Semper Vigiles
Chapter 5
Cyrus studied the towering silhouette of the Afterlife, the infamous watering hole presenting a perfect picture of controlled anarchy amidst Night City's discordant urban sprawl.
He had heard about this place, synonymous with a few of Night City's grandest stories, narrating the rise and fall of some of its legendary denizens. His mind painted the club as a flourishing hub of prospects and futility, where futures were both made and squandered.
As Chamber's file scrolled onto his HUD and he read about the owner, Rogue Amendiares, uncertainty clawed at him.
He was trained to read enemies from their words, from their actions, from their battle reports, but here he was, about to walk into a conversation with a woman he didn't quite grasp.
She was a killer like him, although their arenas of conflict differed drastically.
She had carved her legacy upon the unforgiving concrete battlegrounds of Night City, while Cyrus was a Spartan, a Legion of one who had driven back alien forces throughout the vast expanse of the galaxy.
Yet, at the core, they shared an undeniable feature - an inexorable will to survive.
He continued to observe the Afterlife main entrance from across the street. From under the darkness of his visor, his ivory-blue eyes traced the flow of patrons, clusters of neon-outlined silhouettes fading into the pulse of throbbing music and intoxicating fog of collectively held breaths.
"So, what's the game plan?" Chamber's inquisitive voice gentled into his helmet's audio receivers, a soft echo against the cacophony of ketamine-soaked laughter and the rhythmic hum of Cybernetic modifications thrumming around them.
Cyrus offered a nonchalant shrug, the liquid polymer contours of his MJOLNIR suit whispering in synchrony with his languid gestures. His cold, blue gaze remained riveted on the entrance, a vertical gash of neon-tainted shadows that devoured every patron.
"Figure we could just walk in," Cyrus proposed. His voice tapered off halfway into a nascent chuckle, riding on the crest of his experienced jest. "Mix things up a bit."
A faint flux of pulsating signals, a digital replica of sighing breath, echoed in his ears. "You want to just... 'Stroll right in'? Into Afterlife, in full Spartan gear?"
Chamber's tone held a shade of amused exasperation. She ran through the implications of Cyrus's cavalier proposal, sounding more like a concerned mother debating her child's brash antics than an Advanced AI analyzing Spartan strategy.
"Sure," Cyrus affirmed, his voice holding the implacable resolve of a Spartan. A subtle thread of amusement looped through his tone, hinting at a smirk hidden beneath the metallic murk of his visor.
A stark departure from the norm.
He loved his cloak and dagger, but there are moments when it is... unnecessary.
Only silence returned for a few moments, Chamber painstakingly weighing the merits and complications of his proposition. In the end, she conceded with a digitally rendered sigh, "Ok, walking right into the lion's den, it is, then."
Cyrus's mouth twisted into an unseen grin. "Perfectly safe... probably."
Breaking his scrutiny of the Afterlife entrance, Cyrus pivoted on his armored boot, aligning himself towards the infamous bar. With a final, extended breath ballooning in his chest, his metallic form plunged forward, invading the heart of Afterlife's crowd like a striking serpent.
Meanwhile, in the humming quiet of his helmet, Cyrus could almost sense Chamber's 'raised eyebrow,' her spectral gaze pouring over him as he strolled towards the entrance of Afterlife like a Spartan Super Soldier planning a casual night out.
He could practically feel her shrugged acceptance, the slide of her digitally forged nods, and the roll of her eyes. Not for the first time, Cyrus mused on how well the Advanced AI could replicate human nuances.
Night City was about to be graced with a unique visitor, and Cyrus knew that whatever came next it was going to be enthrallingly unpredictable. After all, safe or not, this beat sneaking around in the shadows any day.
With a predator's fluid stride, Cyrus advanced toward the thrumming, neon-lit bastion of the Afterlife Club. The stark contrast of his MJOLNIR armor painted his unmistakable features against the club's graffiti-smeared backdrop. Down a winding flight of stairs, the nightlife of Night City buzzed with hedonistic vitality, its neon-lit veins pulsing with the unending rhythm of the city.
