The world returned in fragments.
Light bled through the haze first, cutting through my disorientation like shards of glass. My head throbbed as sound rushed in next—a chaotic mess of distant shouts, the echo of boots pounding against concrete, and the strained hiss of my own breath. Everything felt… wrong. Time itself seemed fractured, leaving my limbs sluggish and my thoughts disjointed.
What had just happened?
My fingers twitched against the cold floor, the subtle texture of my suit grounding me. I forced my eyes to focus, my vision sharpening as the scene before me snapped into clarity. The warehouse was chaos. The masked man stood a dozen meters ahead, his silhouette sharp against the dim light filtering through the windows. Between him and the approaching MetaPol agents, the air shimmered faintly with tension, like a thread pulled too taut.
And the agents…
Something was off about them. Their stances were rigid, and their weapons—sleek, black carbines—were held low, as though they didn’t trust their grip. One of them, a woman near the front, raised her hand experimentally. Her face was hidden behind her visor, but the confusion in her movements was clear.
“It’s not working,” she said, her voice sharp with disbelief.
“Try again!” barked the leader, his tone brittle with frustration.
The woman clenched her fist, her whole body tensing as if preparing to unleash some unseen force. Nothing happened.
“Something’s wrong,” another agent muttered. He glanced toward the cylinders My ally had been handling moments before. “Is it those things? Are they—”
“Focus,” the leader snapped. “Just neutralize them!”
Neutralize us. That snapped me out of my haze. My muscles screamed as I pushed myself to my feet, catching the tail end of The man’s smirk as he glanced back at me.
“You’re awake,” he said smoothly, his tone almost amused. “I wasn’t sure you’d come out of it before the end.”
“Before the end of what?” My voice felt heavy in my throat, as if I hadn’t spoken in hours.
His smirk widened, a razor-sharp thing that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ll see. Just try to keep up.”
And then he moved.
He was a blur, his midnight-blue suit slicing through the dim light as he darted toward the agents. One of them—the woman who had spoken earlier—reacted too late, her carbine swinging up just as he closed the gap. He moved with a predator’s precision, his motions fluid and deliberate.
In an instant, he was behind her. With a sharp twist, he drove his elbow into the back of her head, sending her sprawling to the ground.
“Damn it, he’s too fast!” one of the agents shouted, their voices edged with panic.
I didn’t need to be told. My “employer” wasn’t just fast—he was methodical. Every movement was calculated, every strike designed to incapacitate without wasting an ounce of energy.
I forced my body into motion, my limbs still sluggish from whatever had happened to me. The MetaPol agents were moving—scattering, regrouping, trying to adjust their tactics—but something about their movements seemed off. They weren’t reacting as quickly as they should. Their coordination was fractured, their precision dulled.
And then I saw it. One of the agents was down—unmoving, crumpled on the floor near the crates. When had that happened? The last thing I remembered was the flash. The light that had engulfed the room had barely lasted a second, or so I thought. But now everything was different. The agents had shifted from their positions, and the scene had rearranged itself like a chessboard between moves.
Only I hadn’t seen the play.
The man was already on the next agent, weaving past their poorly aimed shots with an ease that made my breath catch. My instincts screamed at me to act, to move, but my limbs felt weighted, my steps dragging as if I were pulling myself through water.
“Focus,” I hissed under my breath, shaking my head to clear the fog. The tether was still linking me to the man, from his push before the flashbang, it helped me centre myself.
Another agent went down with a grunt, the masked man’s fist slamming into their jaw with brutal efficiency. He moved like a clockwork predator, his strikes landing with perfect timing, each motion fluid and controlled. There was no wasted effort, no hesitation.
I pushed forward, my senses sharpening as the remnants of my disorientation began to fade. One of the agents turned toward me, their carbine rising as they barked an order into their comms.
“Stop!” the leader shouted, their voice edged with desperation. “Focus fire on Te—”
They didn’t finish. The masked man was on them before the words could fully leave their mouth, his hand gripping the barrel of their weapon and wrenching it aside. The carbine clattered to the floor as he delivered a swift kick to their knee, sending them toppling backward with a strangled cry.
The room seemed to tilt as my instincts finally kicked in. I closed the gap between myself and the nearest crate, ducking low to avoid drawing attention. My muscles felt stiff, the effects of whatever had happened during the flash lingering like a bad memory. But the scene before me demanded focus—the agents were scrambling, the cylinders pulsing faintly in their containers like some alien heartbeat.
I caught sight of the downed agent again, lying in a crumpled heap. Their carbine was splayed a few feet away, and their visor was cracked, revealing a sliver of a pale, motionless face. How had they fallen? Time hadn’t made sense since the flash, but now it seemed downright slippery. I’d lost something—seconds, maybe minutes.
