Chapter One: The Acting of a Dreadful Thing

A muffled laugh, short and harsh, floated up to the front of the room. Several more followed. The girl with the gun rolled her eyes. Torn did his best to ignore them and the sweat beading on his upper lip and prickling his back between his shoulder blades. He kept his eyes on the man behind the table, the proxy of power for their absent leader, this nameless Shadow. Torn wracked his brain for the man's name among Cass's reports. Lanus, widower, father of two. Works at the race track as a mechanic. To his credit, the man kept his own dark eyes locked with Torn's.

Good. If a ranking member of this little rebellion couldn't meet him eye-to-eye, then Torn was going to burn the place to the ground. If weakness lingered here, they wouldn't stand a chance against Praxis.

The girl stepped closer and pressed the muzzle of her blaster against his cheek. "What exactly makes you think we would ever trust someone like you?"

From his vantage point on the business end of her weapon, Torn forced himself to stare her down. She stared balefully right back at him. The angle of her shot would blow the top of his skull out.

"How well would you say this little endeavor is going?" Torn's eyes flicked back to Lanus. "Hm?" He turned away from the girl to look at the other rebels gathered. Cold unreadable faces stared back him. Their regard crackled over him like static. On the surface, they looked to be nothing more than average citizens. Most of them carrying the scruff of harsh living in a warring city. A few scattered cigarette ends glowed at him from the relative murk of the room making skulls of the faces of the men and women smoking them. There was anger there. Repression. But no spark, only embers.

Torn scoffed.

"I don't exactly see the faces of victory in this little shit hole." He turned back to Lanus, attempting to ignore the weapon still pointed in his face. "I've read all the reports this spy has brought to the KG and the Council. You're disorganized. Your communication chain is primitive at best, and you haven't accepted a new member in months. You've long since built a basic power structure and a trusted core of people, but you don't know where to go from here."

A hint of chilly anger flashed across Lanus's face. "Insulting our methods isn't exactly a good way to keep your head here, KG. Get to the point."

"It's not insult. It's fact. You need to step up, you need an edge on the Baron, and…"

The man rose an eyebrow at the pause. "And?"

Torn looked down to find Cass staring up at him from where he lay pressed against the table with a gun held to his head, too, by another rebel. He'd been so excited to show Torn his progress with the Underground. So validated. And now Torn was going to rip it all out of his hands.

"And I want out."

"You were just using me," Cass said suddenly, his voice a harsh whisper. "Traitor."

Lanus pressed on, ignoring the spy. Something like amusement crinkled his eyes. "You? Of all the Krimzon Guards to come to me, it's you?" He planted his hands on the table and leaned forward. "You. The youngest man to wear a mask. The man who destroyed all our supply chains. The butcher of Block 13. You've personally put more family members of the people in this room either in jail or an early grave than any other KG has in the last ten years. Captain of the Krimzon Guard and Marshal of the First Legion, the best of the Baron's officers. The great Torn." The rebel stepped around the table as he spoke. The girl stepped aside for him, but her aim never wavered. Torn found himself nearly nose-to-nose with him. He was heavier set than he looked at a distance, and a wave of oil and hydraulic fluid fumes wafted from him chased by the low quality tobacco that stained his teeth.

Torn felt himself bristle instinctively at Lanus's derision, but the string of accusations – no, truth – the string of truth made his gut turn. To him, the supply chains had been smuggling rings bringing in weapons and violence; after he crushed them and put several dozen perpetrators in prison, an epidemic of bog cough swept the Slums. And Torn had signed off on the destruction of 'illegal' medication being brought in supposedly as just things to sell on the black market.

Block 13 went up in flames to smoke out a drug kingpin. The thug and his gang died of his own hard headedness, but the tactic also killed several families trapped in the building by the thugs. Time and again, he justified it as being for the greater good, eyes only on purging Haven City of criminals and his own meteoric rise towards false greatness. He might physically stand half a head taller than this gritty, unforgiving rebel, but the man's words made Torn microscopic.