At the foot of these stairs stood the main entrance to Afterlife. Its metal-crafted doors hummed with synthetic grooves of EDM reverberating from within, tempting lost souls with tantalizing glimpses of the debauchery on the other side.
Shrouded in the club's artificial twilight, the bouncer of the Afterlife reigned supreme. A mountainous figure with a hulking cybernetic arm that gleamed with latent aggression, his eyes bore into each patron with predatory menace.
When it finally landed on Cyrus, the bouncer's scarred face darkened in unease or annoyance. The question hung in the air.
"Name?" The bouncer questioned, his robotic baritone pitched against the haunting clamor of Afterlife's aural anarchy. His eyes narrowed, tracing the inhuman silhouette of the Spartan, sizing him up.
"Cyrus," was the Spartan's straightforward answer, delivering his name with no flair or apprehension.
With a gruff grunt, the bouncer pressed on, his steely gaze refusing to break contact with Cyrus. "What brings you here?"
"Business." Returned Cyrus, his tone as neutral as his visor-shielded eyes.
"What kind of business?" The bouncer pressed, curiosity leaking into his gruff speech, bulldozing the fine lines of casual interrogation.
"The personal kind," Cyrus elaborated grudgingly, hinting at a conversation he refused to engage in.
The bouncer, now dubious, assessed the Spartan once more. His cybernetically enhanced eyes scanned over the towering figure, prickling with sudden alertness.
He has seen trouble, lived through it, and realized one does not walk into Afterlife in a suit of armor unless one means to take bullets.
"You gonna cause trouble?" Challenge flared in his words, a promise of cold steel and hot blood thinning into the tension littering the narrow staircase.
Cyrus masked behind his opaque visor, regarded the bouncer with unwavering steadiness. "No," he returned with Spartan sureness, his voice flat and final.
And despite the odd pairing of words and circumstances, the bouncer perceived the truth his tone projected. Intrigue flickering in his gaze, he stepped aside, relinquishing entry to the Spartan guest.
Stepping through the entrance, a surge of heat and penetrating beats hit Cyrus. Vibrant neon strokes of rouge, azure, and gold bathed him in hues of vivid resonance, illuminating his glossy armors in dancing ribbons of artificial light.
Inside, he took in the eclectic mix of patrons populating the humming expanse of Afterlife. Greasers with augmented limbs and high-tech samurais filled the club, their skin and cyberware inked in visual tributes to money, power, and Night City's love for anarchy.
The rhythm of dark trance mixed with the grungy undertones of electro-clash possessed the crowd. Bodies swayed in haunting synchrony, augmented flesh giving in to the molten pull of intoxicating beats.
A few stray glances swept towards him, curious orbs tracing his hulking form, their texturing radiance brandishing varying shades of neon curiosity.
And yet, as quickly as they found him, they lost interest, passing him over like an anomaly lost in a sea of the luster-struck, pleasure-seeking populace.
"Very homey," Chamber observed, her tone teasingly pleasant. Her holographic projection materialized beside Cyrus, spectral hands folded neatly before her. "I quite like the aesthetics."
Cyrus raised an eyebrow in her direction. "Thought you hated clubs?"
Her projection stirred, blue light coalescing into a grin. "I do. But despising a place doesn't mean I can't appreciate the aesthetics."
He chuckled at her remark. "Life's simpler being an AI."
"No drinks to taste, no dances to enjoy, no physical experiences," Chamber mused. "I miss out on a lot, don't I?"
"You say that like you want to be here," Cyrus shot back, a grin playing beneath his visor.
His response elicited a riot of pixel-perfect laughter. "And you're wrong. I meant being here with you, trouble magnet."
"The sarcasm is unnecessary," Cyrus chided, his tone laced with humor.
"And yet, incredibly called for," Chamber playfully retorted, projecting a feeling of electronic smugness that echoed through their communication channel.
His grin was a muted thing hidden beneath the gleaming shell of his visor. Subdued yet warm. "That it is, Chamber. That it is…"
Cyrus moved further into the club, the tormented rhythm of cybernetic music throbbing in sync with the pulse of vibrant neon lights. His scanning optics encompassed the buoyant crowd.
As his gaze swept across the bar, Chamber broke through the club's internal servers, sliding into the data stream like a digital phantom with ruthless efficiency.
