The escape from the Janus Core was a frantic, silent plunge. They fled the chamber’s oppressive blackness, the memory of The Weaver’s horrifying offer a psychic stain on their minds. Rhys Marko, a phantom presence on their comms, confirmed the blast doors had sealed behind them, a final, echoing clang that marked the end of one confrontation and the beginning of the next. They dove into the Sump’s deep under-levels, a network of fetid, unmapped service tunnels where the air tasted of rust and decay.
In a sterile control room high in the Pinnacle, Corbin Vance watched their bio-signatures scatter into the system’s dark corners. He felt no frustration. His analysis was simply updated.
— They know its value now, — he informed his handler, the synthesized voice of the Board of Consensus a dry hiss in his ear. — Pursuit becomes relentless.
His own pursuit protocol was immediately set to maximum. The parameters of the hunt had changed. It was no longer about acquiring an asset. It was about preventing a rival power from claiming a god.
The system responded. From every public screen in the Pinnacle, from every scavenged monitor and cracked datapad in the Sump, the serene, genderless voice of the Automated Urban Regulation Authority made an announcement. It was a city-wide broadcast, a level of saturation reserved for only the most critical system alerts.
The faces of Silja Valis and Orina Cassel appeared, their official bio-ID portraits stark against a blood-red background. They were declared fugitives from consensus, threats to systemic stability. A bounty was issued for their capture, alive. The amount scrolled across the bottom of the screen, a number so large it was an abstraction: over one million credits.
The broadcast reached 100% of the Grid.
In the Sump, the effect was instantaneous. The message rippled through the grimy workshops and black market stalls, a spark thrown into a reservoir of desperation and greed. A tide of opportunism began to rise. In a hundred different alcoves, conversations stopped. Tools were put down. Heads turned to glowing screens.
A full 30% of the Sump’s population began to mobilize. Lone scavengers checked the charge on their stun batons. Small crews of mercenaries, their gear a patchwork of military surplus and custom-welded plating, abandoned games of chance to form impromptu hunting parties. The environment, once merely indifferent, had become universally hostile.
Miles away, in a crowded market in Sector Delta, the scavenger Jago was haggling over the price of a corroded logic board. His datapad chimed with the priority alert. He glanced down, his face a mask of practiced charm. He saw the faces. He saw the number.
His expression did not change. It remained perfectly, unnervingly unreadable. He completed his transaction, his movements fluid, his mind a silent calculator weighing risk against a reward that could buy a life of Pinnacle-level comfort. The seed of betrayal was planted in fertile ground.
The team felt the shift before they saw it. The ambient noise of the under-levels changed. The distant clang of industry was replaced by the closer, more purposeful sound of footsteps. They were navigating a dripping, narrow passage when a beam of light cut through the gloom, pinning them against the weeping wall.
Four mercenaries stood at the far end of the tunnel, their silhouettes backlit and menacing.
— Well, well, — the leader’s voice rasped, amplified by a cheap helmet speaker. — Look what the static dragged in. That’s a lot of credits for two skinny girls.
— We’re not on the market, — Silja’s voice was a low, cold warning.
The mercenaries laughed, raising their stun rifles.
Rhys’s voice cut through the tension, a layer of gravel over their comms. — Silja, get Orina back. Now.
From a parallel maintenance artery above them, the sound of grinding metal echoed. Rhys, piloting his hulking Husk-Frame, was not with them, but he was their guardian. He brought the mecha’s massive fist down on the tunnel’s ceiling.
The impact was deafening. A shower of rock and rusted rebar cascaded down, blocking the mercenaries’ path. The entire tunnel shuddered, the ground vibrating with the force of the blow. The team scrambled back as the passage behind them collapsed into an impassable wall of debris.
They had escaped the immediate threat, but the roar of the rockslide would be a beacon in the dark. They were burning through options, relying on brute force in a world that now saw them only as a prize.
The dust settled, leaving the air thick and choking. The only sound was the slow, steady drip of water from a corroded pipe.