Lanus shifted the wad of chew to the other side of his mouth and crossed his thick arms over his chest. The scar on his lip deepened his scowl. "So, like we said, give me a good reason why I don't just let Tess here blow your brains across this room and maybe give us all some closure?"

The hot swell of righteous anger building in the room made the hairs on Torn's neck stand up. Eyes on his back like wolves circling for the kill. Lanus's eyes darted to Torn's forehead where he no doubt could see sweat beading up. Torn gave himself two heart beats' worth of silence. Having made masking his emotions into an art form long ago was the only thing keeping the panic rising in his chest at bay.

"If you wanted me dead, you would've had her do it already," Torn rasped. He scrambled around for the words he'd practiced to himself before leaving the barracks earlier that night.

Dead Town. People left to die. Citizens starving in the streets. Dark Eco experiments.

The people I've killed.

Do what's right.

He stood up a little straighter and fought the urge to crawl inside himself. He put on a brave face and forced himself to use the pain in his side for clarity.

"I'm not proud of what I've done. I've let myself be blinded by my own ambition. And you have every right to kill me where I stand. As long as I serve the Baron, I'm a danger to you." His insides felt like they wanted to crawl out of his throat, and he fought every nerve and muscle to keep from shaking. His own body wanted to fight him for even thinking of rebelling. He made himself turn to Tess and look straight down the barrel back at her. "But I don't want to serve the Baron anymore. I can't believe in his cause anymore. And …" Tess's blue eyes drilled back into him, unreadable besides the hate burning there. "…if I can't convince you that I want to help you drag his lying, disloyal ass off that throne, then you better kill me here and now, because I'm not going back to serve him." He leaned into the barrel, pressing his forehead against the cool metal and speaking through clenched teeth. "I'm done being complicit in his tyranny."

All Torn could hear was the thudding of his own heart, the room having fallen into a dangerous silence. Tess's finger slipped into the trigger guard.

"Wait."

The rebels moved again, startled out of their silence by a waifish woman materializing from a dark corner, her hand outstretched to touch Tess's shoulder.

Torn looked up to find a ghost standing before him. He felt his face go slack in shock

Imre. The journalist from the Haven Tribune.

One of the only other witnesses to have made it from the wall in Dead Town to tell the tale. Until she started telling the tale too loudly. A week after Torn made it back into his office chair, Erol stalked into the room and slapped a file down on his desk. "Don't say I never did you any favors," he'd sneered and left. The report summarized what the KG termed a 'strategic removal' – the removal of a person identified to be detrimental to the security of the city and the Baron's rule. It had been for Imre and her cameraman, Flynn. In the file, the strategic removal was marked 'complete.' The approval authority signature block had Torn's credentials in it, though he'd never laid eyes on the initial request to begin with.

She didn't look any better than he did in the month or so since Dead Town; her cheeks were hollow and her left eye covered in gauze behind her glasses. Her mouth made an amused quirk no doubt in response to the look of dumb amazement on his face. "Don't look so surprised, Captain. It takes more than an inept KG hit squad to take me down."

"I didn't…I didn't know they…"

"That they'd tried to silence me? If I wasn't prepared to handle the consequences, I wouldn't have tried to push the story."

"What about …Finn? Flynn?"

Her expression sharpened. "He's dead."

Torn, at a loss as to why her appearance and Flynn's death were suddenly causing his throat to close up, pressed a hand to his side and had to cough before he could speak. Pain shot through his ribs like lightning.

"I'm sorry," he said. He was suddenly aware of Tess's eyes watching the engagement with something like curiosity. Lanus stepped closer.

"Imre, when you said you had help getting away from the Sacred Site…" he started.

