The air in Jack's armory was thick with the scent of gun oil and aged metal, a stark contrast to the sterile, aether-infused halls of the Spire's armories Kai had glimpsed as a boy.
The walls were lined with rows of pre-Aether firearms—weapons deemed obsolete by the upper tiers, relics of a time before conduits and glyphs rendered bullets quaint.
Kai's fingers twitched at his sides. Back in the Spire, firearms were a novelty, something collectors like his old friend Jin fetishized.
"They're history you can hold," Jin would say, spinning a revolver on his finger before loading it with ritualistic care.
He'd dragged Kai to underground ranges, laughing as Kai flinched at the recoil of a .45.
A year since they'd last spoken.
A year since Kai's world burned.
He wondered if Jin still curated his collection, if he'd heard about the disownment, if he'd cared.
Jack thrust a compact pistol into Kai's hands, jerking him back to the present.
The grip was worn smooth by decades of use, the weight balanced like an extension of his own bones.
"Well?" Jack's voice was gravel wrapped in smoke. "Or you just gonna stare at it like it's gonna bite?"
Kai raised the pistol, testing the sight line.
The motion felt foreign yet familiar—Jin's voice echoed in his head: "Don't tense. But don't relax your muscle too much either."
"It's... handy," Kai admitted. His thumb brushed the safety, a habit Jin had drilled into him. "Light, but not flimsy. Good for close quarters."
Jack's scarred lip curled as he studied Lucent. "Huh. Kid's got a vocab. Someone teach him that?"
Kai's chest tightened. How'd he—?
Lucent exhaled through his nose, the ghost of something bitter in his voice. "I do know how to handle a gun. But I'm not the one taught the kid."
Jack snorted towards Kai. "You got the look. Every rich boy who's ever held iron thinks they're a poet."
He leaned in, tapping the barrel. "This ain't a safe range. Miss here, and the only thing you'll hit is your own foot."
Lucent arms crossed. "He'll manage."
Jack ignored Lucent's probing question for now, shoving the box of 9mm rounds across the workbench with a metallic scrape. "Prove it." He jerked his chin toward the back of the armory. "Got a personal range for testin' new toys. Let's see if that Spire vocabulary translates to actual skill."
They moved deeper into the labyrinth of storage rooms—past shelves of disassembled rifle parts, crates of ammunition, and a disturbing number of explosives labeled in Jack's messy scrawl.
The air grew thicker with the scent of gunpowder and oil, the dim lighting casting long shadows across the concrete floor.
Finally, they reached the range: a narrow, reinforced lane with a single target dummy at the end, its torso already riddled with bullet holes.
Faded Spire corporate logos were stenciled on the walls—recycled plating from some long-abandoned project.
Kai popped open the box of rounds, his fingers moving with practiced ease as he loaded the magazine.
He hesitated, then slid in three extra bullets.
He tugged the earmuffs on, the world muting around him.
For a moment, he was back in the Spire's underground range, Jin laughing as Kai flinched at his first shot.
BANG.
The recoil jolted up his arm, familiar yet foreign.
Not center mass, but on target.
Not bad for someone who hadn't held a gun in over a year.
Lucent watched from the sidelines, arms crossed.
There was something… off about how casually Kai handled the weapon.
Most people in the Junkyard treated guns like tools—necessary, but not something to enjoy.
But Kai?
There was a weird focus in his eyes, like he was slotting back into an old habit.
And why isn't he more worried about the kids?
Lucent frowned.
Jessa and Tink were still missing, and yet here Kai was, testing a pistol like he had all the time in the world.
Maybe he was just burying it.
Or maybe he trusted Lucent to handle it.
"Not bad," Jack admitted, scratching his stubble. "For a Spire brat."
Kai ejected the magazine, checking the remaining rounds. "I had a good teacher."
Lucent's gaze flicked to Jack and whispered into him. "Why are you doing this?"
Jack didn't look up from inspecting a revolver. "What do you mean?"
"Don't feign ignorance." Lucent's voice was low, edged. "You didn't just happen to overhear us. You jumped in the second Kai mentioned needing a gun. That's not coincidence. That's a play."
Jack sighed, setting the revolver down with a heavy clunk.
