Chapter 54
Lance
The core hums so loud it drowns out my heartbeat.
By the time I reach the blast door, the air is molten—thick with ozone and the off-gas of burning insulation.
My first step inside is a punch to the skull; every nerve ending from my teeth down to the bastard scar on my knee lights up.
I stagger, grip the doorframe, vision flickering between ultraviolet strobe and blackout.
I want to scream, but the sound gets lost somewhere behind my tongue.
Three meters in, the pain triples. The electromagnetic field in here is more than just a burn—it’s a riot inside my brain, a billion wasps chewing up the grey matter. I drop to one knee, clutch my temple, and watch as the world tunnels down to a razor.
She’s right there. Diana, hunched over the core terminal, her silhouette sliced out of the blue-white haze like a diagram.
Her hands move in a blur, elbows locked, whole body braced against the hurricane of energy roaring out from the node.
Cables whip around her like tentacles. The back of her neck is wet, sweat or blood, I can’t tell which.
She’s not alone.
On the platform above, Commander Petrov stands, Authority uniform pressed and immaculate. He’s flanked by two guards—private, not Authority regulars, but pro enough to keep their feet under this hellstorm. Each has a rifle shouldered, muzzles trained dead on Diana’s spine.
The guards don’t see me, not right away. The field is fucking with their eyes, too. Petrov does, though. He spots me the second I drop to a knee, his pale face splitting into a crocodile smile.
“Captain,” he shouts, voice ringing clear over the din. “Knew you’d show up. Always were predictable.”
I should answer, but the taste of blood is sharp on my tongue and my hands are shaking. I force myself up, sights locking onto Petrov. The leftmost guard shifts, catches the motion, starts to swing his weapon my way—
I don’t think. I just fire.
The first shot goes high, ricochets off a steel strut and blows out a bank of LEDs.
The room flickers, goes half-dark. The second is dead on: catches Petrov’s right hand just as he’s raising a sidearm.
I watch the bone splinter, watch the gun clatter to the catwalk.
Petrov’s mouth opens in a howl, but the noise is swallowed by the core.
Diana doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look up.
The rightmost guard gets a bead on me and fires; the round slaps the wall two inches from my ear, a shower of hot concrete flecks cutting my cheek open.
I duck, slide left, and squeeze off a round.
It catches the bastard in the clavicle—messy, but not fatal.
He drops his rifle and howls, clutching at the wound, blood gouging down the front of his vest.
I push forward, using the chaos as cover, but the air gets thicker, my head splitting in two.
My vision blurs—blue, black, then white.
I see double: Diana at the terminal, and then Diana as she was years ago, laughing behind a stack of notebooks, her hair in a sloppy bun.
I shake it off, but the images keep coming, stuttering through my brain like a broken slideshow.
Petrov is screaming, his hand a ruin, but he’s already barking orders: “Kill him! Drop the traitor!”
The guard with the shattered clavicle recovers, left arm limp, right hand dragging a pistol from his belt.
He’s closer than I thought, maybe ten meters, and he’s aiming for my head.
I duck, but not in time—the round grazes my scalp, a line of fire and blood down to my ear.
I hit the ground, roll, and come up firing.
My shot goes wide, but the guard dives for cover, skidding on the blood and broken glass.
The left guard recovers, swings a boot up onto the railing and levels a shotgun at my chest. I roll, feel something tear in my side, and come up behind a scorched server bank. The shot blasts the metal, concussing the air, ringing my skull like a bell.
I pop up, squeeze the trigger, and the world goes slow: the round leaves my barrel, arcs perfect, and hits the guard’s face mask dead-center.
The impact yanks his head back so hard his neck cracks.
He topples backward, gun falling, arms windmilling.
His body bounces off the lower catwalk, then lands in a heap at the base of the terminal.
The second guard rushes me. I let him close the distance, wait until his eyes are locked on mine, then sidestep and drive my fist into his nose.
I feel the cartilage break under my knuckles.
He howls, tries to bring up the gun, but I grab his wrist and wrench it sideways.
The pistol goes off, deafening at this range, but the round buries itself in the server bank.
I drive my elbow into his neck, then slam his head into the metal panel.
He drops, a sack of bone and limp meat. The last armed threat is down.
Diana is at the edge of the platform now, hands flying over the keys, core pulse reaching a fever pitch. The lights strobe faster, shadows spasm across the walls. I see her lips form my name, but the sound doesn’t reach me. My brain is static, all circuits blown.