The main bar, set opposite him, stood like a looming ivory chess piece, its polished surface reflecting prismatic bursts from overhead lights. Here and there, patrons hunched over their drinks, basking in the mellow aftertaste of synthetically infused alcohol.
From behind the bar, a woman detached herself; her eyes were hidden behind reflective shades, and an enigmatic smirk ghosted her lips. Impossibly saturated neon hair cascaded around her shoulders, creating an entrancing ripple of colors against her black ensemble.
The robotic arm that ended in an array of multicolored bottles hinted at high-quality cyberware.
"You looking for someone, stranger?" The bartender asked, her voice barely audible over the blaring music. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips, amused by his alien appearance.
"Rogue," Cyrus supplied in his smooth, unruffled baritone.
"She stepped out for a bit." The bartender answered with a dismissal tone. "She'll be back soon. What say you make yourself comfortable and have a drink?"
A quiet prompt from Chamber came through his comm just as the bartender finished speaking.
She worked faster than Cyrus. "She's on her way," she confirmed.
Cyrus's steely gaze scoured across the bar seats.
"I might be too heavy for it," he pointed out, the metallic echo of his voice a pensive murmur against the raucous club noise.
"Give it a shot," the bartender encouraged, a playful flicker dancing behind her mirrored specs.
Cyrus studied the line of bar stools with a hint of morbid curiosity. The thin metal spikes holding up the faux leather cushions seemed ill-equipped to bear the weight of his armor.
"I weigh over a thousand pounds in this suit. I'm not going to risk it," he said, giving voice to his concerns.
The bartender grinned, deducting an equal mix of humor and stubbornness in his startlingly even tone. "Maybe our furniture is sturdier than you think," she teased, leaning back against the luminescent bar countertop.
"And what if it isn't?" Cyrus asked, hiding the ripple of a smile under his helmet. "You going to compensate me if I end up on the floor?"
"What makes you think we wouldn't charge you for it?" The bartender shot back, her eccentric grin glowing in the strobing light.
Cyrus's voice filled with feigned distress. "And here I thought the customer was always right."
"Only to our regulars," she returned, sliding a tall glass toward the spare space next to him on the counter. Her fingers played around its rim, creating a ripple of tinkling sound, "and those who can hold their drink."
Her glamorous smile and the wistful note in her voice hinted at a veiled challenge. In response, Cyrus gently slid a gauntleted hand towards the glass, accepting her dare with a faint, wordless chuckle.
Game on, it seemed.
With a barely audible hiss of recycled air, Cyrus brought his armored gauntlet to the base of his helmet, fingers deftly unlocking the protective casing. The smooth, face-obscuring helmet detached with a low suctioned pop, revealing the rugged contours of a youthful face.
With a meticulously embossed crest of Frirene adorning its surface, his helmet was a sight to behold. A monument to a planet that had eroded into cosmic dust, carrying his people, his kin, into its silent abyss. He placed the helmet onto the polished bar, taking care to avoid any chance of it toppling over.
The light inside Afterlife chose that moment to flicker through the colors of the rainbow, bathing Cyrus's exposed visage in a spectral blend of lights. For the first time, the bartender was able to take in the youth of his features and the depth of his cerulean gaze, stark against the weathered lines of his face.
"You're a little young to be doing mercenary work," she commented, her eyes scrutinizing and analyzing the pieces of the puzzle that Cyrus represented.
"And who's to say I'm a mercenary?" Cyrus responded his voice an odd mix of mirth and cryptic tone, stroking the hidden echo of underlying tension.
The bartender crossed her arms, leaning slightly forward across the bar, her keen interest now piqued. "Well, it's not often you see a fully armored soldier walk into the Afterlife and ask about Rogue."
"Might be the first," Cyrus conceded with a nonchalant shrug of his broad shoulders, allowing a ripple of amusement to filter into his voice.
"Does that make us lucky or unlucky?" The bartender asked, her mirrored specs reflecting the Spartan's intriguingly young face against its ultramodern backlight.
Cyrus held her gaze; the smile that ghosted his lips was potent enough to light up his porcelain blue eyes. "Only time will tell."
