Three days passed in a slow crawl, each hour heavy with expectation. I spent them drifting between work and aimless wandering, my thoughts anchored on the promise of what was coming. My current disguise—a patchwork of thrift-store finds—felt more like a burden with each passing day, a reminder of the chaos I was trying to leave behind. It itched against my skin, as if the mismatched fabric resented my attempts to piece myself together.
The tattered scarf I used to cover my face lay tucked safely in my jacket’s pocket as I walked toward D’Angelo’s workshop. Every step felt measured, deliberate, as if the city itself knew this was a turning point. The night air carried the faint tang of rain-soaked concrete and the acrid scent of burnt rubber, the remnants of another clash somewhere in the city. Sirens wailed in the distance, a background hum that never really stopped.
My reflection in a shattered shop window caught my eye as I passed. The mismatched figure staring back at me—a bulky jacket, fraying gloves, and jeans streaked with grime—wasn’t Liz. It wasn’t even Replica. It was someone caught in between, a silhouette waiting to take shape.
When I reached the shadowed alley that led to D’Angelo’s door, I paused. The unmarked metal door stood as unassuming as ever, its surface pitted and scratched.
I put on the scarf before ringing the bell.
“State your alias,” came the smooth, mechanical voice.
“Replica,” I said, my voice steadier than I expected.
A soft click. The door swung open, and I descended into the depths of the workshop.
The descent into D’Angelo’s workshop felt heavier this time, each step resonating with an almost ceremonial weight. The walls of the stairwell seemed narrower than before, the air charged with anticipation. When I reached the bottom, the faint scent of leather and dye greeted me, grounding me in the familiar space.
D’Angelo was waiting. He stood at his workbench, arms crossed, his silver hair catching the fluorescent light like spun steel. Behind him, a mannequin stood shrouded in shadow, draped with something dark and sleek. My breath hitched.
“You’re on time,” he said, gesturing for me to step closer. “Good. Punctuality suggests you’re serious about this.”
I nodded, unable to speak. My eyes were locked on the form behind him.
D’Angelo noticed my focus and stepped aside with a faint smirk, revealing the suit fully. “Well, Replica, here it is. Your second skin.”
The suit was breathtaking. The base was a deep, matte black, the fabric absorbing light rather than reflecting it, creating the impression of a void. The material looked soft yet sturdy, the Kevlar weave nearly invisible except where the faintest texture hinted at its resilience. Silver accents ran through the design, their placement deliberate and sharp. They crisscrossed the suit in jagged, geometric patterns, like fractured lightning or shattered glass pieced back together. The lines converged at key points—along the forearms, the chest, and the legs—reinforcing the idea of strength drawn from brokenness.
The suit wasn’t just protective; it was symbolic. It mirrored me.
“Try it on,” D’Angelo said, his tone neutral but his piercing gaze alight with expectation. He handed me a folded bundle.
I hesitated. The suit felt impossibly light in my hands, the fabric cool and supple. I slipped behind a partition, shedding my old clothes with a strange sense of relief. My patched-together disguise fell to the floor, forgotten, as I pulled on the new armor.
It fit like a glove.
The interior of the suit was lined with a breathable mesh, cool against my skin. The material moved with me, each stretch and shift effortless. The Kevlar weave was thicker at the chest and thighs, offering protection without restricting movement. A flexible, black harness was integrated into the design, crisscrossing my torso and shoulders, allowing for attachments or tools.
When I stepped out, D’Angelo was already holding up a mirror.
“What do you think?” he asked, his voice softer now, almost reverent.
I stared at my reflection, momentarily stunned.
The suit transformed me. Gone was the patchwork scavenger of the past weeks. In her place stood someone powerful, someone purposeful. The silver accents caught the light, highlighting the angles of my form, making me appear both sleek and sharp, like a blade honed for battle. The hood, attached seamlessly to the suit’s neckline, framed my face when pulled up, adding an element of mystery.
“It’s…” I struggled for words, my voice catching. “It’s perfect.”
“Good,” D’Angelo said, his smirk returning. He stepped forward, tugging at the edges of the hood to adjust its fit. “The MetaSuppressor fabric is layered along the forearms and calves. It’s not invulnerable, but it’ll protect you from direct meta-energy attacks—at least briefly.”
I ran my hands over the material, marvelling at its texture. It felt alive, responding to the faintest pressure.
“The gloves,” he continued, handing me a pair, “are reinforced for grip and impact. Kevlar lining, same as the suit. The fingers are touch-sensitive, so you won’t lose dexterity.”
