Chapter 6 - Kane
Kane’s chrome hand tenses as he pushes into Dragoon’s Rest, the image of Pulaski’s husband crying in the doorway still pressing on him.
Seven years of delivering death notices, and they never get any easier.
He could delegate the job to a lieutenant or deliver the message via the Veil, but that would make him no better than the corps.
His people deserve to be seen as more than numbers.
Inside, the bar is full of life despite the early hour.
Midtown would be half-asleep with commuters slumped on HOV trains before shuffling into their sterile offices.
But Shreveport knows how to make the most of daylight.
Drinkers crowd shoulder to shoulder at the bar, watching a rerun of the latest cyber gladiator match while off-duty enforcers shout over a line of holo billiards tables.
A few heads dip in acknowledgment, but Kane doesn’t slow.
The day after Natural Order’s attack, he has no time for small talk.
He heads straight for a steel-cased door on the far wall where “Private” shimmers in green above.
His retinal scan triggers a hiss of panels, and he steps into a dark room with gleaming spare weapons and stripped-down tech along the walls, glinting under the dim light above.
At a holotable in the center, Viper sits hunched over a holopad, muttering commands into his commlink.
Next to him, Coda scrolls a stream of data projected up from the table, blue light flickering against her goggles.
Echo lounges with her boots on the glass surface across from them, with Wren at her side straightening when Kane steps in.
“Our fearless leader returns,” Echo greets.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Wren adds as Viper and Coda offer silent nods.
“Enough.” Kane waves them off, taking a seat at the head of the table. “Someone in here better have intel on Natural Order’s attack yesterday. Cause we know that wasn’t some random strike.” His gaze sweeps the table. “I want answers, and I want them now.”
Silence settles over the room. Echo’s smile wavers. Viper clenches his jaw, and in Kane’s interface, Wren’s pulse jumps erratically.
Only Coda remains unmoved, flipping the projection to a static video of a figure with long dreadlocks striding down a Shreveport street. Kane leans in as the footage plays.
“My team found this footage from a security drone shortly before the attack,” Coda explains, letting the video play.
“I can’t see their face,” Kane declares.
Coda taps the holotable’s controls. The footage speeds up, then freezes when the person turns, revealing their face. Kane’s heart stutters. “Our facial recognition flagged them as—”
“Cipher,” Echo interrupts, stiffening in her seat. “Whoa. What’re they doing here?”
“Cipher?” Wren glances between Kane and Echo before ducking her head. “Sorry, sir. I haven’t heard that name in any of our briefings.”
Viper’s eye whirs. “I don’t recall seeing them flagged in our security systems.”
Echo opens her mouth to answer, but one look from Kane silences her.
“They’re no longer with the crew,” he says flatly. “That’s all you need to know.”
Cipher. The name hasn’t crossed Kane’s mind in years. Once a trusted lieutenant, they vanished after his uncle died. From guilt, most likely, or maybe fear after the deal fell through. For a time, he thought about tracking them down, but rebuilding the crew left no room for chasing old ghosts.
Coda’s voice cuts in. “The footage was captured at the exact intersection where Natural Order would later breach the holowall.”
Kane’s fingers curl under the table. Cipher knew every blind spot in their defenses.
They built half of them. And Natural Order’s never had the skill for something like this.
For years, they’ve slithered between districts, preaching purity, stirring up small riots. Never coordinated. Never surgical.
Who else could have shown them exactly where to strike?
Yet his doubt lingers. Maybe it’s nostalgia. Cipher was like a mentor once, back when they still wore their colors. But there’s also the practical side.
Crossing his arms, he leans back in his chair. “Cipher’s been a techie since birth, and Natural Order’s too strict about their ‘purity’ rules. Only time they look the other way is when ripping it out would kill you.”
“Yeah.” Echo slips her boots off the table. “Natural Order teaming up with Cipher?” She snorts. “Next, you’ll be telling me VitaCorp’s holding a charity gala for Shreveport.”
“Regardless, track their movements. But Natural Order is our priority.” Kane pivots from Coda to the others. “Anyone else find anything, or should I start scouting replacements myself?”
The lieutenants exchange a series of tense looks.
When no one answers, his patience wears thin. Kane starts to rise and demand answers when Echo finally speaks up.
“Well, I have some good news. We should know by tomorrow if we can finally send Rafael back to Midtown.”
Kane stiffens at the mention of the nurse, holed up in his personal quarters above the bar.
His body still aches from the bed in the spare barracks, but he can’t risk giving Rafael an escape route—or trusting the recruits around someone from Midtown.
But as uncomfortable as he is holding the innocent man hostage another day, they can’t risk a single night without a medic or a nurse.
“Good.” Koda sits back in his chair. “What about—”
“Uh, actually, boss man. A word before we continue?” Echo interrupts, glancing at her wristlink.
Kane frowns. “Unless it’s personal, speak up.”
Echo shrugs. “All right. A contact said a kid in the neighborhood is due for his monthly nutrient regen therapy…” Her smile fades. “Normally done by Pulaski.”
