edit made by Archandriel. April 28th 2025
Going through the broken warehouse doors gave Agent Elizabeth Summers a pang of déjà vu. The sharp tang of scorched metal still lingered faintly, stubborn despite the open air. Blast points were sealed over with caution tags, but her muscles tensed from memory. The raid was long over, but the tension hadn’t fully bled from the place.
A sharp, ascending chirp broke the silence as Fen padded past her — the compact quadruped surveillance unit linked with her partner, Sosh. Fen's frame looked canine in silhouette, but its movements were too smooth, too precise. An armature unfolded from its back, rotating a dome-shaped sensor as it synced with the forensic mesh net blanketing the warehouse. The drone’s HUD cast flickering light over the crime scene, mapping it in real time.
“Perimeter scan up,” Sosh muttered, barely glancing up as she flicked her stylus across the augmented reality feed hovering above her forearm tablet. “Ren’s syncing us with everything the eggheads logged so far.”
Summers gave a slight nod and stepped forward. Despite Sosh’s casual posture, she was always dialed in — beneath the gum-chewing and sarcasm lived one of the sharpest minds in the department.
As Summers passed the spot where the fighting had begun, the memory surfaced — hands tightening around her throat. The thought barely had time to take hold before her name echoed through the cavernous structure.
A tall woman in a slightly stained lab coat stepped into her path. Her ID tag read SCI-OFFICER MORGAN, and the faded yellow trim on her coat marked her as a long-serving member of the forensic division. She was making her way from the central command tech station, waving with a cheerful demeanor.
Summers met her halfway, reaching out for a handshake — but Morgan pulled her into a hug. Summers hesitated, then accepted and returned the embrace.
Out of the corner of her eye, Summers caught Sosh walking by, tilting her head slightly as she made her way toward the AI transport truck where Cragskull had last been seen.
Summers noticed Sosh frown — a subtle flick of her wrist rotated the scan overlay. She was already locking onto something: a strange residual pattern near the breach site. Sosh didn’t say anything yet, but her fingers hesitated, then zoomed in.
Summers let her work.
“Lizzie! Are you okay? I can’t believe you made it through all this without a scratch!” Morgan beamed as she pulled back, hands still on Summers’ shoulders, inspecting her.
Summers gave a small, embarrassed smile. “I’m fine, Morgan. We had no injuries on our side. Perfect op.”
She flinched slightly as her eyes drifted to the row of bodies laid out across the floor — the dead Variants, their charred remains barely recognizable.
Morgan’s hands lingered a second longer before she finally stepped back, sensing Summers' unease but not mentioning it. She spun on her heel and waved for Summers to follow.
The central warehouse floor had been transformed into a data hive — evidence lights, diagnostic drones, and portable workbenches cluttered with sealed bags and exposed scanner cores. One container wall had been cut open, revealing its metal skeleton and a row of hollow mounting brackets.
“Well, we’re still ID’ing the deceased Variants — no prints, no digital imprints either,” Morgan explained as she walked, her voice slipping into professional rhythm. “Which suggests scrubbed identities or off-grid registries.”
Summers caught up, letting the professional tone steady her.
“But something else flagged during the initial genetic sweeps," Morgan continued. "One of the samples had irregular markers — something that doesn’t match the standard Variant genome profiles.”
Summers' brow furrowed. “What kind of irregular?”
“We’re not sure yet. Could be degradation, could be tampering, or... something new. We’ve logged it and sent it back to central labs for a full sequence run.” Morgan tapped her tablet, then motioned toward the opened container. “But while that cooks — we found something more immediately useful.”
She stopped at one of the dissected containers and tapped the side. “These units were early containment transports for active Variants. Crude compared to what USVA uses now, but they got the job done in the early crackdown years. Medical chairs along the walls, anchor ports for suppression injectors, and external neural sedation lines. Think traveling ICU — but for Tier-2s and 3s.”
Summers crouched, running her fingers lightly along the stripped mounting clamps. “They gutted the good parts. What’s left tells me this wasn’t just a retrofitted shipping job — this was meant to pass inspection. Who made them?”
Morgan smiled faintly, proud. “Right to it. Good.” She rapped twice on a corner segment. “These panels are cast with micro-etched batch codes. Manufacturing fingerprints. We traced them.”