For the first time, the old man's smirk faded. "Sharp as they say, huh?"
He rubbed the back of his neck, then shrugged. "Fine. No point lyin'. I owed you both one."
Lucent's eyes narrowed. "For what?"
"For pullin' Karen outta that lab." Jack's voice lost its gravel for a moment, something quieter slipping through.
"She's… important. To the Talons. To me." He met Lucent's stare. "Figured helpin' you two was the least I could do."
A beat of silence. The hum of the range's ventilation filled the space between them.
Kai lowered the pistol, glancing between them. "So… do I get to keep the gun or…?"
Jack barked a laugh, the tension snapping like a misfired round. "Kid, you're pushin' your luck."
He scratched at the stubble on his jaw, eyeing Kai with something between amusement and appraisal. "But... maybe I'd have second thoughts about lettin' you walk out with that piece if you can convince me you won't get yourself killed with it."
Kai smirked, twirling the pistol in his hand—a flashy move he'd picked up from Jin. "That's easy, then."
Lucent's gaze cut to him, sharp as a blade. "Are you sure about that?"
There was a warning in his voice, unspoken but clear: Don't make promises you can't keep.
Kai ignored it, holding up his conduit instead.
The cracked screen flickered to life, glyphs stabilizing with a steady hum. "See? Not unstable anymore. I can handle this. More or less."
His grin was all teeth, but Lucent didn't miss the way his fingers tightened around the grip—like he was reassuring himself as much as anyone else.
Then—knock knock knock.
The sound echoed through the armory, sudden and sharp.
All three of them froze.
Jack's hand drifted toward a sawed-off shotgun under the counter. "The hell—?"
The door creaked open before he could finish, and there stood Karen, arms crossed, her augmented fingers tapping impatiently against her bicep.
Her gaze swept over them—Lucent's guarded stance, Kai mid-gun-twirl, Jack halfway to arming himself—and her eyebrow arched. "Lucent, Kai? What are you doing here?"
Lucent's expression smoothed into something neutral, but his shoulders stayed tense.
He jerked his chin toward Jack. "Kai wanted a gun. This gentleman—"
The word dripped with skepticism. "—offered to recommend one."
Karen's eyes narrowed. "Uh-huh." She didn't look convinced. "And you just happened to find the one armorer in the Talons who collects pre-Aether relics?"
Jack coughed into his fist, suddenly very interested in the ceiling.
Kai cleared his throat. "So... does this mean I can't keep the gun?"
He held up the pistol with exaggerated innocence, though his fingers betrayed him—gripping it just a little too tight, like he already expected it to be taken away.
Karen's gaze cut to Jack, her augmented fingers twitching in silent question: What are you telling them?
Jack shrugged, the motion deliberately casual. "Nothing much. Just want 'em prepared for what's coming."
His eyes flicked to Lucent—brief, assessing—before adding, "Ain't like we got bodies to spare."
Karen exhaled through her nose, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. "Well," she conceded, "it's not bad to have a sidearm."
Jack leaned in close to Kai, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper only the three of them could hear.
"Kid, you better keep your promise." The words carried the weight of something unspoken—Don't make me regret this.
Kai nodded, his usual smirk fading into something more serious. "I will."
Lucent, sensing the shift, stepped forward. "Seems Karen's got business with you, Jack. We'll head out first."
Jack just nodded, his gaze lingering on Lucent a beat too long before flicking away.
As Lucent and Kai moved toward the door, Karen and Jack's eyes followed them—Karen's sharp with calculation, Jack's unreadable beneath the brim of his worn cap.
The door clicked shut behind them, sealing the armory in silence.
A few seconds passed.
Then Jack coughed, the sound rough and deliberate, like he was clearing the air of more than just dust.
Karen didn't waste time. "Jack. About the mole problem." A pause. "I've decided to accept your offer."
Jack's lips curled into a familiar smirk. "Took you long enough to ask."
Karen met his gaze, her posture relaxing slightly. "You know I trust you, old man. Just didn't want to drag you into another mess."
Jack snorted, wiping his grease-stained hands on his pants. "Kid, you've been dragging me into messes since you were knee-high to a glow-rat. What's one more?"
The corner of Karen's mouth twitched. "This one might be bigger than usual."
