I’M WOKEN IN THE DARKNESS by a presence.

A heavy shadow moves through the office. Standing over the cot with hands out of sight. His head remains in shadow as he stoops to pick the 6-Teba from the pillow. In his huge hands, it’s like he’s plucking a grain of rice. Watching now from the washroom, I slither from the toilet and flat onto my stomach atop the thin rug. Breath locked tight in my chest, not risking a sound yet. A sliver of light from the grand window illuminates his clothing as he turns the gun over. The colors are black and orange.

Everything freezes inside me.

They are here. A dozen questions spring into my head. How did he get past the guards? The man’s river-smooth movements answer for me as he sets the revolver back down. A silent golem of the Assassin class. Here for Ulysses or for me, I don’t know. No time to guess why. Sharpened metal glints in his hand.

The assassin’s head drifts back to the office door. Heart thundering, I take the chance and steal forward out of the washroom, instinctively reaching for my hip. My hand pats around empty leather. On the other side, my activated JOY dangles from its magnetic clip. I could summon a temporary gun from it, but to do that, I would have to open a projector screen. Too loud, no time.

Drifting forward almost on my knees, passing across the small gap from the washroom to the desk. The old headquarters slumbers around us. Dark of the morning. The killing hour. I press against the desk, listening for the faintest swish of cloth as the assassin returns to examining the room. His shadow hasn’t moved yet. It stretches from the window to steps, down the length of the office to the seating area. Only his shaved head turns.

Ankle height, I peer low around the corner. Can only see the assassin’s boots, but I can fill in the rest of him. A murderer twice my size. One with a weapon and probably several classes specifically chosen to gut me from hip to head. I pull back and press my spine flat against the wood, swallowing down the fear. Willing that gunslinger’s stillness back into me. Sarah’s training calms my racing heart. I plan the chain reaction of my attack. Unnerving, being so calm when I’m about to die. Somehow, realizing that makes it a little easier.

My fingers tighten into martial shape.

Do or die, Gunslinger.

I do.

Blinking from thought to action, I explode around the corner of the desk in a martial artist’s powerslide, flashing across the smoothed floor. Teeth plated in orange gold sneer down at me, already waiting. Jaws about to snap shut. A curved karambit wraps around the assassin’s right hand, small blade glinting like a cold iron fang. But his eyes have to jerk down in the fraction of the moment it takes to eliminate the space between us. He didn’t expect me to be so short. It costs him.

The JOY’s training wheels kick on as I slash my legs into his ankles, dropping him to the floor. He hits the concrete with a surprised grunt. Momentum sends me past him unslowed. I rotate, plant my hands and shove off the floor in fluid motion, twisting the slide into the aerial corkscrew of a bullet jump. Lunging for the cot and the gun atop it. Hand outstretched, my fingers graze the wood of the grip just as his latch onto my ankle like a handcuff and yank backwards with ferocious force, tearing me away from the 6-Teba.

All the air in my lungs ejects at once as I’m slammed into the ground. A massive hand encircles my throat and tightens inwards. The ground drops out beneath my heels. Lifted off the floor. Cartilage cracking, air whistling then choking off as he squeezes my windpipe shut. I thrash and kick against an iron grip. Trying to scream and nothing coming out. Nails tearing uselessly at his skin. Eyes about to burst. Black spots erupting in my vision. My heel connects with his face, but it’s like kicking a cinderblock; he’s huge and I’m not. Sharp knives of glass drive into my back as he smashes me against the window, splintering the view.

Fingers like a hydraulic press, wringing the life out of me. My throat collapsing inwards. Regret flashing through my eyes as my brain panics and scrambles for anything to escape. Ulysses. Help me, help me, help me-

Fight dirty.

My foot lashes out again, lower, smashing into something soft. The pressure lets off for a moment as the assassin grunts. Airlessly screaming, I repeat the motion again and again, kicking his balls into paste until I hear a sick groan and the hand releases.

I fall away from the window, unable to breathe. The training wheels kick on again as I throw my forehead straight into his face, breaking his nose and jamming it upwards into his skull. Blood and stars explode through my vision. Can’t let off the pressure for a single moment. I crash my head into his a second time. Red sheets half my vision as a tooth sticks in my forehead, but the impact sends him stumbling back into the desk. It’s enough.