“To?”
“A company out of Seattle — Atlas Industrial. They handled the original construction contract back in 2022. Full-cycle deal: build the containment units, then decommission them after twenty years. Only... looks like something broke down along the way.”
“So how are they here?” Summers asked, voice tightening.
Morgan raised her tablet, her earlier playfulness gone. “They shouldn’t be. I pulled the work order and matched it to the container batch. Not only were they scheduled for destruction — someone submitted falsified completion forms. The logs say they were destroyed. They weren’t.”
Summers took the tablet and scrolled. Everything looked standard — forms, stamps, closed loop — but the signature on the bottom was automated. No retinal key. No biometric trail.
Sosh whistled behind them as she joined the pair “Classic ghost entry. Someone inside Atlas scrubbed the system.”
“Or someone paid Atlas to look the other way,” Summers said, then glanced toward Sosh. “Do you think their internal systems might still hold anything?”
Sosh shrugged, eyes still flicking across her tablet. “If the person scrubbing the records was a pro, the main system won’t show anything different — just the official story. But companies like this usually keep backups, even if it's just out of laziness or legal paranoia. If we’re lucky, something didn’t get wiped.”
She paused, then added, “We might be able to track down someone who worked the file end. Maybe someone remembers who signed off on these work orders. Wouldn’t hurt to get direct access to their mainframe either — just in case the ghost trail’s still warm.”
Summers turned slightly, eyes narrowing toward the scorched freight vehicle still parked at the edge of the cordon. “What about the AI hauler? Anything usable there?”
Morgan followed her gaze, exhaling through her nose. “We’ve got almost nothing from the AI hauler. The core’s been cooked — deliberate data burn. GPS logs, route trackers, everything’s gone. What we do know is the truck was reported stolen a month ago, and it was running a custom subroutine — something designed to spoof its location and keep it invisible to standard surveillance grids.”
She tapped her tablet. “Whatever route it took, it avoided every major checkpoint. Likely made scheduled stops at off-the-grid depots — places built to fly under radar. No cameras, no scans, no questions.”
Morgan paused, fingers tightening slightly on the tablet. “From what we can tell, it wasn’t just a manual override. The hauler was hit with a targeted AI virus — stripped decision-making autonomy, corrupted the core protocols, then triggered a self-wipe. We don’t have much, but we did scrape a partial AI signature during the recovery. We’re running it through the central net now. Might give us a clue who built it — or who’s used it before.”
Summers handed the tablet back. “Alright. If someone’s repurposing old government gear to move Variants, they’re not doing it alone. They’ve got serious backing.” She gave Morgan a firm but appreciative nod. “If anything else surfaces, I want it on my desk first. Thanks for the work you’ve done so far.”
As Summers made a move to turn back toward the entrance, Sosh didn’t follow.
“Hold up,” Sosh said, squinting at the display projected just above her wrist. “Those readings I picked up earlier? They’re not just ambient feedback from the suppressors or the drones. There’s something threaded in the signal spikes — short-lived, but not random.”
Morgan perked up instantly. “The AI transport? Near the ground distortion marks?”
Sosh pointed toward the breach zone. “Right around the center of the blast perimeter. It lines up with where my ghost was standing.”
Morgan’s eyes sharpened. "We’ve only run some initial tests, but my theory is it’s some kind of transportation-based Variant ability."
“A teleporter!” Sosh said, already veering off. Morgan fell into step beside her, the two moving like kids chasing down a science fair explosion.
Summers watched them go, blinked once, and sighed. Of course.
She followed, her boots echoing softly across the concrete. Sosh was brilliant — unfortunately, she knew it — and when she locked onto a mystery, the world either kept up or got left behind.
Sosh crouched near an evidence flag, fingers dancing across her interface. “Localized flux. Not thermal. See this dip here? Like something punched the air hard enough it forgot how to exist for a second.”
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
Morgan knelt beside her, pulling up a fresh spectrum analysis. “We first assumed the ring patterns were from self implosion. But this? This looks like compression, not expansion. A forced contraction.”
Summers crossed her arms, glancing down at the burn marks. “So what — you’re saying something popped in or popped out?”