I slipped them on. The gloves fit snugly, their silver accents tracing the backs of my hands like veins.
“And the boots?” I asked, flexing my feet experimentally.
“Custom soles,” D’Angelo said with a flourish. “Non-slip, shock-absorbent, and silent. Perfect for someone who needs to move unseen.”
I turned to the mirror again, watching how the suit shifted with my movements. It felt like a part of me—natural, effortless.
I pulled the hood up, letting it fall softly over my head. The material hugged my face without constriction, leaving room for visibility and movement while casting shadows across my features. D’Angelo’s design went beyond mere practicality; it was as if he’d captured the essence of a phantom, someone who moved between worlds. The edges of the hood melded seamlessly into the suit, creating a silhouette that blurred my identity entirely.
“This,” D’Angelo said, holding up what looked like a band of the same matte black material, “is the final touch.”
He handed me the mask—a sleek half-mask that would cover my nose and mouth, leaving only my eyes visible. Thin, silver lines etched into its surface mirrored the jagged accents on the suit, drawing attention to the subtle design rather than my features. It wasn’t just a concealment tool; it was a statement.
I turned around, removing the scarf I wore all the while on my face, to replace it with the mask. The edges adhered lightly to my skin without adhesive. It felt weightless yet secure, as if it were an extension of the suit. My reflection now stared back at me with unrecognisable determination. The mask cast my eyes in shadow, making them sharper, more intense, almost predatory.
“You look like someone who doesn’t plan to be seen,” D’Angelo mused, stepping back to admire his work. “Or, if seen, someone no one will remember.”
I nodded, my voice steady beneath the mask. “That’s the idea.”
After looking at myself in the mirror one last time, I addressed the seamster. “Here’s the rest of the payment”
The transaction was swift. D’Angelo accepted the envelope of bills without comment, his fingers brushing the worn edges as he tucked it away into a lockbox beneath the workbench. For a moment, neither of us spoke, the only sound was the soft rustle of fabric and the distant hum of the city through the concrete walls.
“You’ve paid for the suit,” D’Angelo said finally, his voice cutting through the silence. “But it’ll need maintenance and repair. You can always come to my services for upgrades.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I replied, my voice muffled yet sharp through the mask. The words felt heavier, deliberate, as if the suit itself demanded a new tone of authority. This wasn’t just armour—it was an identity.
I adjusted the gloves, their touch-sensitive lining feeling like a second skin, and stepped back toward the stairwell. The workshop lights cast a faint glow across the space, catching on the silver accents of my suit. It wasn’t just a reflection of who I’d become—it was a declaration of who I would be.
“You’ll find the world looks at you differently now,” D’Angelo said as I reached the base of the staircase. “Be sure you’re ready for that.”
With a small nod, as both approval and a parting, I went up the stairs.
The city greeted me with its usual cacophony—distant sirens, faint laughter from a nearby alley, and the ever-present hum of life teetering on chaos. My new suit hugged my frame like a second skin, and for the first time in weeks, I felt prepared—armoured not just against the dangers outside but the doubts festering within.
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I tugged the hood lower, the mask comfortably in place as I stepped into the night. The streets were quiet, unusually so for this part of town. The faint glow of neon signs reflected off puddles scattered along the cracked pavement. My boots made no sound as I moved, the custom soles swallowing every step like whispers lost to the air.
The streets of the city unfolded like a labyrinth of shadows and muted lights, the air thick with the smell of rain-soaked concrete. My steps carried me forward without hesitation, each stride feeling more deliberate in this new skin. The suit wasn’t just clothing—it was an identity, a statement of intent. As I moved through the labyrinthine streets, my senses heightened. Every flicker of movement caught my attention, every distant sound prickled at the edge of my awareness.
It was quiet tonight. Too quiet.
I was heading toward the docks, a sprawling maze of warehouses and container yards that had become infamous as the city’s breeding ground for illicit dealings. Something about the silence felt off, like the city was holding its breath. It wasn’t unusual for trouble to find me in places like this; after all, trouble rarely cared where it bled.
As I rounded a corner, I caught sight of a large building on the edge of the industrial zone, its steel siding glinting faintly under the pale glow of a nearby streetlamp. The shadows around it seemed to shift unnaturally, as if something was moving within them.
I slowed my steps, keeping to the shadows as I approached. The warehouse loomed ahead, its massive doors slightly ajar. From within came the faint hum of machinery and the low murmur of voices.
Then I saw him.