My eyes dart to the gun. His flash to me. I dive for the cot and he lunges to intercept, tackling me halfway. We crash into the cot and hit the floor together. Bodies in a tangle. A struggle. He’s on top, huge and heavy. He gets the knife out. It flashes down. A muffled concussive report shudders through his body right as the karambit punches into my stomach like an ice pick. Then his full weight falls on top of me, pinning me to the floor, sheathing the curved blade in my flesh. And silence descends.

Cold, abyssal wind howls through the cracks in the window. Glass tinkles like icicles as it drips onto the floor. Papers flutter on the desk. No sounds from the darkened lump of bodies hidden in the shadow of the cot. Then, a full minute after silence descends, I finally finish prying the karambit from my stomach and crawl out from beneath the assassin gasping for air.

He stays facedown in a dark, slowly growing puddle. Painted in our blood, I watch the liquid flow, dripping down the steps, trickling towards the door until it stains a tattered old rug. Smoke drifts out the back of the man’s black-and-orange robe. An artistic rendition of the Assassin class’ knife-and-crescent-moon icon perfectly wreathes the exit wound of my bullet where it punched through his heart. Tiny gasps of air whistle through my half-crushed throat. I reach up and touch it with shaking fingers. Feel the swelling bruises. Shudder, scared and terrified at the reminder that I’m living on borrowed time. For a moment, I feel like the girl I am, frightened for my life. That I’m eighteen makes no difference to Dynasty. They will kill me.

I hobble up to my feet. Lean on the desk for support as I shuck a full cylinder of rounds into the 6-Teba, wild-eyed searching the rest of the room. I don’t look down at the tattered wound in my stomach. Just palming around it is enough to make me regret it, nearly chomp through my lip from the pain. Hyperventilating, psyching myself up, I bite down on one of Ulysses’ shirts and jam the revolver’s still-sizzling barrel against the hole before I can lose my nerve.

I scream into the cloth, eventually trailing off into a rattling gasp. It gets better after I lift the gun off. The cauterized wound glistens beneath, scarred with a molten imprint of the 6-Teba’s iron sights.

Woozy, I glance down at the assassin’s body and I run through my options.

One of Dynasty’s assassins made it all the way to Ulysses’ office. Impossible to sneak this far unless someone, probably one of the refugees or Ulysses’ lieutenants, sold us out. The syndicate never does anything by half measures. If they’re already making a move, there’s going to be more killers out there hiding in the halls. Likely waiting to hear back from the guy I just ended. They’ll be coming to check on him after another minute, tops. And if they had the insider access to make it this far… I’m not the only target worth killing. Ulysses never came back. And-

I swear under my breath, pulling up a list of contacts on my JOY.

Lain. Matthias. They’re here too.

My finger stalls over the holoscreen. Deliberating on tapping Ulysses’ name for a long moment before I decide against it. If he’d called me while I was in the washroom, I’d be dead now. He’ll have fighters on hand- and even if he doesn’t, he could handle himself in a fight anyways. I can’t say the same about Lain and Matthias. They need my help first. If Dynasty already has assassins sneaking into Ulysses’ office, this whole fucking place is compromised.

I jerk up as a single metallic tap echoes through the door. Seconds later, the old hydraulics sigh and it wooshes open. Two lean shadows pad through from the other side, stopping just inside the threshold. Letting their eyes adjust to the dark. The spiderweb of splinters writhing through the window catches their attention first. They only notice the pool of blood when one of their steps makes a viscous squelching noise. Then they spy the body. One black-and-orange killer kneels to examine her dead comrade while the other sweeps the rest of the room.

Watching from the peephole in the ceiling, I drift away just as he looks up. Hands vibrating now from the adrenaline and the realization of how close I just flirted with death.

I was passed out drunk, completely unawares. If I hadn’t crashed in the washroom… No. No use thinking about it. I’m alive. And I need to keep moving.

I crawl forward into the darkness. Slices of pale green light leak up through the infrequent grates underfoot, sectioning my body like tiger stripes. I look down through each as I pass. Gathering a patchwork knowledge of the situation in the rest of the headquarters.

