The bootprints were easy to follow, but they tapered off quickly, only the faintest smear of blood occasionally appearing after several yards at a time. Consulting the map, he saw that the kitchens were ahead, and he presumed that the little food 23 had eaten in the clinic was hardly enough. “He couldn’t have left the clinic more than an hour or so, judging by the blood coagulation. Quick and dirty calculation, though, so can’t be sure yet. He’ll be starved for calories still.” Killian moved forward through the shadowed corridors, his body tense, and felt as if he were back in the forests of his youth, stalking prey. His mother used to call the feeling ‘balancing on a knife edge’. There was that ever present anxiety that you’ll spook the prey, or in certain cases, become prey. Even a placid herbivore could turn on you when wounded.

For a time, they lapsed into silence. Killian to feel Lucina clinging near him, her body just a step or so behind, and if he would stop quickly, she’d slam right into him. That balancing, that tension of the hunt, began to slowly consume his senses, his thoughts. Slowly, the outside world seemed to narrow, focus, and he became almost meditative. The environ shrank to the immediate, the soft sound of shoes on floor, Lucina’s shuddering breathing, the scent of potted plants and metal, the wild shadows cast by torch-lamp dancing like imps. He could feel the thudding of his heart, steady, forceful, and the tightness of his muscles, the hand he kept on his pistol, the heavy weight of the folded railgun on his back. Long minutes stretched in this liminal space, this odd little universe of fear, exhilaration, and the little keening buzz of silence in the deep inner ear, a song to no one and for no one.

Lucina suddenly drew a sharp breath behind him, and Killian’s head snapped back towards her. She was staring down the hallway and slightly to the left, her eyes focused as if beyond the wall. There, the maelstrom of fear, anxiety, vicious ego, and maligned will pulsed and shuddered like a whirlwind. She gave a slow nod of her head to Killian’s questioning look. It was 23.

Killian motioned for her to get behind him. With sharp, quick movements, he slung the block-like railgun off his back. Holding it awkwardly in his hand, he subvocalized a command as well as a password, and the block began to unfold swiftly, slithering, clicking metal forming itself into the shape of a rifle from the parts packed away in a convenient ‘carry mode’. It took only seconds before he was holding an immensely long weapon in his hand.

The railgun gleamed in the chill light glimmering off the walls and floor. Lucina stared at the lethal, massive weapon. Nearly 6 feet long even with a bullpup design, it was equipped with electromagnetic railing and a small magazine of sabots wrapped in conductive armature shells. A spin chamber took the place of the firing chamber of a traditional gunpowder gun, which spun the armature up to Mach 3 in milliseconds, before pushing it into the rail-barrel to be further pushed to Mach 10. As the armature ejected from the barrel, it split and shed, allowing the depleted uranium sabot encased within to scream forward into a target at 11,000 fps.

The small nuclear battery powering the thing was the true marvel, however, along with the recoil absorption system, allowing the delivery of obscene amounts of energy in the 7 megajoule range, the equivalent of an air to surface missile. The impact of even a small slug the size of a thumb-tack could obliterate a human body from a mile’s distance, and whatever was unlucky enough to be behind the body as well. They moved far too fast for most Kinos to affect them, the shockwave of the discharge often stunning those in the immediate vicinity. A wicked weapon for wicked business.

They rounded the corner to the kitchens, and Killian paused, listening. Every bit of him was wound tight and hard, with movements of a man born to strife and death and fighting. Lucina watched him, this Homo Sapiens Sapiens, railgun stock pressed to his shoulder, mouth set in a grim line. She feared for him. She truly did not want him to die. Touching him gently on the back, she tried to convey that he should be careful.

Stepping around the corner silently, he swept the room and saw Subject 23 rummaging with manic energy within a walk-in fridge, stuffing a pack with foodstuffs. It was in the back of a small cafeteria, equipped with sets of tables and chairs. Potted plants were placed randomly about, and a massive picture window opened out to the dark vista of the night-cloaked mountains beyond. Open cans of preserved foods were strewn about, empty. The Kino had been feasting. “Hands up!” shouted Killian, gun trained on the Child, breathing heavily as adrenaline slammed into his system.

The murderer froze, lifting his hands up into the air, a packet of cheese dropping from his fingers. Killian kept his gun trained just to the left of the man’s back. Never aim at something unless you're absolutely sure you want it to die. “Turn slowly!” he barked.