A figure stood near a stack of crates, his back to me. He was tall, lean, and draped in a deep midnight-blue bodysuit speckled with silver motifs, unrecognisable from the distance. His movements were deliberate, each motion flowing with a precision that was almost hypnotic, making his blond hair catch the light in some strange dance.
I crouched behind a rusting steel drum, my breath slow and steady. The figure moved between the crates, pausing occasionally to examine something unseen.
And then I heard it.
“You’re late,” the man said, his voice low but carrying a sharp edge of command.
I froze. His words weren’t meant for me—or were they?
Before I could react, the figure turned sharply, his face illuminated by the faint light spilling in through a broken window. His features, albeit hidden behind what looked like a venetian mask, were sharp, angular, and his eyes were a captivating emerald green. His expression was unreadable, but there was a dangerous calm in his posture.
“You must be the new hire,” he said, his gaze locking onto me.
Damn.
I rose slowly from my crouch, my mind racing. He thought I was someone else—a convenient misunderstanding I could either exploit or unravel at my peril. My hand drifted to my side, fingers brushing the reinforced fabric of my suit.
“I prefer to stay out of sight,” I said, my voice muffled yet steady behind the mask.
The man tilted his head slightly, his emerald-green eyes narrowing as he studied me. A faint smirk played across his lips, visible even behind the ornate Venetian-style mask. “Out of sight, huh? I can respect that. Makes my job easier.” He gestured lazily toward the crates. “I trust you’ve been briefed, then?”
My mind raced as I took a cautious step closer, keeping my movements slow and deliberate. He was clearly dangerous, and the air around him carried an unspoken authority. Whoever he was, he had no idea I wasn’t supposed to be here.
“More or less,” I said, keeping my tone neutral. The suit felt snug, reassuring, like a second skin. I resisted the urge to pull the hood lower over my face. “You mind filling me in on the finer points?”
He chuckled softly, the sound carrying a dangerous edge. “Classic. They send you in blind and expect me to babysit. Figures.” He turned back to the crates, gesturing for me to follow. “Let’s keep it simple. We’re here to collect, not to leave a mess. I’ve already disabled the security, but we’ll need to move quickly before reinforcements arrive.”
I stepped closer, feigning confidence as my gaze darted around the warehouse. The faint hum of machinery mingled with the distant creak of shifting metal, and the dim light cast long shadows that danced eerily across the walls. Crates of varying sizes were stacked high, their contents obscured but labeled with cryptic markings. Whatever this was, it wasn’t just a petty theft.
I followed him cautiously, keeping my steps light and my mind sharp. The man’s confidence was palpable, each movement precise and calculated. Whoever this man was, he wasn’t just some petty thief. The Venetian mask, the way he carried himself—it screamed experience. Power.
Now that I was closer to him, I could properly see the motifs on his costume. Clocks and hourglasses. Not clever to show your power is related to time with your costume, I thought.
The figure moved with the ease of someone who had done this many times before, his posture radiating confidence. My own steps were lighter, quieter, as I tried to assess the situation without giving away my inexperience in this particular... role.
"Not bad," the man muttered, his gaze flicking toward me briefly. "You’re quieter than most. I can work with that."
I didn’t respond. My mind was racing, trying to piece together who he was and what he wanted here. The motifs on his costume—clocks, hourglasses—practically screamed time manipulation, but his calm demeanor hinted at someone used to holding the upper hand. If he really thought I was hired help, it meant I had an advantage, but only if I played my cards carefully.
We reached a cluster of crates marked with strange symbols and alphanumeric codes. He gestured to one of them, crouching to inspect a digital lock affixed to the side. "Help me with this," he said, his tone brisk.
I knelt beside him, feigning confidence. The lock was a complicated mess of wires and circuits, the kind of thing I had no idea how to bypass. My hesitation didn’t go unnoticed.
"New to fieldwork?" he asked, his voice tinged with amusement.
"Something like that," I replied, keeping my tone even.
He chuckled softly. "Relax. It’s just a lock. I’ve already frozen the security system. This is the easy part."
His fingers moved with practiced precision, disconnecting wires and manipulating the mechanism with ease. As I watched, I couldn’t help but marvel at his composure. Whoever he was, he wasn’t just skilled—he was methodical, almost surgical in his approach.
“Almost done,” he muttered, his green eyes glinting behind the mask as the digital lock emitted a faint click. The crate’s lid shifted slightly, and he lifted it with a smooth motion, revealing its contents: several metallic cylinders glowing faintly with a soft, iridescent light. I had no idea what they were, but the intensity in his gaze suggested they were valuable—and dangerous.
