Boom.
The muffled thud of the gun echoed in the enclosed lane. The heavy suppressor and subsonic rounds did little to mask the sheer force behind each shot.
Lucy almost winced. Hollywood lied; silencers didn't fully silence - even with subsonic 9mm rounds. The crack was still loud enough to make her ears ring beneath the earmuffs. She made a mental note.
She unscrewed the suppressor her fingers moving with practiced ease. Peering down the dimly lit range she watched the paper target sway slightly new holes clustered tightly near the centre.
Near 11pm the place was almost deserted. Lucy missed Boris's range—the smell of gun oil. The worn wooden counters. Boris's gruff laugh.
It had only been a month since she'd ghosted her old life. Since Terrance had reshaped her face.
If Lucy didn't already feel so alienated maybe the loss would sting more. This place—Dexler's Guns and Ammo—was adequate. Another hole-in-the-wall in the city’s underbelly. Rob Dexler seemed nice enough but lacked personality. No Boris that's for sure.
She swapped out the weapon in her hand for its now twin—another Heckler & Koch VP17. The weight was familiar solid. But it was no SIG. Another loss.
Lucy missed her SIG's smooth action. The way it felt like an extension of her arm. Still her decision to carry identical pistols as shoulder main and leg backup was proving smart. Same training weight. Same ammo. Same clips. She wondered why she hadn't thought of it before.
Getting the guns hadn't been hard. Rob didn't bother with federal forms or background checks. Cash under the table no questions asked. Aurum had vouched for him. "Solid if uninspiring," he'd said. Fitting description for both Rob and the twin VP17s, Lucy mused.
"Solid if uninspiring," she muttered, loading fresh clips. All ties had to be cut.
Carrying the weapons Lucy Kellaway was known to use was a risk. Her old gear was at the bottom of the lake sealed in a black bag weighted with concrete. The SIG itself had been returned to Aurum.
Even ‘Leth’ had to die. That persona was too closely linked to her work as a Clean and Transit. Too many possible return vectors. Another liability.
She'd spent hours with an AI chatbot to craft a new identity.
"Skadi"—a Norse giantess associated with bowhunting and the wilderness. Pretty close to a Dark Ranger - Peril had laughed at that. Lioncourt had smirked, damn him, he’d understood the reference instantly. Had he done a course on Norse mythology for faux-French sociopaths or something?
At least Aurum was vaguely impressed. Short, simple, he’d said, and completely disassociated with anything Lucy or Leth. A good name for a fresh start.
Lucy’s beloved rawshark mask was gone too. Too distinctive. Too tied to her past.
Now ‘Skadi’ used a standard white ballistic faceplate emblazed with a Norse labrys double-headed ax. She'd even burned the unused business card of the Seventh Street Samurai. No loose ends.
Boom. Boom.
Lucy quick-drew and fired. Rapidly transitioning between her shoulder and leg holsters. Five shots from each in succession. Her movements were fluid. Almost balletic. The pistols barked in her hands and she felt the subtle recoil absorb into her arms. ‘Skadi’ retained Lucy’s sky-high ammo costs at least, she smirked.
Her pistol skills were one area she hadn't enhanced with learnsofts. No surprise there; Lucy was already proficient. The challenge was finding software that could take her from "good" to "master.". Common skills like personal grooming or fashion & style had readily available programs that could elevate someone to expert levels. Accounting? Plenty of learnsofts could make you a whiz in no time.
But expert-level specialised combat skills? The market was thin. Most learnsofts capped out at a competent-level at best—enough to be reliable, but not exceptional. The military basic training had rounded out her tactics to that of a fresh Marine grunt. Useful as a foundation. But their was a definite ceiling on that.
Lucy paused, letting the guns cool.
Even with alternating the barrels were warm to the touch. She could almost hear Boris's gruff voice advising her to take a breather. With a sigh she holstered the pistols. The motion seamless.