What Torn didn't know was what exactly the Tribune tried to put out to the public about Dead Town. He actively avoided any mention of the event. They'd led off with Charlie retreating and Torn screaming at a fleeing lieutenant. The broadcast made it about five minutes before the Baron's media controllers caught it and shut down the nets. Most copies of it were then rapidly purged and the hit put out on Imre and Flynn. Flynn was cut down as they fled the flaming ruins of the Tribune building, but she managed to fool the hitmen that she'd died in the fire. She lost an eye for it but, not many people outside of those gathered at the interlocks and the handful of survivors that got out really knew of Torn's involvement.

Imre watched Torn with the eye she had left, her expression cautious but compassionate.

"Torn and some of the grunts left in Alpha took us out with them and evacuated people while we still had the time," she said. The assembled rebels pressed in to hear her better, hanging on her words. Most had only hearsay to go on about the atrocities that happened outside the new wall, and that had been enough to push more of the populace to act. The event bolstered the Underground's pending acceptance roster in the last few weeks. "He saved Flynn more than once. He even let me have a gun. And he nearly died doing it."

She looked now at Tess and Lanus. "If that's not indicative of some sort of redemptive quality, then I don't know what is. You've got a golden opportunity here to use one of the Baron's most influential figures to help take him down. Maybe he's been a jackass for most of his life, but he's here, isn't he?" She levelled a finger at Cass now. His face creased into a snarl, and he struggled briefly against his captor. "If you want an indicator that this isn't a doublecross, look at that sack of shit."

More than a few heads turned to look at the spy, but Torn could only stare in awe at the small woman.

"What blocks did you evacuate?"

The sudden question pulled his attention back to Tess. She kept her gun up, but the hate in her eyes had de-escalated to a simmering mistrust.

Flashes of the event cut through Torn's mind. "Seven through Nine." He'd been taken down by a Metal Head himself in the last stretch of Nine. Had knocked Flynn out of the way. He could practically hear its hot breath in his ear and its teeth in his shoulder. "The other half of those left got Ten and Eleven, but by the time they got to Twelve, the Metal Heads had overrun the wall. Most of One through Seven got out when…" When they saw the backs of his men as they abandoned their posts. "When they saw the retreat."

Something in Tess's face twisted in pain at the mention of Block Twelve, but it disappeared within an instant. Only then did her hand waver and her weapon lower ever so slightly. She looked at Lanus for direction at this point.

Like Tess, his craggy face no longer displayed a fierce anger, but he didn't exactly smile and welcome Torn with open arms. He nodded once to Tess, and she stepped away, blending in with the gathered group. Torn felt some of the tension in his shoulders lift as the blaster pointed in a direction other than his face. The man stepped forward suddenly, jamming a finger under Torn's nose.

"I swear, if you make me regret this, you'll not see the end of the day."

Torn looked between the finger and the man. "Got it. What do you need me to do?"

Lanus stepped back, his eyes narrowed and meaty hands clasped in front of him. His face twitched into something that Torn supposed should have been a smile, but it came across as more of a grimace.

"Baby steps. First, what do you suggest we do with Johnny Turncoat over here?"

He gestured to the struggling Cass like a gameshow host showing what was behind Door Number 1. The anger in Cass's face was an entirely different anger than that of the rebels. It was straight venom. Betrayal. Torn took a breath.

"If he goes free, we're all fucked." He looked back to Lanus. "I can cover for him disappearing easily enough, but it'll be hard to explain it away if he waltzes into the command HQ with a tale to tell."

Lanus side-eyed Torn for a moment, halfway facing the table as he regarded the spy. Torn stared back at him. Then, Lanus jerked a thumb towards the back of the hideout, and the rebel restraining Cass hauled him off the table. The spy started screaming.

"Traitor! You mother-fucking traitor! I'll ki-" And, then they were out of earshot. Torn felt sick. He hoped it didn't show. Lanus made another gesture. Torn heard a rustle behind him.

"We'll be in touch, Captain."

