35. Troka
TROKA
Iwalk faster than I think I should. The city below me trembles in halflight, rain-slick streets mirroring holo-ads that drip color—neon blues, bleeding pinks—across puddles.
The air smells like ozone and wet concrete, like a storm coiled in its own anger.
My boots splash through water on the platform; each drop an echo against steel girders.
At a junction, I duck into a transit hub underpass. The fluorescent panels flicker overhead, stuttering like dying stars. There’s a holo news feed terminal in the center—floating in an atrium of grey concrete and PLEX glass. I stop cold.
Smoke pillars coil up from the shopping mall she said she’d go to.
Sirens clamour. The holo splits in four views: hostages pressed against walls, gunmen in black tactical gear barking orders, red laser sights cutting through crowds.
A mother holds a child to her chest. A man kneels, gun raised at his temple.
The signage reads AIV-JUSTICE over the chaos.
My heart lurches to a pause.
I raise my compad. My texts to her blink unanswered: ALAINA, WHERE ARE YOU, RESPOND. Silence.
Then the holo-call icon flashes: UNKNOWN. My fingers hesitate—then strike accept. The image ripples.
A man appears. Name tag flickers in the feed: Marrok Caine — leader of AIV-Justice.
He’s tall, angular, skin scorched in places, one eye blazing red cybernetic iris, the other dark and human.
He’s perched in a steel cage platform, backlit by burning mall corridors, gun-toting silhouettes moving behind him.
“Troka Vass,” he says, voice oily, smooth as tar. “You’re late to your own famine feast.”
My jaw clenches. “Release them.”
He smiles—a jagged flash of teeth. “So impatient. Beautiful, but shallow. The mother. The child. We’ll release them. At our terms.”
He leans forward. The feed shifts; behind him I glimpse the hostages, huddled, terrified. I see Alaina clutch Caelix, lip split, hair wild, trembling. My blood blisters.
Marrok continues: “We demand full pardon of every AIV-Justice operative. Complete transfer of war credits. A flagship escape cruiser. And the resignation of top IHC commanders. If even one demand isn’t met—”
He leans to one side, as though whispering to wires. “Your precious hostages will be gone. Disappeared. Off-world human experiments. Your mate, your child—they’ll vanish into nightmares. And you’ll watch the tape.”
He pauses, enjoying the silence. “You still want them? You want to fight through fifty squads of us? Maybe I’ll let you try. Maybe you’ll reach me. Or maybe they’ll die before you even enter the building.”
The echo of gunfire crackles behind him.
“You think this is leverage?” I hiss. “This is war. I won’t bargain. You release them now, or pray that I don’t survive what I’m about to do.”
He laughs. The sound ripples through the holo. “War? This is show business. Ratings. Sympathy. You’re a wild animal pledging for his babies. The crowd will eat it up. They’ll cheer our morality. Our vengeance. But you? You’ll be their hero or their lesson. No in-betweens.”
He stands, gun arm raised. “Now, I think we both agree on one thing: I’m not bluffing.”
The holo dies.
I slam the compad on concrete. Sparks. My fingers bleed. I taste metal, ash, grief. My palm throbs like a wound. Yet I feel more alive than in years.
People swirl past me in the hub. Faces blurred. Rain drips off their umbrellas like sorrow. None know, none see. None yet.
I tap my wristcomm cluster. “Larek. Get me encryption key on Marrok Caine’s secure feed. I want live sat-cams on his squad positions.”
Static crackles. “You really escalating, Vass?” Larek’s voice is calm—too calm. “You sure about this?”
He doesn’t understand. He can’t. “They have her. And him. I’m going in.”
“We’re not soldiers anymore.” Larek’s tone echoes the caution I’ve buried. “You’ll tear yourself apart.”
“Let ’em try to stop me,” I say, voice thick. “Let me break every law, every barrier, every mind that stands between me and them.”
I flick the jockey-comm to public frequency. “Marrok—meet me on every holo. Meet me in every corridor. You think fifty men inside your fortress will stop me? They’ll die. Every one. And you’ll die last.”
I step back. Rain lashes through open terminal doors, spattering shards of holo-screen glass at my feet. I slip through crowds, adrenaline in my veins like wildfire.
A voice shouts from a security guard squad: “Sir—are you okay?”
I whirl around. Face masked, heart pounding. “Find me the access route to Horizon Mall. And warn every unit not to shoot civilians.”
They nod, backing away.
I vanish down tunnels.
By the time I reach the city’s underbelly, I’ve set in motion a dozen rescue paths: drone recon, armored response, comm scramblers to block their external feed. I taste static in my throat, feel heat behind my eyes.
Every second their gun presses a face against glass, every moment they shout fear into children’s ears—that’s a pulse I feel in my veins. A scream I can’t ignore.
Later, in a run-down safe room, I pace in front of holoscreens.
A live feed splits into multiple angles: hallways, stairwells, hostage lines.
The shadowy figures skate over glass, shuffle hostages.
Through feed 3, I see her face: blood crusted, eyes wild, Caelix clutched against her chest. I swear the world tilts.
Then the feed jumps—Marrok’s face again. That red eye burning in darkness.
“Feeling the weight now, Vass? Are you panting? Ready to fold?” he says, voice mocking.
I lean into the holo. “You should have thought of this before you touched them. I will split your people open. I will burn your names from memory. You kill them—or you release them. Choice is yours.”
He laughs again. “You think you have time? Our mercs are halfway to your server arrays. Your comms will die soon. You’ll be alone. We’re already suturing the hostage corridors. By the time you get close, their blood will be ours and no one will know the difference.”
I feel fire in my gut. I lean forward. “Then I’ll be the difference.”
He sneers. “You think you’re the hero in your own saga? You’ll die playing one. Your screams will be so beautiful—“
He tilts his head. “—that we’ll broadcast them.”
Click. Gone.
The holo flickers out.
In the dimness, screens still show tunnels flooded, corridors strobing with red emergency lights, hostages pressed in lines. I stare at Alaina’s face—then switch to Caelix’s. Then back to his face.
My fists ball. My teeth dig into my inner cheeks. Blood flows salty. My bones shake.
They think they can treat them like puppets. Like bargaining pieces.
But they don’t know me.
They don’t know us.
They haven’t seen that this fight is personal down in the marrow of my bones.
I tear open the window in the safe room. Wind lashessalt-scented rain into my face. The night screams.
I step outside onto the balcony, claws flexing. The city’s lights shimmer under sheets of storm, traffic slogging through flooded streets. Wind tears at my clothes. Each breath tastes of salt and grit and reckoning.
I whisper to the storm: Bring it.
Because they don’t know how far I’ll go.
They don’t know how much blood I’ll spill.
They don’t know who they’ve messed with.
And when this ends—they will.