I was close to them now, close enough to tether myself to them fast and get into the fight just after that. And I did just that. Running towards the agent, I slid on the ground to touch him. Thankfully, my costume was made for such manoeuvres, gliding on the concrete floor with ease.
The world sharpened as I moved, the grind of my boots on the cold floor grounding me. The tether I formed with the downed agent thrummed to life, a faint, invisible thread of connection. My abilities hadn’t failed me, though the cylinders had taken their toll on others. That strange relief—tempered by the pang of guilt—spurred me forward. The injuries the agent bore were heavy, I could use them to incapacitate someone else. The agents, or even the venetian-masked man if need be.
I focused on the tether, inspecting the full extent of the agent’s injuries—a cracked rib, a sprained wrist, and a head wound that explained their stillness. I considered my options. If I was going to act, it needed to be precise. Each second was a gamble.
I shifted my weight, rolling into the shadow of a nearby crate. From my new vantage, I saw the masked man disable another agent, sweeping their legs with a deft kick and slamming them to the ground with brutal efficiency. A sickening crunch echoed, and I winced involuntarily. That was likely their collarbone.
I had to act. Watching him dismantle the agents with surgical precision left me torn between admiration and unease. He was effective, almost too effective, and I wasn’t sure where that left me. An ally? A pawn? Or just another piece on his board, to be discarded once my usefulness ran out?
Another agent turned, spotting me crouched in the shadows. Their carbine swung up, but their movements were sluggish, like wading through syrup. They hesitated, as if some unseen force was holding them back.
“Freeze!” they barked, their voice shaky but commanding.
I didn’t freeze. I acted. I lunged at him in one motion, gripping his wrist hard. And I pulled on the newly formed tether in time with the one on the downed agent. The sudden pain that came and went with the transfer stunned me slightly. But the agent was even more affected than I. He cried out in pain before his body slumping onto the ground like a ragdoll.
“That’s a useful set of wounds…” I whispered under my breath at the outcome of my swapping. I felt a knot of incertitudes well up in my stomach. If I didn’t swap fast enough would I have ended up in this exact state?
The agent crumpled to the ground, their cry of pain cutting off abruptly as they hit the cold floor. My hands trembled slightly, the residual sting of the transfer lingering in my knuckles. I wasn’t sure if it was guilt or adrenaline that made me clench them tighter.
“You’re holding your own,” the man called out, his voice carrying easily over the chaos. “Good. Don’t slow me down.”
The sharpness of his tone pulled my attention back to him. He was already moving toward the remaining agents, his movements a blur of calculated efficiency. I didn’t have time to dwell on what I’d done—or what it meant. The fight wasn’t over.
The last two agents regrouped near the center of the room, their weapons up and their stances desperate. One of them, a stocky man with a fractured visor, barked orders into his comm, his voice shaking.
“Backup en route—ETA six minutes! Hold the line!”
“Six minutes,” the man echoed, his voice dripping with mockery. “That’s all you’ve got? I’d hate to see what happens when they’re late.”
He surged forward, his movements fluid and predatory. The remaining agents split their attention between him and me, their coordination shaky at best. I forced myself to my feet, the tether still humming faintly within me, a reminder of the fragility I’d taken from one and handed to another. The weight of my actions pressed on me, but I shoved it aside. Guilt could wait. Survival couldn’t.
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The man closed the gap to the first agent with terrifying speed. His midnight-blue suit seemed to shimmer, absorbing the dim warehouse light as he ducked under a clumsy swing of the agent’s carbine. With a sharp twist, he grabbed the weapon’s barrel and yanked it free, the agent stumbling forward into his waiting knee. The blow landed with a sickening crack, and the agent collapsed in a heap.
One left.
The final agent turned toward me, their carbine trained squarely on my chest. My heart slammed against my ribs as I assessed my options.
They were cornered now, caught between their desperation and my resolve. Their visor obscured their expression, but their stance betrayed them—tense, trembling, barely holding it together. My fingers flexed, the tether thrumming faintly in the back of my mind.
One move. One chance.
The agent barked, "Stay back!" The barrel of their carbine wavered, though their grip on it was firm. My eyes darted to the fallen agent nearest them.
“I don’t think you want to shoot,” I said evenly, my voice low but carrying through the warehouse. Each word felt deliberate, a thin thread spun between us, one I was ready to sever at any moment.
Their hesitation was palpable, and I didn’t waste it. I charged him, my arm raised in front of my face and my body low.
The agent’s carbine jerked upward as I surged forward, a loud crack splitting the air as they fired instinctively. The shot whizzed past my shoulder, the heat of it brushing against my suit’s reinforced material. I closed the gap before they could fire again, my hand lashing out to grab the barrel.
With a sharp twist, I wrenched it from their grasp. They staggered, their balance faltering as I drove my elbow into their chest. The impact sent them sprawling to the floor, their visor cracking against the cold concrete.