“What are those?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral. It wouldn’t hurt to feign ignorance; after all, I needed to play along until I understood more about him and this heist.
He paused, studying me for a moment as if deciding how much to reveal. “MetaPol tech,” he said at last, his voice low. “Experimental. Useful. And if we don’t move fast, they’ll have reinforcements here in less than ten minutes.”
I frowned, the pieces clicking into place. He wasn’t just stealing random valuables—he was taking something highly classified. Whatever was inside those cylinders wasn’t meant to be in anyone’s hands, let alone someone like him. But why? Was he working for someone else, or was this a personal mission?
Before I could question him further, he handed me one of the glowing cylinders. “Here. Make yourself useful.”
The cylinder was surprisingly light, its surface cool to the touch. Holding it made me uneasy, though I couldn’t pinpoint why. The soft glow pulsated faintly, almost like a heartbeat. I glanced at him, searching for clues in his expression, but his focus was already on the next crate.
“I don’t know what they told you about me,” he said as he worked on the second lock, “but keep up, and you might survive this job.”
“Appreciate the advice,” I said dryly, adjusting the cylinder in my grip.
The second crate opened with another click, revealing more cylinders, along with several sleek devices that looked like advanced scanners. He motioned for me to take another, and I hesitated before stepping forward, carefully picking up one of the scanners.
“What’s the plan?” I asked, keeping my voice steady.
He straightened, his gaze sweeping the dimly lit warehouse. “Simple. We load up, we leave, and we disappear before anyone notices.”
“And if someone does notice?” I pressed, my instincts warning me that things wouldn’t stay quiet for long.
He smiled faintly, a sharp, predatory expression. “Then we deal with it. Quickly.”
“Right…” I whispered, a slight shudder coursing through my whole body at his expression.
As we moved to the next cluster of crates, the faint hum of the warehouse grew louder. A flicker of movement at the edge of my vision made me freeze. My eyes darted toward the shadows near the entrance. For a moment, I thought I saw a figure—a flash of movement too deliberate to be a trick of the light.
“…Stay alert,” the man said sharply, his tone cutting through the quiet tension like a blade. He didn’t look up from the lock he was working on, but his posture shifted subtly, muscles coiled and ready.
My grip on the cylinder tightened. The shadows near the entrance seemed to ripple unnaturally, as though they were alive, shifting with purpose. I glanced at the man beside me, his focus unwavering as he continued his work. He hadn’t seen it—or maybe he had and wasn’t showing it. Either way, the unease in my chest twisted tighter.
A faint clink echoed through the space, followed by the soft hum of machinery coming to life. I turned toward the sound, my heartbeat quickening. The warehouse, silent and still moments before, now felt like it was holding its breath.
“Did you hear that?” I asked, my voice low but tense.
He nodded once, standing to his full height and sliding the cylinder he’d just retrieved into a satchel slung over his shoulder. “They’re here,” he muttered, his emerald eyes glinting behind the mask. “Reinforcements, probably MetaPol.”
I stepped back, instinctively keeping to the shadows, my new suit muffling every movement. The cylinder in my hand pulsed faintly, its glow dimming as if it, too, sensed the approaching danger. I swallowed hard, my mind racing. Whoever this man was, he was too calm, too confident. He’d expected this.
The faint shuffle of boots against concrete reached us, growing louder with each passing second. My eyes darted to the entrance, where a group of figures emerged from the gloom. They were clad in dark tactical gear, their visors glinting with faint blue light—MetaPol agents, no doubt.
“Well,” the man beside me said, his tone casual, almost amused. “This just got interesting.”
I shot him a glare, but he ignored it, already moving. He grabbed another cylinder from the open crate, tucking it away with practiced ease. “You wanted to stay out of sight, right? Time to see how good you really are.”
The agents fanned out, their movements precise and methodical as they scanned the area. One of them paused, their helmeted head tilting slightly as if listening for something. My breath hitched, and I pressed myself deeper into the shadows, the silver accents on my suit blending with the warehouse’s fragmented light.
The man’s voice was low, barely audible. “When I give the signal, take the back exit. Don’t stop. I’ll handle them.”
I turned to him, my jaw tightening. “Handle them? There’s no way you can—”
His smirk stopped me cold. “Time’s on my side,” he said cryptically, flexing his fingers.
Before I could respond, he stepped out from the crates, his movements deliberate. “Looking for someone?” he called, his voice echoing through the cavernous space.
The agents snapped to attention, their weapons rising as one, as the man threw one of the cylinders in the air.
And white engulfed my vision.