulse of desperation and ambition. Freiheit Gensero wiped the sweat from his brow as he ducked under a low-hanging support beam in the alley. His boots crunched on broken glass and debris, the morning already carrying a hint of the stifling heat that would only get worse as the day dragged on.

Scrapping wasn’t glamorous, but it was how Freiheit made his living. At eighteen, he had been in the game for three years, weaving through crime scenes and abandoned zones like a rat, scavenging anything that could be sold. His father, Gus, always told him it wasn’t a sustainable way to live, but Gus worked double shifts at a manufacturing plant and barely made enough to keep their crumbling apartment together. Freiheit wasn’t about to start flipping burgers or taking a desk job. Not when there were opportunities waiting in the rubble.

He adjusted his mask—a patchy old thing he’d built himself from discarded filtration tech—and surveyed the alley. The scene was still fresh, yellow police holotape flickering across the perimeter. Two gangs had gone at it last night, judging by the scorch marks on the walls and the scattered casings. Freiheit moved quickly, eyes scanning for anything valuable. Spent energy cells, an unregistered datalink, even broken gun parts—anything could be flipped to the right buyer.

“Come on, there’s gotta be something…” he muttered under his breath.

He bent down and pried a cracked comm unit from a puddle of blood, shaking the water off as best he could. Not worth much, but it was something. As he turned to leave, a faint popping sound echoed in the distance. He froze, cocking his head toward the noise. Gunfire.

Freiheit’s heart quickened. He wasn’t new to the sound of a firefight, but something about this was… different. The shots were sharp, methodical, not the wild spray of amateurs. It sounded close—too close. His instinct told him to leave, to get out of there before he got caught up in something he couldn’t handle. But curiosity tugged at him.

He moved toward the noise, weaving through alleys and backstreets until he emerged on a wide avenue. What he saw stopped him in his tracks.

A man stood in the middle of the street, his silhouette illuminated by the flashing red and blue lights of police drones. He was tall, lean, dressed in a tattered trench coat that fluttered in the wind. In each hand, he held a revolver, sleek and black, the kind of weapon Freiheit had never seen before. Surrounding him was the Black Unit—a division of the police infamous across the nation. They were armored head to toe in matte black, their helmets featureless save for glowing red visors. They were considered the government’s finest, equipped with tech and firepower that could obliterate entire gangs in minutes.

Yet here they were, struggling to contain one man.

The revolver-wielding stranger moved like a ghost, his movements fluid and almost supernatural. He fired once, twice, and two Black Unit officers collapsed, their armor sparking as if short-circuited. The rest of the unit advanced cautiously, their rifles glowing with charge, but every time they fired, he was already gone, reappearing a step away, his revolvers spitting death.

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“What the hell…” Freiheit whispered, gripping the corner of the building for support.

The man didn’t look like much—ragged, worn, almost feral—but he was giving the Black Unit a run for their money. Freiheit had never seen anything like it. His eyes darted to the revolvers. Were they special? Some kind of experimental tech?

Before he could think too much, the man staggered. One of the Black Unit officers had landed a shot, piercing his side. Blood dripped onto the asphalt as the stranger faltered, his movements slowing. The Black Unit closed in, their weapons raised, their voices a mix of shouted commands and warnings.

The man dropped to his knees, still clutching the revolvers. He raised his head, staring defiantly at the officers, and then his eyes flicked toward Freiheit. For a brief moment, their gazes locked. The man smirked, a grim, almost knowing expression, and then he collapsed.

Time seemed to stand still. Freiheit hesitated, his instincts warring with his fear. He should run. He should get as far away from this as possible. But his eyes kept drifting back to the revolvers. The Black Unit was busy securing the scene, their attention on the fallen man. Freiheit saw his opening.

Before he could think twice, he darted forward, staying low to the ground. His heart pounded as he reached the man’s body. Up close, the stranger looked even worse—pale, his clothes soaked with blood. The revolvers were still in his hands, their black metal gleaming ominously. Freiheit hesitated for only a moment before prying them free.

The instant his fingers wrapped around the grips, a strange sensation washed over him. It was like the world had gone quiet, the sounds of the shootout fading into a dull hum. The revolvers felt… alive, as if they were vibrating faintly in his hands.

“Hey!” a voice shouted.

Freiheit’s head snapped up. One of the Black Unit officers had spotted him. Without thinking, he bolted, the revolvers tucked under his jacket. He didn’t look back, weaving through alleys and backstreets until he was sure he’d lost them.

Back at home, Freiheit locked the door to his room and pulled out the revolvers. He set them on his desk, staring at them like they might explode. Up close, they were even stranger. The craftsmanship was impeccable, the design sleek but archaic, like something out of a pre-collapse Western. Tiny etchings ran along the barrels, symbols he didn’t recognize.

“What the hell are you?” he muttered.

He grabbed his old tablet and snapped a few pictures, uploading them to an auction site. Rare weapons like this could fetch a fortune, especially if they were unregistered. But as soon as he hit upload, the listing disappeared.

“What the…” He tried again, but the result was the same. Every time he uploaded the pictures, the listing was instantly removed. He frowned, unease creeping over him. Someone—or something—didn’t want these revolvers on the market.

After a few more failed attempts, he gave up, shoving the revolvers under his bed. Exhausted, he collapsed onto his mattress, staring at the cracked ceiling until sleep claimed him.

Freiheit woke to the smell of smoke.

He shot up, coughing as the acrid air filled his lungs. Flames danced across the walls, the heat oppressive. His mind raced as he stumbled out of bed, his first thought on his family.

“Mom! Dad!” he shouted, barreling down the hall to their room. The door was already ajar, the fire licking at the edges. Inside, he froze. His father lay motionless on the floor, blood pooling beneath him. His mother was nowhere to be seen.

“No…” Freiheit whispered, his voice cracking. He stumbled back, tears blurring his vision.

The fire roared louder, and he forced himself to move, heading for his sister’s room. He found her curled up in the corner, coughing and crying.

“Come on, Ellie, we gotta go!” he shouted, grabbing her by the arm. She was light, too light, but he didn’t have time to think about it. He dragged her through the burning apartment, kicking open the back door and spilling into the alley.

As they staggered outside, a figure emerged from the smoke. Freiheit’s blood ran cold. It was the Black Unit.

“Freiheit Gensero,” one of them said, their voice distorted through their helmet. “Surrender the weapons.”

He didn’t think. He turned and ran, Ellie’s limp form slung over his shoulder. Bullets whizzed past him, sparking against the walls. He reached his old junker of a car, shoving Ellie inside before climbing into the driver’s seat. The engine roared to life, and he peeled out of the alley, tires screeching.

It wasn’t until he was miles away, the city a faint glow in the distance, that he realized something was wrong. Ellie hadn’t moved.

“Ellie?” he said, his voice shaking. He reached over, shaking her shoulder. She slumped forward, and that’s when he saw it—the dark stain spreading across her shirt.

“No… no, no, no!” he cried, pulling over to the side of the road. He cradled her lifeless body, tears streaming down his face.

The revolvers sat on the passenger seat, gleaming in the moonlight.

Freiheit clenched his fists, his grief quickly turning to rage. He didn’t know who these people were or why they had come after him, but he knew one thing: they had taken everything from him.

“I’ll make them pay,” he whispered, his voice trembling with fury. “I swear, I’ll make them pay.”

To be continued.