Subject 23 did as he was told. Lucina nearly shuddered in fright at the sight of him. Skinny, tall and bald, 23 was a sight to behold. He was covered in blood. Old, crusty, flaking blood. Arriques’ blood, presumably, possibly the physician’s. His sleeves were red-brown up to the elbow, and his body was spattered with massive, dark stains. He had tried to wipe his face, but had had no time to wash, so it looked as if he’d smeared his face in gore, blood dragged across his cheeks like war-paint. His eyes were wide and manic, flickering around like a cornered animal, and his terrified look landed on Lucina. She locked eyes with him, instantly attempting to calm him. Hey, it’s okay. Peace. Peace. Peace. She flooded his mind with images of childhood and play, of warm days in the atrium, memories they shared growing up in the Commons. She could feel him slowly responding, some of the tension draining from his shoulders.

“23, you gotta come with me,” said Killian gently. He'd attempt de-escalation, his gun raised, but his voice gentle and imploring, barrel still pointed slightly down and away for the moment. “Gotta take you in.”

“Where?” snapped 23, his voice sharp and calm, despite a look of shock and biting anxiety. His eyes, however, never broke from Lucina’s gaze. “Back to the rank and file of the Children? Back to the dark corridors beneath the ground? Back to the Stripping of my mind?” His raised hands clenched into fists. “Possibly to execution? Or maybe I’m too useful now, eh?” Deep rage was surfacing, cresting like a wave, along with something a bit more foreign. It was egoistic pride, the frustration of being told ‘no’, the arrogance of a man with power being denied something. It slammed into Lucina, staggering her connection, but she pushed back against it with joy, with empathy, with peace. The harsh emotions abated and he calmed again, but just barely.

“Stripping?” Killian stepped closer, gun barrel still pointing down slightly. “We just want to understand what happened, is all. Just tell me what happened. What's your side a'things?”

“You don’t know?” His gaze tore from Lucina’s, and she gasped as the link was violently severed. The deep rage arose almost immediately. She could feel it pulsate off of him like heat. 23’s hands were still in the air, but after a moment’s hesitation, dropped them to his side. His face was contorted harshly, indignation and fury, fury, fury. “Really? Stripping? The Family didn’t bother explaining what their patented process is for controlling a Kino?” He took a step forward.

“Stop! Keep those hands up!” Killian re-gripped the gun, bringing the barrel up finally, eschewing the small scope, useless as it was in close quarters. He centered the iron sights on the enraged Child’s center mass.

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23 did stop, legs planted wide, head lowered, eyes glowering from behind thick black eyebrows. “Prefrontal cortex and amygdala scarring, tissue excision, and nanite-mediated cell destruction. You think Kinos get all logical and cold naturally? Soon as they realize they’ve got a Big Brother on their hands, they dope them up with antipsychotics, make them pliant, prepare their minds, and then cut their very souls out of them.”

Killian could hear 23’s teeth grinding from where he stood, his ragged breathing. “Easy, man, easy.”

“I knew something was wrong when Arriques took me down the wrong hallway. Break in routine. Break in the norm. They figured out I might Shatter, and soon. Wanted to nip me in the bud. Wanted to take away...everything.” For a moment, his face softened, and his gaze fell on Lucina again. She immediately made a connection, but he shoved her aside mentally, almost like a rag-doll. Empathy could do a lot, but sometimes it simply wasn’t enough in the face of such primal emotion. And, she realized soberly, he was too accustomed to her probing. Ice flared down her spine.

“So you killed a man in cold blood. Two, actually. That’s your brilliant solution, huh?” Killian glanced at Lucina as well, but she seemed pale and distracted.

“Insects.” The response had the edge of laughter to it, arrogance. “I do not feel bad crushing an ant beneath my boot. I am a god, and you are all ants. And a god has no morality but his own.”

Killian didn’t respond, frowning.

A sudden, horrible smile split 23’s face, his eyes locked onto Killian’s. “Lucina.” It was the first time the Big Brother had addressed her. “It’s good to see you. I see you managed to get in on the hunt. You were always clever.” He stretched out a hand to her. “You’ve found me. Now, let’s go. We have work to do.”

Beside her, she could sense the Captain stiffen. Her own breathing caught in her throat. “Jonquil,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “I…I didn’t think this was the way…” Her heart was thudding hard within her chest, her hands shaking. “We...this wasn’t part of…” She looked up at Killian for a moment, but he was watching 23. “The murder, the evacuation. This is too much. I’m--” Her voice began to stutter feebly, feeling utterly powerless.