He didn't even get the chance to ask how or when. A bag went over his head, and someone kicked his feet out from under him. He hit the floor and felt his ribs creak as most of the air left him. Many hands grabbed him and dragged him away. His own painful wheezing covered up most of the sounds going on around him, but they didn't go back out the same door he had entered. Instead, there were a number of twists and turns and then suddenly they dumped him outside onto the wet ground. The hands disappeared, and he lay there for a second, waiting for the kicks or something equivalent, but none came.

With a groan, he reached up and pulled the bag from his head. He was alone on his back on a darkened street. Rain still pattered off the sidewalk, set in for the night. The air left him again in a semi-terrified sigh, and he let his head fall back onto the ground. He laid there a long time, shivering as the adrenaline left him and blinking against the rain.

He kept seeing the fear and fury in Cass's eyes as they dragged him away.

"You're late."

It wasn't often Ashelin got the jump on Torn in the mornings. His workaholic tendencies had become legendary at this point. Today, though, he actually flinched at her voice as he strode in through the door. The hunted look on his face relaxed when he recognized her.

"Long night," he said at the top of a tired sigh. He wore armor today. Newer pieces stuck out like sore thumbs on his left shoulder and torso, replacing the pieces he lost at Dead Town. He wore them like they didn't fit well, and they made the duller, scarred pieces even duller and more scarred.

She reclined on a chair with her boots propped up on his desk, a datapad in one hand and an arm thrown over the back of the chair. She let a beat of silence pass and looked him once over.

"I'd like to talk about it."

He nodded once and closed the door behind him. "Cass was one of your old squadmates, wasn't he?"

"Formerly, yes." She turned to face his desk as he walked by. Only because she knew him well was Ashelin able to tell that something bothered him. Maybe it was the loss of a good spy. Personnel losses among the Guard seemed to hit him a little harder these days. "Cass was probably the best of us. I don't know who's running Intel these days, but I have to hand it to them. They do train their operators well."

Torn only grunted in response as he sat down stiffly, wincing. He took a moment to get his computer running. Ashelin watched him and noted the way he avoided her gaze.

"Not well enough, apparently," he grumbled. She arched an eyebrow at him.

"Everything okay?"

"Okay as it can be having lost a valuable double agent in what's probably going to be the first real rebellion we see in Haven City," he growled, eyes starting a rapid scan of the computer screen. "Somehow the Underground found out about him. The whole meeting was a ruse. Took him the minute he walked in the door."

"What did you do?"

"Listened. At first." He paused. "Tried to get what info I could and tried to get someone on the horn for backup, but they must have been expecting company. A few came out of the hideout shooting."

"And you didn't shoot back?"

"Didn't have a gun. The point was to observe, figure 'em out, not flush 'em out. Validate the last year of Cass's life living with the enemy." He snorted humorlessly. "I took it up with Intel when I got back. We're oh-for-two on this one."

"I imagine this will put the Underground higher up on Intel's kill list finally."

Again, Torn winced. He coughed once, eyes watering. "Yeah," he grunted.

Ashelin finally moved her boots from his desktop. "Do you at least remember where the hideout was?"

The look he shot her was more disgruntled than she expected. "Of course I do. Intel said they'd send in a forensics team to investigate."

"Are the rebels not there anymore?"

Torn shook his head, growing quiet, fingers picking away at his keyboard. He might be big and bad on the parade field, but he still typed with only his index fingers like a child. Were he not in such a bad mood, she might chide him for it. But today? Today, he seemed to be on the border of one of those moods. The type of mood she'd found him in the day he woke up in the hospital – withdrawn, numb until someone engaged with him, and then he was a viper, striking fast and savage.

"No," he said finally. He turned, finished with his email, to rest his elbows on the desktop. "They've gone to ground."

Ashelin nodded grimly to herself. Despite wanting to dig at the root cause of Torn's moodiness, she had wanted to find out what happened with Cass from the source first and not the dry, technical writing of an Intel report. Given his terse replies, she probably could have just gone with the report.

"Smarter than they look, then. They were definitely planning for him to be followed or accompanied."

