Toreon Kane's office was a cavern of shadows, the only light spilling from the flickering screen where he sat and a small warm bulb overhead. His eyes locked on the grainy footage of Tawnie sparring. Her movements were a blur of lethal precision, a dance of destruction that left her trainer, Fixer, breathless on the mat. The air was thick with sweat and the faint hum of the monitor. Kane's lips curled into a grim smile as Fixer, still rubbing a bruised jaw, muttered through gritted teeth,
"She's surpassed Obsidian Dark Ops level in months." Her voice carried a mix of pride and dread, as if she'd just witnessed a storm being born.
Kane leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. "Not surprised," he said, his tone flat, almost hollow. "Considering what she is." Fixer's breath hitched, her green eyes narrowing as she searched his face for the revelation she'd been chasing for years. Was this it? The moment her enigmatic boss would peel back the veil on Tawnie's existence? But Kane's hand moved to the remote, killing the video with a click, and the screen went black, swallowing the room in silence. He turned to his desk, the faint glow of his computer casting sharp angles across his weathered face.
His fingers danced over the keys, pulling up a map speckled with pulsing red dots. The map flickered ominously over Springfield, Massachusetts.
"Anything new?" he asked, his voice low, edged with impatience. Fixer stepped closer, her boots scuffing the concrete floor.
"Radars are quiet. That blip in Springfield Is still being investigated. But no news as of yet."
Kane's jaw tightened, a muscle twitching beneath the stubble. "These energy fluctuations," he growled, "they're tearing holes across the country, and we're blind to why." Fixer nodded, her braid swaying like a pendulum. "Cleaner and I will watch it. Closely."
Kane's head shook, a slow, deliberate motion. "Why do Alpha and Beta Squad keep tangling like this? Competition's the fuel—keeps them sharp. You and Cleaner should be oil and water." Fixer's lips pressed into a thin line. "History doesn't bend that way, Director Kane. We could never be enemies."
Before he could retort, his phone erupted—a shrill, insistent scream slicing through the tension. Kane's hand froze mid-air, then snatched it up. His face drained of color, a rare crack in his iron facade. Fixer's stomach twisted; she'd never seen him rattled. He lurched to the computer, the map now ablaze with a solid crimson spike in Massachusetts.
"Fixer," he rasped, "Tawnie. The new blood. Is she ready for this?" Fixer's gaze drifted to the blank screen where Tawnie's fury had played out moments ago. "Question is," she murmured, "is the mission ready for her?"
Minutes later, the jet sliced through the night sky, a black dagger piercing the clouds. Inside, Kane, Fixer, and Tawnie sat in silence, the roar of engines a dull heartbeat beneath them. Massachusetts sprawled below, its streets a labyrinth of chaos illuminated by flashing lights and the distant wail of sirens. The plane descended straight down to a stretch of open road, landing amidst a scene ripped from a nightmare. Smoke curled through the air, thick with the acrid stench of burning rubber and something fouler—death. Civilians staggered, clutching their heads, their screams swallowed by the pandemonium.
Kane's earpiece crackled. Agent Liliana Gomez's voice cut through, crisp and urgent. "Target's mobile. You'll need to pursue." The trio moved as one, weaving through the carnage. Bodies littered the pavement—crumpled, broken husks leaking life onto the asphalt. Kane knelt beside one, a woman, her face a mask of agony frozen in time. He rolled her over, and a river of blood poured from her eyes, ears, nose, and mouth, glistening black under the streetlights. "Radiation levels?" he barked into his comms.
"Ten thousand," Gomez replied, her voice tight. Kane's breath caught. "Ten *thousand*?" He traced the woman's lifeless features, her skin already graying, as if time itself had devoured her. Sirens grew louder, closing in. He stood, fists clenched, ready to strategize, but Tawnie acted first. With a flick of her wrist, a drone whirred to life from her backpack, its rotors slicing the air. Kane's voice thundered, "Stand down!" She met his glare, unflinching. "Trust me, Kane. Let me follow this."
The drone soared above the city, its camera feeding a grim trail of corpses back to Tawnie's visor. Block after block, the death toll mounted, until it locked onto a figure—a middle-aged man, trembling, his face slick with sweat and terror. "Facial analysis," Tawnie snapped. Gomez's response was swift: "Asahn Mohammed. 47. Local. Address incoming." Her tone darkened. "Move fast—SWAT's rolling in."
Kane's voice crackled over the comms. "We end this. No traces. No evidence." Tawnie took off, her boots pounding the pavement, following the drone's path to Mohammed's apartment. Behind her, Kane and Fixer unleashed a pulse from their gear, freezing the city in a stasis field—time halting for all but them. The building loomed ahead, its brick facade stained with neglect. Inside, the air was stale, heavy with fear. Mohammed's footsteps echoed up the stairwell as he fled.
Headquarters chimed in. "He's the source. Kaitron spikes are off him—organs aging rapidly in proximity."
Tawnie sprinted up the stairs. Kane shouted at her "Get back here!"
Fixer followed, her voice steady as she pushed him back down the stairs. The man clenched his jaw, trying not to fall.
"Have you lost your mind?" He barked. The wrinkles between his eyebrows twitching with anger.
"I'm expendable, Kane. You are the leader. We can't afford for anything to happen to you."
On the fourth floor, the apartment door hung ajar. Tawnie stepped inside, her breath catching. Mohammed cowered in the corner, surrounded by his family—two children, a wife, siblings, an elder—all screaming, clawing at their faces as blood began to seep.
The kids collapsed first, tiny bodies hitting the floor with sickening thuds, crimson pooling beneath them. The elder followed, then the siblings, each death a staccato note in a symphony of horror. Mohammed's wife shrieked, her voice shattering into a wet cough as blood sprayed across her husband's face. She crumpled, and he clutched her, his wail a raw, animal sound. Tawnie stood frozen, her gaze locked on the children, their small forms still and silent.
"Target status?" Gomez demanded. Fixer's voice was flat. "We've got him. Now what?" Headquarters crackled back. "His emotional state's amplifying it. Half the city's at risk."
Tawnie moved, her steps deliberate, tears carving tracks down her cheeks. She knelt behind Mohammed, wrapping her arms around him as he sobbed, her tears mingling with the blood on his wife's face. He screamed her name, and the air pulsed with another spike.
"Do something!" Gomez urged. Tawnie's eyes fluttered shut. Her hands tightened, and with a swift, merciless twist, she snapped his neck. The room fell silent, the weight of death pressing down like a shroud. She rose, trembling, the man's lifeless body slumping to the floor, and whispered into the void, "It's done."