Petrov, leaking blood onto the grated floor but still moving, lunges at me before I can even fully process the threat.
Weaponless, but fueled by a primal fury, I meet him halfway.
We collide, a sickening symphony of bone and steel, bodies slamming against the metal grating.
Petrov is heavy, desperate, and we roll over sparking wires.
I taste blood—my own, mixing with the metallic tang of the chamber’s air.
He lands a heavy blow, cracking my jaw, and I stagger, momentarily dazed.
“Always the fucking hero,” Petrov spits, breath hot and sour. He slams his fist into my ribs again. “You could have been Command. You could have been a goddamn legend.”
He presses his advantage, straddling my chest and pinning my arms with his knees. His weight crushes me against the floor. I watch the hatred in his eyes as he grinds my cheek into the steel grating.
“Look at you,” he hisses, a sneer of bloodied teeth. “Pathetic. All for that little lab rat. You could have risen, Kang. If you hadn’t chosen her again.”
He grabs my left hand, the one that used to wear a wedding band, and twists my ring finger until the joint screams in protest. The sudden, focused pain rips through the chaos, an anchor in the storm.
As he twists the digit, a sudden, blinding flash of light—not from the core, but from within my own mind—detonates.
It was not a memory; it was a trauma response.
My body went rigid, all muscle fiber locking up in a single, agonizing spasm.
The riot in my skull became a singularity, a knot of electrical fire.
Then came the memories, not like pictures, but like raw current.
I saw Diana’s laugh, not just a sound, but the tilt of her head, the way her nose crinkled.
Our home—the smell of burnt toast and ozone, the thin blanket we shared.
Then the darkness: the sterile glare of the hospital, her silent scream as the Authority’s agents took the infant wrapped in a blood-soaked blanket.
I saw myself, signing the clearance form, the lie that was supposed to save her life.
It wasn’t just remembering; it was reliving the shame, the powerlessness, the agonizing, self-inflicted wound of forgetting.
The pain is immense, a tsunami washing away the last five years of manufactured identity. My chest felt hollow, yet simultaneously constricted, as if my heart had stopped and restarted with the force of a hammer blow. I am a stranger in my own skin, a ghost wearing a Captain’s uniform.
I choke on a sob that never fully forms, my teeth clamping down so hard my jaw cracks. The lie is gone. “Diana,” I whisper, the word vibrating deep in my chest, a sacred, broken oath.
Petrov grins up at me, red foaming on his lips. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” he rasps, triumphantly. “It’s too late. Your stupid wife is going to die when the core completes its sequence.”
My entire world collapses into a single point of incandescent, murderous fury.
Wife. The word detonates the last vestiges of my control.
Everything Petrov has done—the taunts, the lies, the torture, the forced amnesia, the destruction of our child’s future—it all focused down to this one broken, grinning face beneath me.
There is no moral conflict left, only necessity.
My eyes widen, and the floodgates break. Hot, blurring streaks of tears mix instantly with the cooling blood on my face, a viscous track of salt and iron. “You fucking knew all along,” I growl, the sound raw and broken, a primal roar of betrayal and anguish.
I don’t give him the courtesy of another word.
I push the shard home, not with fury, but with cold, savage certainty.
The jagged metal hissed as it tore through the side of his neck, slicing through muscle and windpipe.
I felt the momentary, sickening resistance of cartilage, the sudden, warm gush against my hand.
I drove it deeper, twisted the rebar once, ensuring his last seconds were spent choking on his own failure.
I felt nothing for him—no satisfaction, no victory, only the dead calm of a debt brutally paid.
Blood pools beneath the Commander’s body, thick and black in the strobing light. He dies with that same sneer carved into his face, but now it’s slack, useless.
I rise on unsteady legs, every moment of our life together—the love, the plans, the quiet defiance—still crashing through my mind.
The room spins around me, past and present colliding.
My sight is blurred, not just by the flashing lights, but by the overwhelming, crashing realization of everything I had lost and everything I had done.
The core continues to pulse with energy, the chamber’s lights flickering as Diana’s hack progresses.
I stagger toward her across the chamber, fighting through the blinding pain in my head, the grief of the lost years clawing at my chest. “Dee!” I shout, my voice cracking, desperate and anguished, the sound barely audible over the increasing, deafening whine of the overloading systems. I have to reach her. Before it’s too late.