"Then it's good you've got someone who knows where all the bodies are buried." Jack jerked his thumb toward the back room.
The old man stilled, his fingers pausing mid-motion over a disassembled rifle. "So," he said slowly, "you want me to hold down the fort while you're gone?"
Karen nodded. "Yeah. That's the plan."
She crossed her arms, her prosthetic clicking softly. "Might be nothing. But with almost everyone out, someone might see this as an opportunity."
Jack snorted, wiping his hands on an oil-stained rag. "Karen, girl, you didn't even need to ask."
He tossed the rag aside with more force than necessary. "This place has been my home longer than most of those brats have been alive. Ain't no corpo or gang rat getting past me."
A rare, genuine smile touched Karen's lips. "Thank you, Jack."
The old armorer studied her face, his sharp eyes missing nothing. "That all you came to say? You've got that look - the one you get when there's more chewing at your gut."
Karen exhaled through her nose. "We're being targeted, Jack. Not just by gangs. This has corporate fingerprints all over it."
The color drained from Jack's face.
His hand instinctively went to the revolver at his hip—an old habit Karen hadn't seen in years.
When he spoke, his voice was gravel dragged through broken glass. "Damn it all... Karen, maybe it's time you knew. Nex... he made a deal with those tower-dwelling bastards before he died."
Karen's prosthetic fist clenched with a metallic creak. "A deal? What kind of deal?"
Jack turned away, suddenly very interested in reorganizing his tools.
"Wish I knew the whole story. That stubborn fool wouldn't tell me details, just that he was backed into a corner." His hands trembled slightly as he sorted screws. "Last thing he said to me was 'They own the board now, Jack. We're just pieces.'"
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as the weight of the revelation settled between them.
Somewhere in the base, pipes groaned like the building itself was reacting to the news.
***
The war room stank of sweat, cheap synth-liquor, and burning wiring.
Gideon's fist came down on the rickety metal table with a crash that sent empty bottles rattling to the concrete floor.
"What the fuck do those fire-obsessed bastards want?" Spittle flew from his lips as he kicked the overturned table for good measure. "Since when do we play errand boys for those corporate lapdogs?"
Felix leaned against the cracked wall, his subdermal armor plates flexing nervously. "Boss, come on—this is our shot. The Talons are weakened. Nex is dead. We could finally—"
"You deaf, Felix?" Arden shoved his datapad across the map-strewn floor, its screen displaying Steel Talon patrol routes. "Look at these numbers. Even after Nex, they've still got Karen. Vey. That silent killer Mags. You really think we can take them?"
His ocular implant whirred as it zoomed in on key positions. "This isn't a fight—it's a fucking execution."
Vega cracked his knuckles, the red dog tattoo on his forearm twisting with the motion. "Arden's right. The Scorchers didn't invite us to this party out of kindness. They're using us as bait."
Isla rolled her baton between her palms, the unstable glyphwork spitting blue sparks. "So what's the play, Gideon? We can't fight the Talons. We sure as hell can't fight the Scorchers."
Gideon's gaze swept the room, noticing the absence.
"Where's Tenn?" His voice dropped dangerously low. "Tell me that self-important tinkerer isn't still fucking with that cryo-tank while our gang burns."
Isla shifted uncomfortably. "She said it was almost ready. Something about 'changing the game.'"
"Our gang will be finished before that walking junkyard finishes her science project!" Gideon slammed his fist into the wall, leaving a dent in the rusted plating.
The door exploded inward before the echo faded.
Flames licked at the threshold as Blaze strolled in, his ember-orange tattoos pulsing like live wires beneath his skin.
"My dear friend Gideon!" he crooned, trailing fingers along the war table's edge—the wood blackening where he touched.
Behind him, the other Scorchers fanned out like a royal guard:
Ember, her gauntlets dripping blood onto the concrete floor
Ash, idly spinning a fire-knife across his knuckles
Cinder, her new rifle's muzzle still glowing cherry-red from recent use
The Red Dogs' leaders recoiled as one.
Felix's subdermal armor plates locked with an audible clank.
Arden's ocular implant flickered wildly, struggling to process the heat signatures.
Blaze collapsed into a chair that immediately began charring at the edges. "Why do I feel..."