“I’m saying,” Sosh replied, tapping her screen, “this smells like a teleport. Maybe. Kinda. I wouldn’t put money on it — yet — but it’s not not a teleport.”
“We know Cragskull doesn’t have those kinds of abilities,” Summers said, exhaling sharply. “So now our buyer is a ghost who can teleport. Great.”
“So we’re in agreement?” Morgan said, sounding almost cheerful at seeing Summers finally join in on the mystery.
“Now I think I want to name it,” Sosh said with a smirk. “My very own vanishing Variant.”
Summers shook her head. “I’m not chasing your imaginary friends, Vega.”
“Hey, You promised you would not bring that up again..." Sosh said sheepishly.
Morgan interest was peaked, but summers shook her head no.
Summers exhaled slowly, staring at the floor. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
Sosh grinned wider. “You brought me to a crime scene with a ghost. It’s basically my birthday.”
Summers shook her head again but let a faint smile flicker at the corner of her mouth.
“Alright,” she muttered. “Keep on the lookout for that seventh signature.”
Pause.
“Ghost or not.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The ride to Edgewater was smooth, almost eerily so. Since the implementation of western zone's priority lane, USVA transport vehicles could cruise across the state with near-military clearance. Lang watched the world streak by — freight districts, electric farms, the edge of old neighborhoods swallowed by infrastructure. For him, it was a marvel. For Kellan, it was a nap window.
Kellan leaned against the seat partition with one arm draped over his chest, eyes closed but ears still active. He wasn’t asleep, not really — just storing up calm before they dropped into a zone where calm didn’t last.
Lang, as usual, had one more question.
“I’ve read about Edgewater,” he said, eyes fixed on the window. “It was one of the first federal housing sectors developed specifically for citizens with the Variant marker. Designed to keep people together, create equity. I mean… that had to mean something, right?”
Kellan cracked an eye open. “Sure. Meant someone in an office felt guilty enough to build boxes instead of cages.”
Lang didn’t flinch. “I don’t know. I think giving people a place, a structure — that’s something.”
“Structure's only as good as who’s holding the keys.”
He let that hang before continuing.
“Edgewater looks clean on paper. But paper doesn’t sweat when things go sideways. How many suppression deployments do you think we’ve run through that zone in the last month?”
Lang straightened. “Statistically, incidents involving Variants are higher in that district. So naturally—”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Lang hesitated. “...Enforcement responses? Full sweeps?”
Kellan nodded.
Lang checked his pad. “Seventeen. That’s more than any other residential sector in the zone.”
“Exactly. And how many of those actually involved an active threat?”
Lang scrolled a little farther. “Only two were flagged as confirmed.”
“The rest?”
Lang’s voice went quieter. “Preemptive lockdowns. Risk modeling triggers.”
Kellan gave a humorless chuckle. “Right. Built to help them — as long as they don’t move too fast, or sweat wrong.”
Lang didn’t respond immediately, but he didn’t look away either.
“I still think people sign up for this job because they want to help,” he said. “Protecting everyone should mean protecting everyone.”
Kellan didn’t answer for a few seconds. Then:
“Just remember, kid. The system doesn’t see everyone the same way. You might want to help — but it’s not our place to decide who gets saved and who gets the boot. We do our job, follow procedure, and try to make it out alive, day in and day out.”
Lang returned to scanning his assignment protocols. Kellan closed his eyes again.
Outside the window, the first Edgewater towers appeared — tall, uniform, and well-maintained on the outside, like they were designed to be filmed from above. Surveillance drones zipped by on quiet currents. A flashing billboard displayed one of the newer PSAs:
**"COMPLIANCE IS PEACE. VARIANT IDENTIFICATION SAVES LIVES."**
Lang stared at it a second too long. Kellan didn’t need to look — he already knew what it said.
“Don’t take the ads too seriously,” he muttered. “They’re not meant for people like you.”
The rest of the ride was quiet. As their Federally marked vehicle entered the residential district. Eyes on them were becoming more common. People quickly scurrying away. Lang kept an eye on his monitor. The Surveillance pinging the bio trackers on the Variant citizens kept growing. Some were automatically flagged to their perspective programs, warrants, people who skipped their obligatory meetings. These were not important to the mission, they would be passed along to aerial drones or local law enforcement.
