The streets of Neo-Vespera buzzed with muted energy. The shattered windows of the convenience store cast jagged shadows on the pavement, drawing cautious glances from passersby. Above, surveillance drones hovered, their lenses glinting like unblinking eyes, recording the aftermath for unseen watchers.
Greg trudged down the dimly lit street, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. Tempo practically bounced at his side, his voice brimming with an optimism Greg found exhausting.
“You were amazing back there!” Tempo said, his tone as bright as the neon lights flickering above.
Greg groaned. “If you say that one more time, I’ll need another nap to recover.”
“I’m serious! You took on Ironshade—one of the Syndicate’s top enforcers—and didn’t even break a sweat!”
Greg glanced at him, his expression flat. “Didn’t break a sweat because I’m too tired to care.”
Tempo grinned, undeterred. “So, what’s the plan now? Are we going after him? Figuring out what the Syndicate’s up to?”
Greg stopped in his tracks, turning to Tempo with an unimpressed glare. “Kid, the plan is simple: I find a bed. I sleep. You... I don’t know, do teenager stuff.”
Tempo frowned, jogging to keep up as Greg started moving again. “But the Syndicate—”
“Is not my problem,” Greg cut in.
----------------------------------------
They turned down a quieter street, where the towering neon signs gave way to the dim glow of old streetlamps. The air smelled faintly of oil and rain, and the distant hum of the upper city reminded Greg of all the places he’d rather avoid.
Tempo finally broke the silence. “You know, people look up to you.”
Greg snorted. “Then they’ve got bad taste.”
“I’m serious!” Tempo insisted. “You’re the only one who’s stood up to the Syndicate. Everyone else just hides.”
Greg stopped again, this time pinning Tempo with a tired but sharp glare. “Let me tell you something about standing up to people like Ironshade. It doesn’t end with hero parades or thank-you cards. It ends with broken windows, scared civilians, and people pointing cameras at you like you’re the bad guy.”
Tempo opened his mouth to respond, but a voice cut through the air.
“Well, well. Isn’t this a touching scene?”
Greg’s head tilted slightly toward the voice, though he didn’t turn around. Tempo spun on his heel, his eyes widening as three figures emerged from the shadows.
Each wore sleek black uniforms with the Syndicate’s insignia emblazoned on their chests—a crimson serpent coiled around a gear.
----------------------------------------
“More of them,” Greg muttered under his breath.
The one in the middle stepped forward, their face hidden behind a featureless mask that glowed faintly red. They carried themselves with an air of command, their every step measured.
“Napman,” the masked figure said, their voice distorted but calm. “You’ve caused quite a stir.”
Greg sighed, scratching the back of his neck. “Can we save the villain monologue? I really need to lie down.”
The figure ignored him, turning their gaze to Tempo. “And you must be his new recruit. How sweet. Tell me, does he let you in on his little secret? Or are you just another pawn in his little game?”
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Tempo stiffened, his fists clenching. “What are you talking about?”
Greg’s eyes narrowed, his tone hardening. “Enough. You want something? Let’s hear it.”
The masked figure tilted their head, almost amused. “The Syndicate doesn’t tolerate loose ends, Napman. Ironshade may have been willing to let you walk away, but I’m not so sentimental.”
“Great,” Greg said. “Now I’ve got sentimental robots chasing me.”
“Not a robot,” the figure replied, their tone icy. With a slow gesture, they raised their hand. The operatives snapped to attention, their stances stiffening. “I control my tools, Napman. Can you say the same for yours?”
The two operatives lunged forward at the figure’s command, their movements fast and precise.
----------------------------------------
Greg shoved Tempo back, his foot scuffing against the pavement as he shifted into a defensive stance. The first operative swung a baton crackling with energy, aiming for Greg’s ribs. Greg caught the swing with one hand, yawning as he twisted the baton free and sent the operative flying with a single, lazy shove.
“Couldn’t wait till morning?” Greg grumbled.
The second operative closed the distance quickly, aiming a kick at Greg’s head. Greg ducked, then jabbed his elbow into their side, sending them staggering back.
The first operative recovered faster than expected, grabbing a small device from their belt. They hurled it at Greg, who raised his arm to shield himself. The device exploded in a burst of bright light and force, sending Greg stumbling backward.
Greg hissed through clenched teeth as he steadied himself, a sharp ache spreading through his arm. “Okay,” he muttered. “That one hurt.”
Tempo’s hands shook as he fumbled with his wrist device. His heart pounded. What if Greg couldn’t handle this? He forced himself to focus, pressing the button.
A bubble of distorted energy expanded around the second operative, slowing their movements to a crawl.
“Yes!” Tempo shouted. “I got one!”
“Congratulations,” Greg said dryly, sidestepping as the slowed operative attempted a sluggish punch. “Now get the other one.”
----------------------------------------
The first operative turned their attention to Tempo, grabbing another device from their belt and throwing it at him. The device released a burst of electrical energy midair, striking Tempo square in the chest and sending him sprawling to the ground.
“Kid!” Greg shouted, his voice rough with panic.
Tempo groaned, forcing himself to sit up. “I’m fine!”
But the first operative didn’t hesitate. They rushed toward the dazed Tempo, raising their weapon for a decisive strike.
Greg moved faster than Tempo had ever seen, intercepting the operative mid-swing. He caught their arm with one hand, his grip tightening.
“Big mistake,” Greg muttered, slamming the operative into the ground with enough force to knock them out cold.
----------------------------------------
The masked figure clapped slowly, the sound distorted and mocking. “Efficient, as always. But how long can you keep it up, Napman?”
Greg’s fists clenched, his exhaustion giving way to a flicker of anger. “You want to find out?”
The figure’s laugh was cold, sending a chill through Tempo. “You’re not worth my effort. Not yet. But I’ll leave you with a thought—where will you go when there’s nowhere left to hide?”
The figure raised a hand, and with a faint hum, the nearest surveillance drone sputtered and fell, sparks raining down as it crashed to the ground. “We’ll be watching.”
Before Greg could respond, the figure pressed something on their wrist. A blinding flash erupted, forcing Greg and Tempo to shield their eyes.
When the light faded, the Syndicate operatives were gone.
----------------------------------------
Tempo groaned, rubbing his temples. “That... was awful.”
“Welcome to the hero business,” Greg muttered, stretching his arms.
Tempo looked at him, frustration flickering in his eyes. “Why don’t we go after them? Figure out where they’re going?”
Greg shook his head, already walking away. “Not how I operate.”
“But they’re part of the Syndicate! Don’t you want to stop them?”
Greg paused, glancing over his shoulder. His eyes held a hint of something deeper—regret, maybe, or exhaustion.
“They’ll come back,” he said quietly. “They always do.”
He turned away again, glancing briefly at the alley they’d just passed. The thought crossed his mind—where would he go next? He shook it off, unwilling to dwell on the question for long.
And with that, he disappeared into the shadows, leaving Tempo standing alone in the dim streetlight, the faint hum of surveillance drones lingering in the air.
----------------------------------------
To Be Continued...
----------------------------------------