Jonquil’s eyes widened, and for the briefest moment, he felt a lack of certainty, one that had been infecting him since he’d Shattered. His mind tried to diverge, moving towards remorse and pitilessness, all at once. Was he wrong? Had he done something irreparable? Had those men deserved death? He drew in a sharp breath, beginning to sweat. Lucina’s eyes were wide, fearful, terrified of him. That was unexpected. Was he actually broken? In the wrong? Wild eyes fell on Killian, then, and his certainty blossomed in him again. The human sat there, his toy gun trained on him, Lucina by his side, close to the security captain’s side. She was his, though, all his, his own possession. He was the better creature, the more holy and enlightened, and this worm dared to take what was his very own. Wrath gurgled inside his chest like a cesspool, jealousy crackling like lightning. He needed her, more than he needed his own heart. The whore! His own black Madonna. And he hated that he needed her. His mind snapped back to certainty then, and a ripple of Psionic power pulsed through him, vibrating every cell of his body, whispering like mad ghosts from his subatomic structure, drawing forth chaotic energy from the infinitesimal rippling of the quantum foam.

The kitchen doors slammed shut behind Killian and Lucina. A metallic rattling began to sound as utensils, kitchen trays, push-carts, metal cups, empty cans and even a table or two began to float and spin rapidly around 23. The metal began accelerating, slamming and grinding into each other, sparks flickering as metal shredded metal into palm sized shards, jagged clumps, twisted rods. He looked like a steel dervish. “You traitorous harlot, Lucina.” Jonquil’s voice was low, quiet, almost musing. “Did he turn you against me, my love?” His voice still gentle, deceptively calm, he turned towards Killian again. “I’m gonna kill you, lawman. I’ll flay your hide from your bones.” A fork haphazardly flung itself at Killian, missing, slamming itself tongs-first into the wall behind him, where it hummed like a tuning fork. He was powerful, but an untrained Big Brother had no finesse, no aim. With all the debris orbiting him now, though, it was doubtful he needed much finesse. Suddenly, the debris pulsed towards the captain, clattering, flickering metal, like a tide of silver.

“No! Jonquil!” Lucina flung herself in front of the wave, spreading her arms. “Please, it’s enough!” She was much smaller than Killian, her thin frame providing a poor shield. Jonquil seemed shocked, eyes wide, mouth agape, as he yanked on the metal with his Psionics. The cloud of metal divided around them at the last moment, impacting the wall behind with the sound of thousands of rounds pattering into steel. However, a loose dining tray struck Lucina in the forehead, and she crumpled to the ground in a boneless heap.

Killian could feel a tug on the railgun, the pulling of Psionics on his weapon. He did not hesitate and yanked on the trigger. There was a split second stuttering crack as the armature was spun up inside the spin chamber, shattering through the sound barrier three times in a fraction of a second. The barrel of the gun didn’t flash like gunpowder would, since there was none to ignite. But the hyper-sonic speeds of the slug compressed the air around the barrel, oxygen and nitrogen flaring into plasma from the friction of the bullet. A slightly delayed thunderclap erupted in the relatively small space of the cafeteria, causing his ears to ring painfully. The recoil was tremendous, and would have torn off his right arm completely, had it not been for the shape metal alloy exoskeleton brace strapped around his arm, over his shoulder, and down his right leg. Milliseconds before the slug left the barrel, the had exoskeleton stiffened, supported his shoulder, and three thick titanium spikes anchored to the bracing on his leg slammed into the ground, transferring the energy of the recoil into the linoleum flooring directly behind his right foot. The force of the discharge dented the floor as the sabot left the barrel, crinkling the metal beneath the linoleum like tinfoil. Regardless, Killian felt his thumb dislocate from the force, the gun barrel swinging up towards the ceiling with recoil despite grinding electronic whine of the exoskeleton as it attempted to oppose the force. A gout of heat washed over the room for a few moments, before subsiding.

The sabot went wide, however, by nearly five feet, that little tug on the gun from 23 managing to move the aim a few degrees. It slammed into the floating halo of debris, trailed by a brilliant line of glowing plasma, shattering floating metal into bursts of shrapnel that erupted down on Jonquil. The concussive wave threw the Kino off his feet and burst his ear-drum as the slug continued past him and into the walk-in refrigerator, shredding through the back wall and punching out into other rooms beyond. There was a faint 'dndndndn' as it punctured multiple walls before coming to stop somewhere.

Killian swore under his breath as the spikes retracted from the floor, turning the railgun towards the downed Child, his aim wavering as he clenched his teeth against the pain of his thumb. “Done yet?”

Grinding his teeth, his head spinning, Jonquil stood slowly, blood trickling from his left ear and from a dozen small punctures on his left side. A splinter had lodged itself perilously close to his eye, gleaming and shiny in the cool light of the lantern hanging from Killian’s waist. Without warning, the Kino slammed his Psionics against the ceiling and against the railgun, puncturing a hole through the metal and plaster, before thrusting against the floor below him, catapulting himself up to the next level. Killian attempted to bring the barrel to bear, but it had swung wide. The second sabot, more or less hip-fired, missed as well, drilling a large hole into the ceiling, the sound of it puncturing through walls deeper within the Tower thrumming in quick successive thuds, then silence.

23 was gone.