The screeching of the brakes announced their arrival like a slow exhale from the machine itself. The side door open, and the ramp dropped smoothly to the pavement. Two Suppression Units deployed from their cradles on the sides of the vehicle, boots hitting the ground with synchronized weight. The matte-black frames flanked Kellan and Lang in silence, already sweeping the perimeter with linked optics.
Kellan didn’t pause. “Alright, boys. Establish a forward scan ring — building 4A. Thermal, acoustic, and air movement. Tap the local grid for utility fluctuations. If anyone's hiding, I want to know before they realize we’re here.”
The units broke off immediately, silent and methodical.
Kellan stepped forward, already striding toward the looming residential block. “Come on, Rookie.”
The building was one of the older models — 400 units, 25 per floor. A brutalist relic from the early Variant housing efforts, more functional than welcoming. The sun had bleached half the brick fa?ade into uneven streaks, and the lower walls were tagged with chipped paint and fresh protests.
Lang slowed as they passed one particular patch of graffiti, bright red with stenciled precision. It wasn’t just a sloppy tag — it was deliberate, artfully laid across the side of a waste unit in clean block letters:
WE AREN’T DANGEROUS UNTIL YOU SAY WE ARE
Underneath it, a black spiral. The symbol for Variant identification.
Kellan glanced at it once and kept walking.
“Our guy’s on the eighteenth. Got your gear squared away?”
Lang gave himself a quick pat-down. Chest rig, sidearm, data pad.
Kellan’s eyes flicked down for half a second. The kid’s pistol wasn’t seated right in its holster — angled just enough to draw attention. He didn’t say anything. Not yet. Maybe Lang would fix it himself when he came back with his helmet.
“Helmet, Rook.”
“Shit. Right!”
He turned and sprinted back to the transport.
By the time Lang returned — ROOKIE in bright white on his helmet half-clipped, breathless — Kellan was already at the building’s main entrance. He held his badge up to a recessed plate, triggering a low-frequency beep. The panel glowed green. Above them, a quiet mechanical hum signaled the beginning of a soft lockdown.
“This activates a silent sweep,” Kellan said. “Doors lock, elevators pause. HVAC starts sampling air for elevated adrenaline, cortisol, pheromone spikes. They won’t know we’re here for another few minutes.”
Lang looked impressed. “And communication?”
“Scrubbed. Building net’s rerouted through our relay van. Civilian traffic gets throttled.”
Lang tapped the side of his comms. “Switching to channel four, sir.”
Kellan gave a slight nod. He pushed through the doors into the lobby. The floor buzzed faintly underfoot — magnetic overlays syncing with their boots for threat triangulation.
Three elevators stood motionless ahead. Normally locked to residents only, but the system chirped as Kellan’s override accessed admin control. One hummed to life, slowly descending.
“Are we expecting trouble?” Lang asked.
Kellan didn’t answer.
Instead, he turned and slammed Lang into the metal elevator doors, fast and precise. Lang’s breath evacuated on impact, and he barely processed what happened before he felt cold metal press into his abdomen — Kellan’s sidearm, muzzle-first.
“Always expect trouble,” Kellan said calmly. “Losing your weapon’s enough to get flagged for dismissal.”
Lang grimaced. “It’s coded to my biosignature—”
“Do I need to beat you with your own gun to teach you why that doesn’t matter? If you’d holstered it properly, maybe you could’ve used it to defend yourself.”
Kellan pulled back and handed the weapon to him butt-first. The elevator dinged open. They stepped inside, Lang still recovering from the hit — physically and emotionally.
Kellan pressed for floor eighteenth. The elevator doors slid shut with a soft hydraulic hiss.
Every rookie had a breaking point. Kellan hoped Lang’s wouldn’t come too early. Fieldwork in Variant zones was never clean — and every team eventually lost someone. It didn’t get easier.
He glanced sideways, assessing Lang again. The kid’s posture was tight, but he wasn’t shaking. His academy scores had put him in the top percentile — sharp reaction time, excellent retention, and a cool head under pressure. Not many made it through the psych eval after living through a mass-casualty event. Fewer still stayed balanced after watching half their school erased by a Tier-3 flare event.