I didn’t stop. The tether connecting me to the downed agent pulsed, its energy coiling through me like an electric current. I reached down, fingers brushing their shoulder as I pulled on the invisible thread.
Pain shot through my arm, sharp and searing, as the tether transferred the injuries from the fallen agent to this one. They gasped, their body convulsing as the sudden weight of fractures and bruises overtook them. The tether snapped back, leaving the new agent crumpled and unconscious at my feet.
I stepped back, my breathing ragged, and glanced at the masked man.
He was already standing over the last agent, who clutched their fractured ribs and glared up at him. His movements were calm, methodical, as he crouched to meet their gaze.
“Tell them,” he said, his voice smooth but cold. “When the reinforcements arrive, let them know this wasn’t a warning. It was an invitation.”
The agent didn’t respond, their jaw clenched in defiance, but their trembling hands betrayed them. The man straightened, casting a glance in my direction.
“Time to go,” he said simply, turning toward the shadows at the far end of the warehouse.
The faint hum of the glowing cylinders reached my ears, a haunting reminder of the tech we had stolen. My gaze flickered to the fallen agents scattered across the room, their weapons lying useless at their sides. Guilt and relief twisted in my chest, a nauseating cocktail I didn’t have time to unpack.
“Move,” the man urged, his tone sharper now. “Unless you want to be here when the rest of MetaPol shows up.”
I followed him, my boots silent against the concrete as we slipped into the darkness beyond the main floor. The cold night air greeted us as we emerged from a side exit, the alleyway bathed in the faint glow of distant streetlights.
My pulse pounded in my ears, and I turned to him, the questions tumbling out before I could stop them.
“What was that?” I demanded, my voice harsh in the quiet. “What happened during the flash? Why were they—”
“Helpless?” he finished, his smirk cutting through the shadows. “That’s the beauty of disruption. Those cylinders? They’re experimental. MetaPol’s own design, meant to suppress abilities within a certain range.”
“And yet, we were fine,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “Why?”
His gaze lingered on me, calculating. “Because I planned for it.”
“That’s not an answer,” I snapped, stepping closer. “What did you do?”
His smirk faded, replaced by a measured calm. “I stopped you.”
“What?”
“Your time,” he clarified, his voice steady. “You were frozen for six minutes. While you were… let’s say, unaffected, the agents were scrambling, unable to rely on their powers. It gave me the time I needed to neutralize them and ensure the cylinders did their job.”
I stared at him, the implications of his words sinking in. “You froze my time? Without telling me?”
He shrugged, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “You wouldn’t have agreed to it if I had. And besides, it worked, didn’t it? You’re here. They’re not.”
Rage bubbled beneath my skin, hot and volatile. “You played me. I could have—”
“—been captured?” he interrupted, his voice sharper now. “Or worse? You were a liability in that moment. I eliminated the risk.”
The calm authority in his tone grated against me, but I couldn’t deny the truth of his words. Still, the idea of being manipulated so easily left a bitter taste in my mouth.
“What’s your name?” I asked, my voice low.
He tilted his head, studying me for a moment before answering. “Tempus.”
Of course. The motifs on his suit, his ability to manipulate time—it all fit.
“Is that why you took the job?” I asked. “Because you could use those cylinders to shut down their tech?”
Tempus smirked again, but there was no humor in it. “Let’s just say I enjoy leveling the playing field. MetaPol thinks they control everything—time, power, outcomes. I like reminding them they’re wrong.”
The conviction in his voice sent a shiver through me, though I wasn’t sure if it was admiration or unease. And a dark idea rose into my mind.
I could clearly see the tether still linking us, and the one from the 3 agents I touched. The leftmost one was clearly the first man, however I wasn’t sure which one was the actually injured one… But if I took the gamble and used the tether to incapacitate Tempus, I could take the tech and leave him behind. My heartbeat quickened at the thought, the weight of the glowing cylinders still lingering in my hands. It would be a gamble—but hadn’t everything been a gamble since the moment I stepped into that warehouse?
Tempus was dangerous, of that I had no doubt. But his calm manipulation of me during the fight, his willingness to freeze me in time without my consent, burned like a brand. It wasn’t just about control—it was about trust. And trust was a luxury I couldn’t afford anymore.
He turned away from me, the satchel slung over his shoulder and his posture relaxed as though the fight had been nothing more than a warm-up. He walked a few steps ahead, his voice cutting through the night air.
“Come on,” he said, not bothering to glance back. “The reinforcements will be here soon, and I don’t intend to stick around for round two.”
I didn’t respond immediately, my mind racing. If I struck now, I’d have the element of surprise. But he wasn’t a fool—he’d sense hesitation. I needed to play this perfectly.
I followed him, matching his pace as the alleyway stretched out before us. The city beyond was alive with its usual chaos: the distant wail of sirens, the hum of neon signs, and the faint roar of traffic. My senses felt sharper, heightened by the adrenaline still coursing through me. Every shadow seemed to ripple with possibilities, every sound a potential warning.