At least Lucy had finally taken Peril's advice and uploaded the GTK cyberware manual learnsoft. Peril had teased her mercilessly. "You put a full pound of chrome in your skull and didn't bother reading the instruction manual?" she'd mocked.
Truth was, the interface had been overwhelming—an endless array of settings and sub-settings. Loading the learnsoft demystified it. She now agreed with Peril: she'd been foolish not to do it sooner. Idiotic even. It explained a lot.
Terrance hadn't set up the cyberware incorrectly as Lucy had initially suspected. If anything he'd maxed out every parameter for peak performance. But maximum wasn't always optimal.
Lucy now understood that running at full tilt increased cognitive load. Causing some of the side-effects she'd been grappling with. Mental fatigue. Emotional blurring—the lines between conscious and subconscious thought had been smudged.
After the learnsoft's guidance she'd dialled back the settings by a meaningful amount and extended the co-processing cooldowns too, along with tweaking some other parameters. The difference was palpable.
Clarity returned. Balance restored. The side-effects where still there, but only very mildly. She’d happily trade “peak-performance” for not screaming at her guildmates like a drill sergeant again.
Lucy walked over to the bench. Movements smooth as silk as always.
From her bag she retrieved cleaning tools and oil. The repetitive motions of disassembling the pistols were almost meditative.
The simple H&K cleaning and maintenance learnsoft was a prime example of specialised knowledge that pushed her into expert territory, Lucy mused. She could probably strip and reassemble the VP17 blindfolded now. Every spring and pin mapped in her mind.
Her personal grooming and style learnsoft had been another game-changer. At least Peril enjoyed the results. Gone was the inconspicuous drab attire.
Now she sported a modern techno-rocker look—a garish yellow armoured raincoat. Green hair that complemented her new elfin features. Peril had teased, "I'm dating a Dark Elf Ranger from Baraadon." It was true enough.
Peril had been supportive through the facial transformation. Even helping her during recovery after the surgery. With the chance to redesign her features however she’d wanted, Lucy had unashamedly chosen to look like a more humanised Lethanda—the person she often felt she truly was.
Lucy finished reassembling the pistols. Each part sliding into place with a satisfying click. Oiled, cleaned and ready. She packed up her gear, slinging the bag over her shoulder with effortless grace.
"Later Rob," she called out as she passed the counter.
Rob glanced up from his magazine grunting something unintelligible. He didn't even make eye contact. Definitely not a Boris.
Stepping out into the cool night air Lucy took a deep breath.
The city pulsed around her—sirens in the distance the hum of traffic lights flickering against the dark sky. She set off towards Chinatown craving the comfort of a post-session green tea from her new favourite spot. Second favourite, she corrected with a thought. Another possible trace return-vector that had to be cut. She would never return to her real favourite restaurant again.
Her steps were light. Almost gliding along the cracked sidewalks. Shadows played along the alleyways. She noted the homeless stacked in the alleys. Hollow eyes stared at Lucy. It was deadly cold still. More than a couple wouldn’t survive the night she knew.
Lucy thought about her own dwindling finances. She wasn’t in imminent danger of joining the homeless on the streets. But unless she found an income she had only six months on the outside before joining them at her current spending rate. If she cut down, maybe a stretch to nine months.
In another life she could have just uploaded one of those expert Accounting learnsofts and made enough to survive on legit, she mused. But she knew the truth of it from late night chats to Peril. Her fake ID’s were paper thin. They’d survive a cursory glance from a cop on the street, or random face scan like she’d herself done to Aurum and Lioncourt. But not much else.
Lucy navigated the streets with unconscious precision while lost deep in her thoughts. The rhythm of the city was a familiar song. Her orientation module was doing the heavy lifting as she daydreamed. Her two very obvious holstered weapons and too smooth stride was an open warning to any gangers.
Lucy was half a block from the tea house when they struck.