He tapped his chin, flames dancing in his pupils. "...unwelcome?"
Because you are, thought every Red Dog simultaneously, though none dared speak.
Ember leaned forward, her smoldering breath making the air waver.
"Boss, your enthusiasm is showing." She nodded to the flaming footprints Blaze had left on the floor.
"Ah!" Blaze glanced back at the spreading fire with mock surprise.
"My apologies!" He waved a hand—the flames snuffed out instantly, leaving only the stench of burnt plastic.
His grin returned as he pointed at Isla. "But surely you're excited for our upcoming celebration? The Steel Talons' funeral pyre will make such lovely fireworks."
Isla's baton clattered to the floor as she stammered, "I-I'm e-excited!" Her voice cracked like a pubescent boy's.
Ash sighed, twirling his knife into the table where it stood quivering. "Boss, can I check on the kids? Their screams were getting rhythmic earlier."
Blaze pouted. "Patience, Ash. Our hosts..."
His burning gaze swept the trembling Red Dogs. "...require proper convincing first."
The war room's air shimmered with residual heat as Blaze leaned forward, his elbows sinking into the bubbling table surface like warm wax.
"After all," he purred, molten droplets dripping from his forearms, "what's a party without willing participants?"
A sharp ping cut through the tension.
Cinder—who'd been silently monitoring her conduit—tilted the screen toward Blaze. "Boss. Look."
The grainy footage showed the Steel Talons' base in organized chaos:
Karen barked orders while strapping on Nex's pulse rifle, her prosthetic fingers adjusting the overloaded aether regulator with practiced urgency.
Behind her, two rookies struggled to carry a crate of grenades marked EXTREME HAZARD.
Lucent sat cross-legged in a corner, methodically loading glyph chips into multiple conduits.
Each chip clicked in and out with surgical precision, his eyes following the installation progress.
Kai fumbled with a pistol under Jack's critical eye, nearly dropping the magazine before slotting it home.
The old armorer sighed dramatically, demonstrating the proper grip for the fourth time while Kai's cheeks burned crimson.
Vey roared at his demolition squad in front of the main gates, his melted face twisting grotesquely in the flickering lumen-light.
Behind him, Pen scaled the perimeter wall without ropes, her monofilament wires glinting like spider silk in the smog-choked air.
Rook loomed over his heavy weapons team at the squad house, his hydraulic arms whining as he lifted an anti-material rifle one-handed to demonstrate proper stance.
The recruits' eyes widened as the massive barrel swung perilously close to their heads.
Echo sharpened her knives atop an ammo crate, each stroke of the whetstone timed to the distant thump of artillery testing.
Her augmented eye flickered as it calculated trajectories only she could see.
In the mess hall, Cale held court over a group of nervous rookies, casually juggling live grenades while explaining blast radii.
One recruit fainted.
Every Steel Talon moved with purpose—a hive gearing for war.
Blaze's grin widened until it threatened to split his face.
"Oh, I adore these people!" He turned to Gideon with mock concern. "We wouldn't want our guests arriving to an empty house, would we?"
Gideon's jaw worked silently.
The unspoken threat hung heavier than the smoke—comply or burn.
"...Yes," Gideon ground out.
Blaze cupped a hand to his ear. "Hmm?"
"YES!" Gideon roared, slamming his fist on the table—then immediately regretting it as searing pain shot up his arm.
"We'll prepare our side. NOW!" He jerked his chin at his lieutenants. "Move your asses!"
The Red Dogs scrambled out like rats fleeing a sinking ship.
Felix nearly tripped over his own boots.
Isla left her baton forgotten on the floor.
As the door slammed shut, the Scorchers' facades cracked.
Blaze's cheerful mask dissolved into a sneer. "That damn mutt's planning something."
He absently scratched at his ember tattoos, which pulsed angrily under his skin.
Ember kicked her boots up on the ruined table, sending a shower of ash into the air.
"What did you expect?" She examined her glowing knuckles. "Dogs bite when cornered."
Ash chuckled darkly, spinning his fire-knife. "Let them try. More fun for us."
Blaze stared at the door where Gideon had exited, his eyes reflecting flames that weren't there. "Just remember—the real prey is coming."
He licked his lips. "And I do so love watching Talons burn."