“Tempus,” I said finally, my voice steady despite the turmoil in my chest. “What’s your plan for these cylinders?”
He chuckled softly, the sound low and edged with amusement. “Curious, are we? Let’s just say they’ll find their way into hands more capable than MetaPol’s.”
“And what happens if those hands decide to use them against people like us?” I pressed, keeping my tone casual but laced with enough edge to seem genuinely concerned. “MetaPol might be corrupt, but at least they have rules. You give these to someone else, and who’s to say they won’t turn them into weapons?”
Tempus stopped abruptly, turning to face me. His emerald-green eyes gleamed beneath the Venetian mask, their intensity cutting through the darkness. For a moment, I thought I’d pushed too far.
“You think too small, little girl,” he said, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of impatience and… contempt? “This isn’t about rules or weapons. This is about power—about ensuring it doesn’t stay concentrated in the hands of those who’ve abused it for decades.”
I kept my expression neutral, but his words struck a nerve. Power. Control. They were the same promises whispered by the tether, the same dangerous allure I’d felt every time I transferred pain or defied death. Tempus spoke with conviction, but his vision of a "level playing field" felt dangerously close to chaos. I couldn’t let him—or anyone—decide who deserved to wield that kind of influence.
The tether thrummed faintly between us, a reminder of what I could do. My fingers curled into fists, the faint sting of my earlier transfers grounding me. I weighed my options, each one heavier than the last.
Tempus was still watching me, his eyes gleaming with that infuriating mix of confidence and condescension. "Are you coming, or do I need to leave you behind?"
I forced a small, sharp smile. "I'm coming. But don’t think I’m not paying attention to your moves."
He tilted his head, his smirk deepening. "Good. Stay sharp, girl. It’s the only way to survive." He then turned his back to me, leading the way.
That was the opening I needed. I took a breath, steadying myself. My fingers twitched slightly before I pulled on both his tether and one of the two agents among which I suspected was the one that was injured. And bingo!
Tempus’ stride faltered as he exhaled through gritted teeth.
…What the hell—" Tempus snarled, spinning toward me, but his voice cut off as he dropped to one knee, clutching his side. I felt the tether's vibration ripple back at me, confirming the transfer's success. His previously fluid movements now seemed heavy and strained, his balance faltering.
I couldn’t waste the opportunity. Every muscle in my body screamed at me to act before he recovered. My fingers closed around the satchel he’d been carrying, and I yanked it from his shoulder. His eyes snapped up to meet mine, a mixture of shock and dawning fury flashing in their green depths.
“You—” he started, his tone a venomous growl, but I didn’t stick around to hear the rest.
I bolted. The cylinders rattled faintly in the bag as I sprinted down the alley, my boots pounding against the cracked asphalt. My chest burned, adrenaline coursing through me as I pushed my legs faster than they had ever gone before. Behind me, Tempus’s voice rang out, sharp and cutting despite the obvious pain.
“You don’t understand what you’re doing, girl!” he shouted. “You think you’re in control, but you’re out of your depth!”
I didn’t answer. What could I say? That I didn’t trust him? That I wasn’t about to let another manipulator decide my fate? The glow of streetlights flickered above me as I wove through the maze of alleys, Tempus’s threats fading with every step.
My mind raced as fast as my legs. The satchel was heavier than I’d expected, the weight of the technology inside a tangible reminder of the power it represented. Whatever Tempus had planned, it was too dangerous to leave in his hands—or MetaPol’s. But now it was mine.
What would I even do with it? My thoughts spiraled as I turned a corner, narrowly avoiding a stack of rusted barrels. If I could find someone trustworthy—if such a person even existed—I could figure out a way to keep it safe. To keep it out of hands like Tempus’s.
But a dark voice in the back of my mind whispered a different possibility. This technology could be a game-changer. I could keep it for myself. Study it. Learn to use it. If it could suppress the powers of others, I could gain an edge over anyone—MetaPol, vigilantes, villains, rogues, even Tempus.
The thought made my stomach churn, but I couldn’t ignore the flicker of temptation. Power meant survival, and survival was all I had left.
I skidded to a stop at the edge of a side street, ducking into the shadows as a pair of MetaPol drones buzzed overhead. Their glowing red sensors scanned the area, the hum of their engines cutting through the stillness. I pressed myself against the cold brick wall, clutching the satchel tightly to my chest.
The drones passed without noticing me, their lights disappearing into the smog-choked distance. I exhaled shakily, the reality of what I’d just done crashing over me.
Tempus wasn’t going to let this go. And neither would MetaPol.
I was on my own now, with only the faint hum of the cylinders and the weight of stolen power to guide me.
Yet this smile didn’t leave me.