A black van screeched around the corner. Tires screaming against asphalt. Doors flung open and masked figures poured out moving with coordinated efficiency.
Civilians scattered shouts echoing off the buildings.
Instinct took over. Time seemed to slow. She reached for her pistols—but too late. An electric stun baton crackled to life behind her. The van’s obvious entrance had been a distraction from a much closer threat. Pain exploded at the base of her skull. Her vision blurred. Legs giving way.
Either by intent or luck they’d hit her first time on an absolute weak spot, with the ideal weapon to completely disable her. Her in-skull chrome went into a failsafe shutdown at the shock to protect itself from the power surge. Lucy lost all motor functions instantly.
"Got her," a voice barked.
She tried to fight. Muscles responding sluggishly or not at all. She spasmed. The world tilted as they dragged her towards the van. Her training screamed at her to resist. But her body betrayed her.
Darkness edged her vision. The last thing she saw was the sign of the tea house flickering above the characters glowing faintly.
Everything went black.
*
If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
Her first emotion upon waking was surprise. She was alive.
That didn't track. With a bounty on her head marked ‘dead’ survival wasn't the expected outcome. Her last memory was bracing for a double tap to the skull—the kind she'd delivered herself countless times working as a Clean.
"I know you're awake," a man's voice drifted into the void. Darkness pressed against her eyes. A blindfold. She tried to shift but found her limbs restrained.
Fingers fumbled at the base of her skull. Someone was attempting to jack into her neural link.
Panic surged but some training kicked in. She triggered the panic button on her security module. Maximum encryption protocols slammed into place. It would take even her ten minutes and a series of passphrases to breach that defence.
"Got a live one here Grimes," muttered a voice behind her. Frustration tinged his words. "Encryption's tight. No immediate access."
"Not unexpected," another voice responded from in front of her—measured cultured. She pegged him as ‘Grimes’.
A rustle and the blindfold was lifted. Harsh light flooded her vision momentarily blinding her. Blinking she took in her surroundings: a concrete room bare walls no windows. Underground most likely. Opposite her sat a thin man in a simple chair. Legs crossed. Hands resting casually. Sharp eyes appraised her from a pale angular face.
"Ms. Skadi," he began, enunciating each syllable with an affected Boston accent. "We have four hours."
She glanced down. Plastic ties bound her wrists and ankles to the metal chair.
"In four hours your use to me ends," Grimes continued. "And I will put a bullet in your head. Be cooperative. Help me and I might let you go. I have no reason to harm you once I have what I need."
She met his gaze searching for truth. He was lying. The operation that nabbed her was professional. Could be corporate, could be organized crime. It happened too fast to tell. The ambush. The stun baton—they knew what they were doing.
Her voice came out hoarse. "Why am I not dead?"
Behind her the technician cursed softly. "No go. It'll take at least twelve hours to crack this level of encryption."
"Unfortunate," Grimes mused. "You've locked down your neural link impressively. More time than we have to override it."
He leaned forward slightly. "Pity. I was looking forward to placing you in a virtual environment. See how you fare under... enhanced interrogation. Chainsaws. Immolation—the classics."
Lucy kept her face impassive. He was trying to rattle her. It felt clichéd like a bad vid or stream she’s seen from years ago. Did VR torture chambers even exist? She wasn't keen to find out. But her security measures would prevent any neural hijacking, she silently thanks Aurum for suggesting the upgrade.
Grimes watched her eyes. Searching. She offered nothing. No sense in revealing fear.
"You're an enigma, Ms. Skadi," he said after a beat. "Just give up the location of the Siege Perilous and you're free to go."
The Siege Perilous. No one called her that. Peril. They were after Peril. How much did they know?
She maintained her silence. Grimes smiled thinly.
"Three hours and forty-five minutes," he noted glancing at a sleek watch on his wrist. "At which point. Well. You understand."
He produced a tablet. Swiping through images before turning it toward her. Photos of her and Peril. Arms linked, laughing under neon lights. Dancing three nights ago.