The hall outside the office is completely empty. Not unusual, given it’s on the perimeter of the building… but it doesn’t feel right. Next, empty armories and a lounge filled with snoring men and women passed out over drinks, a couple still up and curled on the couches watching streams on their JOYs. None seem to be aware of the breach. I consider dropping in to get help fixing my throat, but there’s no way to know who is on Dynasty’s payroll at this point. Any one of them could have sold the rest of us out. I press on.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

At the intersection that would take me to the atrium where Krey and I used to sneak in, I instead turn the opposite direction, heading for the barracks wing. Artificially widened halls with metal floors run beneath me. Less smogginess in the air here. Newer construction, stitched to the rest of the headquarters like a back alley surgery. The staterooms for guests are all kept this way, if I’m remembering correctly. But as I creep through the ceiling atop the widest corridor in the wing, not a single soul passes beneath. The itch of danger that’s been growing since I left the office is intensifying with every passing second. Something is wrong. I know Ulysses, and I know his home. The Eight were just eradicated and Dynasty is grabbing up all of the Vents that they can. There should be people swarming all over the place. Where are the workers, the scouts, the guards?

Hurried bootsteps echo down the corridor beneath me, rapidly closing from behind. Setting my JOY to its cam mode, I carefully lift one of the grates and lower the sphere through, using a projector screen to look from my hand’s point of view. A figure wrapped in black and orange is dashing down the hall. Hand to his ear, coming from the direction of Ulysses’ office. Another one of the assassins.

I pull my JOY back, clip it back to my hip, and count the steps. Let him draw closer. Closer. Flip the 6-Teba around and grab it by the barrel. Blow my bangs out of the way. And when he’s almost under me-

One hand on the lip of the hole, I slip out and drop right as he passes, swinging the 6-Teba like a blunted hatchet. The hardest wood in the Section collides against unreinforced bone with a sound like a cork popping. The assassin’s neck snaps back, feet swinging wildly, unconscious before he hits the ground. I drag his body into a side hall and strip it for gear. It’s a struggle given my size. There’s a nanospray on his belt which I immediately blast onto my stomach to staunch the bleeding. Not going to help my throat, but I’ll take what I can get. That little comm unit in his ear finds a new home in mine. I listen to the muttered voices on the other side while I rip off his shirt and shrug it over my bandages.

“Python is down, and we have reason to believe the primary target is moving through the ducts,” a sharp-edged woman is saying. “Cobra, cover the atrium exit. Moccasin is en route to cover the garage. Viper and Taipan, time to bag and tag.”

I curse and take off at a sprint.

“Received,” a thin male voice replies. “Plus two bandits in sight. Thermal looks like they’re having a good time. Preparing breach.”

“Make it quick. The Armiger doesn’t need another reason to take a piss on us around the Executor. Adder ou-”

Another female voice interjects into the channel.“-Moccasin, you missed your turn.”

There’s a confused pause before the leader replies. “Moccasin, you’re heading the wrong way. The garage is two intersections back. What are you doing? Moccasin-”

“-Viper breaching in three. Two. One.” Through the comm, the faded sounds of an oldTech door whisking open, followed by surprised gasps from the room’s occupants. “Bagging now.”

“What’s he doing? Adder?”

“-Viper, Taipan, you have inbound-”

“-Viper, behind!”

“What the-”

Two gunshots drench the channel with static. Plucking the comm out of my ear, I smash it beneath my heel as I step over the still-smoking corpses and into the stateroom. It’s little more than a concrete prison cell; typical Venter efficiency. A sink, a sonic wash, and a pile of dirty clothes on the ground between. My meager shadow stretches from the doorframe to a small metal ledge masquerading as a bed. Atop it, one gaping thief straddling another, both naked and covered by a sheet from the waist down.

Lain’s eyes dart from the dead assassins to me, then back down to the bodies. No words able to form at first. It’s only when Matthias tries to get out from beneath her that she finally manages to put two together.

“Are those…”

The door hisses shut behind me. Unable to speak through my crushed throat, all I can do is wave like a maniac for them to get up while tapping at my neck. Lain fumbles for her JOY and rushes over to help. No snark or suspicion this time; I can see the adrenaline in her eyes. Her affinities activate in tandem and her hands carefully touch my neck a moment later. Slowly, the cartilage in my throat expands outwards, crackling and popping like plastic as it regains a semblance of its normal shape. Muggy, climate controlled air floods down into my lungs.

“Dynasty assassins,” I croak, gorging pure oxygen like a fish returned to water. It takes conscious effort to force out one wheezing word at a time. I grab a shirt from the floor and hold it out to her. “There’s more where they came from. The whole base is compromised.”

“Compromised? There were fifty gang fighters in that garage earlier. How did assassins get past all of them?” She grabs her garrote off the sink before tugging on the shirt. “And how did you know they were coming for us?”

I wave a hand at the bloodied hole in my stomach.