Lang shifted, catching Kellan’s look. His expression said everything: _I know what you’re thinking — and I’m fine._
The elevator dinged.
Kellan stepped out first, movements clean but measured — tactical without being loud. The hallway was dim, motion lights flickering to life as they advanced. He scanned the numbers. Suite 1812. Corner suite.
The corridor smelled of recycled air and long-dried bleach. Too quiet.
They stopped at the door.
Kellan raised a fist and knocked — loud, firm, deliberate.
“Darius. Police. Open up.”
No response.
Kellan waited a beat, then raised two fingers and pointed downward. Lang nodded and rotated, kneeling to unlock the magnetic latch on his gear pack. He pulled out a mini aerial unit — compact, quiet, no larger than a closed fist — and held it up.
Kellan tapped his forearm console. The drone’s systems linked instantly to his HUD. Feed was live.
He raised three fingers.
Two.
One.
Lang’s boot collided with the doorframe just as the drone zipped upward, slipping through the air above Kellan’s shoulder. The apartment door cracked and gave. The drone surged inside, casting silent pulses across the room.
> Interior: compromised. Signs of struggle. Heat signatures… faint.
“Darius,” Kellan called out as he moved. “Federal agents. Make yourself known.”
Lang swept left, sidearm up. The drone swept right, casting low-frequency mapping pulses against the walls.
The drone’s auto-report scrolled across Kellan’s HUD:
Wall pitting from ballistic impact detected. Spatter confirmed. Suppressed return fire. No bodies.
Lang’s voice came over comms. “Clear on west. Got casing spread, no signs of the informant.”
Kellan pushed into the master bedroom. The place was thrashed — overturned furniture, broken glass, a trail of blood smearing across the laminate floor toward the rear of the apartment.
He stepped carefully through the wreckage, weapon steady. A boot lay sideways near the sliding patio door. Scoring on the tile suggested dragging — not by force. Someone had been pulled.
He approached the balcony slowly, pistol up.
And then he heard it — a scream. Sharp. Human. Fear.
Kellan stepped onto the concrete balcony, scanning upward instinctively.
From the rooftop above, a man dangled — arms flailing, one leg bleeding, jacket twisted in a death grip.
And at the ledge above him stood a man draped in black and deep red — motionless, balanced, calm. His armor was shaped for efficiency: tight-meshed fabric over vulnerable joints, reinforced composite plating on his chest, forearms, thighs. No military tags. No unit patches. The entire suit was made for utility, stealth, and fear.
A cowl shadowed the helmet — its smooth, matte surface broken by multiple red oculars clustered over one eye and cheek, glowing faintly. Each lens tracked independently, like a scanning drone given a human shape.
Spectre.
His grip on the informant was one-handed. Steady. Effortless. Like dangling a caught rat.
Kellan didn’t hesitate. His weapon was raised, aimed center mass — but he didn’t have a clean shot with the informant directly overhead. His voice stayed level but clipped as he toggled comms.
“Lang — I’ve got visual on the informant. He’s being held on the roof by an unknown hostile. Requesting immediate backup. Marking position now.”
Below, the informant screamed again. “Please—please, I've told you everything i know!”
Kellan still pressing against the edge of the balcony railing. One more floor stood between him and the rooftop.
“USVA!” he shouted. “Let him go!”
Spectre didn’t respond. His head tilted, slowly — like a predator reacting to distant noise. No emotion. No urgency.
Then he did something worse than killing.
He opened his hand.
Kellan fired.
A note from Archandriel
Reviews and Critiques:
I'm pen to feedback, suggestions, and constructive criticism. While I do some editing before posting each chapter, I'm not a professional editor, so your input is appreciated!
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Developmental Editing – Story structure, pacing, and overall flow.
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Logic and Inconsistencies – Plot holes, character actions, or worldbuilding details that don’t make sense.
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Confusion – Areas that feel unclear or need more work to better connect.
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Immersion, not Realism – If something breaks your engagement with the story, even if it’s technically “realistic,” I want to know.
Specific to this chapter: The warehouse scene how was the technobable:P Was it hard to follow?