"You know the operator," Grimes continued. "Your companion's handlers are quite adept. We lost five men attempting to trail you both that evening. Met violent ends. Your handiwork?"
She recalled the night. Dancing. Champagne. Lioncourt's hovering in the background. Five dead operatives sounded like his style. Protecting Peril no doubt. And if Lioncourt was involved, Aurum surely knew.
"I could escalate matters," Grimes said, breaking into her thoughts. "An induced pain sequence perhaps. A spinal tap linked to your nervous system. Make you feel like you're burning from the inside out."
He delivered the words casually as if discussing the weather.
She stared back unflinching.
"But I suspect I know why you're so composed," he went on. "Our tech scan revealed significant hardware in your cerebral cortex. Let me guess—ex-military? Former corporate asset? Advanced modifications in your sensory centres. A pain editor installed perhaps?"
He tilted his head studying her reaction. "I've broken subjects with pain editors before."
She was momentarily puzzled. Unidentified tech? Her learning accelerator was likely in safe mode after the shock from the stun baton—a failsafe to prevent overload. In low-power mode it might appear as a mystery to their scans.
Silence stretched between them. Grimes seemed content to let it linger.
Finally, he spoke again. "So…Chemicals then? Is that where we're headed? A cocktail of truth serums and hallucinogens. Old-school methods for an old-school problem."
He sighed theatrically. "We both know there's no such thing as a true 'truth serum' but under the right conditions minds can be... persuaded."
He stood up. Smoothing an invisible wrinkle from his suit. "Three hours and thirty minutes" he announced. "Time flies."
Stepping forward he replaced the blindfold over her eyes. "I'll let you contemplate your options."
Darkness enveloped her again. Footsteps receded. A door creaked open and shut. She was alone with her thoughts. Terrified, but refusing to show it to them.
*
She was floating.
Weightless. Suspended in a void where time had no meaning. A voice drifted through the darkness calm and soothing; "You're in a safe place."
Thinking was hard. Thoughts slipped away like smoke. A giggle bubbled up unexpected. She felt euphoric as if wrapped in a warm blanket of contentment.
"Tell me who are you really," The voice was gentle. Probing.
She tried to focus. The darkness pressed in but the voice anchored her "Who am I?" she murmured "I'm Lethanda. Protector of the Forest. Keeper of the Glade. Under my bow no evil shall go unchallenged."
"Yes, yes," the voice replied, a hint of irritation seeping through. "You've been saying that for two hours now. I must say your mental fortitude is impressive."
She drifted. Thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind. Why was she here? It didn't matter. She was safe. The voice said so.
"Where is the Siege Perilous?" the voice asked, more insistent.
"It's…" She searched for the words.
"Yes." the voice prompted.
"It's a seat of wonder where only the greatest and most noble knight of the land sits," A smile touched her lips. The answer felt right.
"Yes, I know the context," the voice snapped, impatience growing. "But where is the Siege Perilous!"
Her mind felt heavy. Like wading through molasses. Everything was hazy, "Why is it so hard to think?" she whispered.
"Focus." the voice commanded "Where is the Siege Perilous?"
She sighed. A mixture of frustration and sorrow welling up. "I'm heartbroken about Ceri," she blurted out. "There I've said it. Why is she so closed off? I want to be real and authentic with her, but she won't let me in! It hurts. I’ve said it now."
"Tell me about Ceri," the voice said abruptly.
Her expression tightened. "What about her?"
"You mentioned being heartbroken. Care to elaborate"
She clenched her jaw. "That's personal."
"Everything is relevant," the voice replied smoothly. "Emotions can cloud judgment. Does Ceri know where the Siege Perilous is?"
"Ceri…. Ceri…. Is the best damn gnome thief in Baraadon!”
"Damnit! Enough! Enough of this gamer nonsense," the voice cut in sharply. "Where is the Siege Perilous!"