“Thank you, is what Lain meant,” Matthias says. He slides off the bed and strips one of the assassin’s robes, then steals the man’s throwing darts for good measure. “What of Ulysses?” he asks.

“Not sure. I stole one of their comms on the way; they were talking about me being their primary target. You two were extras. They didn’t mention him.”

“After seeing what he did to those two mooks back at the Lighthouse, I can fucken imagine why,” Lain snaps, tugging on a pair of baggy trousers. She throws her hair down her back and is beside the door a moment later. “You don’t just kill guys like Ulysses. He’s got grey hair for a reason.”

“I agree. Which is why I’m getting you two out first.”

“For once, you say something I can agree with. What’s your plan?” When I don’t reply for a long moment, she glances back at me, brow narrowing. “You’ve got that look in your eye. Spill.”

I’m still standing over the bodies, gun in one hand, JOY now in the other. In front of me, a translucent blue projection where Ulysses’ name waits to be called. But I don’t tap it yet.

I have a chance here.

The big man doesn’t need my help- the assassins probably weren’t sent to kill him, and he wouldn’t need my help if they were. They probably were sent to grab me and the thieves as leverage. If I go back for Ulysses, what’s he going to do? Send me up to the overcity anyways? If Dynasty can get to me here, they can get to me anywhere, and I’ve given them plenty of reasons to make me disappear. Running more isn’t going to change that. I tried to trust in Ulysses. In what Sarah wanted, for me to escape the life that consumed her. But I’ve learned this lesson too many times now.

There is no out.

The Vents already has its fangs in me. As long as I live, it will always drag me back down into its clutches. Sarah knew, just as I do now, that there’s only one way to break the cycle for good. One snake that’s been orchestrating this war from the very beginning. And I can’t keep running from it.

I shake my head, dispel the screen, and look up.

Lain’s voice dips in a warning growl. “Mori…”

“If we’re not safe here, we’re not safe anywhere.” Hardening my face, I slip the 6-Teba back in its holster. “There’s only one way to put an end to this. I have to do what Sarah couldn’t.”

A disbelieving pause stretches between us until Matthias steps up beside me.

“I’m still in,” he says, though I didn’t even ask for his help. No hesitation, not even when Lain gapes at him.

She slowly shakes her head. “Don’t do this. Don’t get sucked in with her again. She’s got a death wish.”

“I’m not doing this for Mori,” he says. “I’m doing it for us. All of us. Every slave in Dynasty’s cages, every Venter they crush to build their syndicate. If they win, life under their thumb will be worse than anything the Eight ever were.” His mouth flattens into a hard line as he meets her gaze. “Just like Mori, I’ve been running for far too long. I have been scared. I have stood by and watched while they took so much…” His voice takes on a rough edge, teeth gritting in anger at an unwanted memory. “I will not let them take more. Not when I can do something about it.”

“There’s no winning against Dynasty. You know that.”

“Thinking like that is what led us here in the first place. Our backs against the wall, just waiting for them to finish us off next,” he implores her. “I believe we can win. And if we can’t win, we can slow them, grind them to a halt, and buy time for everyone who cannot.” He places a hand over his heart. “If we don’t stand up for ourselves, who will? If we don’t fight for the girls trapped in the Orange, the boys who slave in their plants and factories, who will?”

Matthias looks to me for help. Hope in his eyes. Belief clutched tight in his angry hands. I don’t deserve the trust he places in me with that one single glance. He watches me like Nabuna did those training videos of the Showmaker. I fed him a dream that I believed in, too. It’s high time to start seeing it through.

“Though the Champion might be wrong about many things, he was right about one,” he continues. Those brown eyes still seeing right through me. “It is a heavy burden to fight, and those who are gifted with the strength to carry it have a responsibility to do so for those who cannot.”

Something inside Lain dies as he says that. And I know, by the way her head lowers and her withering hope in some unpromised future loses another petal, that she does not blame him for whatever will come next. She blames me.

“Are you with us?” Matthias asks her.

“Always with you,” she whispers.

“Thank you.” Releasing a tightly held breath, he motions for me to take the lead. “You know we can’t kill an Executor with just the three of us, Mori. Executors make the minor league look like amateurs. Trying to kill one on our own would be like sending Venter assassins…” he nudges one of the bodies, “…to murder Ulysses. Pointless suicide. We need more help.”

“I’m aware. I already have someone in mind.”

Lain quietly palms open the door. “Don’t trust us to know who?”

I slip out into the hall. “I don’t trust you to like it.”