Pulaski’s death left too many gaps. Kane hoped Rafael would never have to care for anyone outside the crew, where he could be monitored.
But the boy needs those artificial nutrients, and no doubt his mother’s Lux Systems insurance doesn’t cover them.
Employees at her level are only offered the basics, like the contagion vaccines—the Concord Eight’s bread and butter from the Collapse.
Without them, his augments could fail. The consequences would be far worse than sending a nurse from Midtown into Shreveport.
“Send me the address. I’ll handle it myself.” Kane doesn’t maintain control of these streets by leaving things to chance.
“Sir, what about—” Wren starts.
A sharp glare from Kane cuts her off. “You—” His gaze sweeps over the others, overlay scanning each in turn. “All of you, stay here. Have answers ready when I get back. I’ve had more useful intel from broken security drones than from the three of you. Prove me wrong.”
Viper scowls. Echo and Wren slump in their seats. He doesn’t wait for a response, exiting the room and taking the side door that leads to the underground passage.
Beneath the bar, the eastern corridor stretches ahead, lined with Coda’s motion sensors and signal jammers to block unwanted surveillance. A steel staircase at the end takes him to a reinforced door on the second floor.
He expects to find Rafael cowering in a corner when the door opens, but the nurse sits at the kitchen table, finishing an omelet while watching the news on his vidscreen. Terra’s ingredients are scattered across the counter behind him, alongside freshly washed utensils and pans.
Kane pauses in the doorway. Few people bother cooking anymore, not since Terra’s prefab meals became standard. The sight stirs old memories—of Sunday mornings in his aunt’s kitchen, flour on the counter, and muffins baking in the oven compartment.
He shuts them down and meets his eyes. Rafael’s heart rate flares in Kane’s HUD.
For a moment, neither moves. Then Kane forces himself forward. “Get ready. We—”
“G-good morning.”
Kane raises a brow. Why is he greeting him? Did he forget the kidnapping? He should be far past gentleness at this point. Or is this some kind of a trick? His gaze catches on the fork trembling in Rafael’s grip.
This is no act, simply naive innocence.
The observation unsettles Kane more than expected. He grunts and returns to business. “You’ve got a new patient. Grab your things.”
Without a word, Rafael carries his dishes to the kitchen console. The wash slot seals with a click, lights flashing as the cleaning cycle switches on.
“Ready.”
A soft voice snaps his attention to Rafael. He stands near the door, jacket on and bag in his hand, waiting on the floor. No signs of plotting an escape, just more blind faith that would get him killed here.
Still, Kane’s chest tightens before he turns toward the door. “Follow me.”
The tunnel echoes with the sound of their footsteps. En route, Kane sends a message via his wristlink to Echo for the civilian’s address. Once inside the medical bay, he ushers Rafael through the doorway.
“Gather what you need for a monthly nutrient regen therapy. We’re taking it outside the med bay today.”
Dark eyes widen, but after a breath, Rafael reaches for a large medkit. As he packs the supplies, his movements become hesitant. Every item he adds shifts his biometrics in Kane’s readings. Kane watches the silent struggle, patience thinning.
“Rafael.”
The nurse freezes and gapes up at him.
“Whatever you’re thinking—say it.”
His hands tremble, placing another tool alongside the others. “It’s nothing, really—”
“Never assume that with me.” Kane steps closer, voice lowering. “Now cut the Midtown manners and shoot me straight. I know you’re holding something back.”
Rafael swallows. “The patient—if they need nutrient therapy, they need regular hospital evaluations…From a doctor…”
His fists clench at his sides. “You think I don’t want what’s best for them?” The words come out sharper than intended, and Kane’s interface flashes with Rafael’s elevated vitals.
A dull pang settles in Kane’s chest.
He doesn’t soften his tone, even as an unfamiliar urge surfaces. “We can’t just walk into VitaCorp and ask for treatment. Half of our people only have below-average insurance, and the rest can’t risk being in their system. Understand?”
“I shouldn’t have assumed…” Rafael glances around the med bay. “I guess I never thought about what happens to people who don’t have access to VitaCorp.”
Kane studies him for a moment. Midtown types rarely acknowledge anything beyond their safe walls. “Well, out here, we handle our own problems,” he goes on. “VitaCorp and the city abandoned the Outer Districts after the Collapse. Nothing new there. We’ve been surviving on scraps since.”
There’s another pause, long enough that Kane thinks this conversation is over. But Rafael murmurs, “I understand. And I know I’m not here by choice. But…if I can help while I am, I want to. They’re still my patients.”
Most corporate types would do the bare minimum out of fear. This one actually seems to care too much. Especially for strangers he’s practically treating at gunpoint. Useful, though. If Pulaski’s replacement isn’t here until tomorrow, Rafael will stay busy.
He grabs Dr. Pulaski’s old jacket from the hook and tosses it to Rafael. “Let’s go. Your patient’s waiting.”