He nodded, looking her in the eye finally. Nothing there in his face enlightened her to anything deeper than general fatigue and a moroseness that had been lingering around him like smoke for the last month. Ashelin felt her own expression soften.

"You should get some rest," she said. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and then, opened it again.

"I can't," he half whispered, staring down at his hands. The wall between her and his state of mind opened wide for a moment, and he seemed to age another ten years, face gray, dark smudges beneath his eyes. Then, he closed up again like waves crashing in on each other. He glanced at the chrono on the wall before getting up. "I have to go meet with Kenth about duty allocations now that we're three platoons short."

He put a hand on her shoulder as he left the office. The orderly room outside snapped to attention as he passed through. Ashelin watched after him a moment, troubled.

She trusted Torn implicitly. They'd known each other long enough and had been together long enough for her to do so. But, she wasn't sure if it was this change in Torn that troubled her more or the concurrence of his behavior with the disappearance of an agent who, by any stretch of the imagination, should never have been at risk of discovery. Guilt, maybe? Guilt that he'd been there and couldn't stop it.

Ashelin pushed herself up from the chair and followed in Torn's wake. The orderly room snapped to attention again. She didn't bother putting them at ease before leaving the room. Once this incident was wrapped up, she'd pull Torn aside and talk with him. There just hadn't been time since he'd left the hospital. She'd been there when he woke up, and that had been a relatively happy time. In the weeks since, though, he became more and more of a ghost. And she would be lying to herself if it didn't hurt that he didn't seek her out as often anymore.

The hallway from the orderly room took her away from the First Legion's command section where Torn's office was and towards the personnel section. From there, she stepped into an elevator to head down to the bottom floor and the Intel offices. She had some research to do. Besides the regular patrols she ran, her supervisor had decided she should start looking inwards into the Guard for more opportunities. She would have been content to keep the city clean, but the man had a point. Plus, she found an affinity for investigations and running coordination efforts between the various KG entities. Hell, it might even get her closer to working with her father directly.

As she stepped from the elevator, a brusque, upright figure nearly collided with her. A snarl curled his features a moment before he recognized her. "Ah, Ashelin. I do apologize. Didn't see you there," Erol said, smarm coloring his words and turning them rancid.

"I don't know how not. What's it like having to look up at everything?"

Erol sucked in a breath through his teeth, tisking lightly. "Snark doesn't suit someone with the charisma of a wet blanket, my dear," he retorted as he stepped into the elevator.

"And, no matter what you think, just because your hair makes you taller doesn't mean people actually think you are."

The elevator doors closed before he could reply, and Ashelin casually flipped him the bird through the gap right before they closed. She had a feeling Erol might have been in the Intel section doing what she was about to do, though, he likely would be doing it to further dislodge Torn from his place as Marshal. Command positions in the Krimzon Guard could easily go to someone based on their ability to scheme rather than their merit. A method her father said encouraged ruthlessness in his commanders, and thus in how they waged war. Sniff out the weakness, strike where they're soft. After all, who would expect nothing less than ruthlessness on the battlefield against an enemy like the Metal Heads?

Well, The Marshals in the Second and Third Legion have come and gone, but the current Krimzon Guard Commander, an aging man named Vex, and Torn to a certain extent, had kept their seats far longer despite that particular mentality.

Either way, Ashelin was just glad that Praxis had the wherewithal to know who keep in charge. Since departing from the path her father laid out for her, Ashelin still carried doubts he would even let her near a command position, but one could always hope.

The grunt behind the Intel desk, conspicuously inconspicuous without the characteristic tattoos of a KG, jumped to his feet when she walked in.

"I need you to pull the reports from the Ruling Council's Initiative Number 117A. Originator was Agent 111403 – Cass."

AN: This chapter borks up some of the continuity in my oneshot Adrift, so if you're familiar with that, this now becomes the primary reference. I'll go back and edit Adrift as time permits. Also, Erol's not that short – he's still taller than Jak in most of the cutscenes, but not nearly so much as Torn and Ashelin.