"In King Arthur's court?" she offered. A light laugh escaping. The answer seemed obvious. Almost amusing.
A heavy sigh "You're testing my patience," the voice warned.
She blinked into the darkness. A flicker of defiance stirring, "Perhaps if you asked better questions."
Silence stretched thick with unspoken tension.
"Very well," the voice said coolly "Let's change tactics."
A faint rustling reached her ears. She sensed movement but couldn't place it. The fog in her mind began to thin clarity seeping back in.
"Who are you?" she asked softly. She knew him, the name was elusive though.
A pause. "I'm the one seeking answers," the voice. Grimes. She remembered now. He was Grimes. "And you're the one withholding them. The location of the Siege Perilous. Your time is nearly up."
She took a slow breath "Even if I knew. Why would I tell you?"
"Because Ms Skadi - cooperation could spare you a lot of unnecessary discomfort in dying."
Darkness swallowed her as Grimes replaced the cloth over her head.
*
Voices murmured at the edges of her fading consciousness.
Sharp cracks echoed—she knew those sounds. Silenced weapons. The muted cough of suppressed gunfire.
A scream pierced the void. Then another, more wrenching.
A door crashed open somewhere near.
Hands grabbed her. Yanking her upright. The world tilted.
"Mon dieu, hold still," a familiar voice snapped. Lioncourt. Swearing under his breath. Cursing in rapid French. Other voices swirled around—Japanese, sharp and clipped.
Someone sliced through the bonds at her wrists. The blindfold was lifted. Blinking against the glare she focused on his face. Lioncourt smiling, but eyes edged with worry.
She'd never seen him worried before. Ever. About anything.
"Bon sang de merde," he muttered, scooping her up effortlessly. Like she weighed nothing. She'd known he was strong. Heavily augmented. But the ease startled her, it was like he was picking up a small child.
He cradled her gently, whispering apologies. "You did well. Ma chère. How didn't you crack? Incroyable." His voice. Usually smooth and composed, now tinged with concern – even guilt. It was the first time she'd heard him anything less than unflappable. “Je suis tellement désolé, petite demoiselle. J'aurais dû faire mieux. Je t'ai laissée tomber."
"You're dying, little one," he said softly. "Far too many chems pumped into you. The bastards opened the taps on you. Ils ont eu ce qu'ils méritaient pour leurs crimes."
He moved swiftly through the dim corridors. Footsteps barely a whisper. She clung to consciousness the surroundings blurring past.
"We need to get you to a proper clinic, ou tu es une femme morte,” he continued. "And I've failed both you and Peril today." He was cursing again. A stream of French spilling out. "Je suis désolé. So sorry. We didn't know until thirty minutes ago."
Her voice was a ragged whisper. "Dying?... Tell Peril... I was so scared. But I gave them nothing. I love..."
"We know," he assured her, glancing down with a fleeting smile. "Hold on for God's sake." His voice went on. He was praying for her she realised. In French.
He picked up speed. The building scenery a smear of shadows and flickering lights. She felt the acceleration. His augmented strides covering ground with unnatural swiftness.
"Hold on, damn it," he urged again. "Peril knows. Ces salauds ont tout enregistré. She cracked it to find you. She cracked half the damn net to find you! Il va y avoir un prix à payer pour ça!"
Her vision wavered. "How fast... are we... going?"
"Faster than you can imagine," he replied, a hint of his usual charm creeping back. "Reste juste avec moi, jeune demoiselle.”
The world spun. Colours blending into a whirlpool. Time had passed.
She woke but could barely see—everything was a haze.
They were in his car now. The screaming, primal roar of the engine had woken her as Lioncourt red-lined it.
"Almost there," he promised, his grip tightening on her hand.
But she was slipping away. The darkness pulling her under.
"Hold on. Tiens bon, mon amour de fille," his voice echoed. Distant now.
She let go.