Taking the tall glass into his grasp, Cyrus brought it up, studying its enticingly crimson contents with a murmur of curiosity. Lifting it to his lips, he took a cautious sip, his mind conjuring up expectations of bitterness or acidity.
But as the liquid rolled onto his tongue, it was nothing like he thought it would be. It was sweet, its saccharine punch disguised in a teasing dance of effervescent fizz. Beneath the initial sweetness, hints of tart berries followed the trail, their sour notes fluttering on the edges of his palate.
Whether it was synthetic or a masterpiece of bio-engineering did not change the fact that the drink proved a daring adventure for his taste buds. He contemplated the unfamiliar feeling, his gaze flitting to the bartender with a shimmer of surprise.
"Careful, kid," she warned as she wiped off a glass with a white rag, chuckling more to herself. "This place has a lot of killers."
"Then you wouldn't mind telling me about them," Cyrus replied, his tone nonchalant despite the loaded implication of his words. His fingers idly rolled the glass around, the liquid within reflecting the club's vibrant neon radiance.
Her mouth curved at his words. "If I told you about the killers who frequent the Afterlife, you'd be here all night," mention of this dangerous crowd had her adopting a brazen smirk. "After all, you did come in all suited up, ready for a war."
Cyrus found himself grinning at her jibe, albeit a little ruefully. "Well," he said, his eyes cool, calculating, "Maybe I'm hoping to avoid one."
With a glint in her eyes, the bartender raised a glass, her lips parting in a hearty laugh. "That would be the smart thing to do."
After a spell of silence, punctuated by the snatches of conversations swirling around them and the entrancing pulse of the beats, Cyrus broke the hush. His words sliced through the pulsating ambiance, soft yet resonating.
"Do you have a name?" He asked, his blue eyes having traveled back from the crowd to rest on the bartender's amused features. His query came out as a light-hearted probe, curious but not insistent.
She grinned, leaning back against a row of bottles arranged in a streak of vibrant hues. A chuckle, laced with a hint of warm expectation, hung in the air between them. "Why are we becoming friends now?" She shot back, her tone light.
"Depends on if you answer my question," Cyrus returned with a smirk.
"Fair enough. Call me Glitch," she said, giving him a sly wink of her eye.
"Glitch," Cyrus tested the name in his mouth, rolling the syllables on his tongue, amusement swirling in the deep blue pools of his eyes.
"Strange name for someone working in a bar," he mused, an eyebrow itched upward, his voice echoing a subtle note of mirth.
"Strange is the business kid," she shot back, grinning at his response.
The bar door swung open with a deliberately forceful push, framing the entrance of a monolithic figure. A hulk of a man, his form was embellished with high-tech, glimmering cyberware that screamed wealthy, dangerous, and influential.
Four more figures trailed behind him, like planets caught in the gravitational orbit of a sun. Their expressions, especially their guns, were neatly tucked away, but the air of hostility emanating from them was tangible.
His calculating gaze swept through the club before coming to a halt on Cyrus. The hint of disdain in his eyes ignited a spark of caution in Cyrus's gut.
"Chamber," Cyrus murmured, transmitting his words through the neural link established between them.
"I'm on it," came Chamber's brief yet crisp response, her digital self diving back into the swirling data storm to research this potential threat.
The man's voice, amplified with subtle cybernetic modulation, rolled out. "Hey, Glitch."
The bartender turned her attention to the newcomer, her grin curling with a hint of respectful familiarity. "What's the word, Maine?"
"Need some rounds for my crew," He responded, casting a cursory glance at the Spartan, his gaze lingering ever so slightly, hinting at an unspoken challenge. "We'll be at our usual spot."
"Coming right up," Glitch responded, her voice threaded with an amiable composure as she turned to collect the necessary stock for the order.
Maine flicked another glance towards Cyrus- a silent challenge – before steering his crew towards their waiting booth. The intimidating group cut a path through the club, patrons shifting subtly to grant them unobstructed passage.
Cyrus's gaze followed the back of Maine's armored figure. The stoic stalwart image contrived a show of indifference, camouflaging an undercurrent of curiosity. He muttered a silent curse under his breath as he watched Maine join his crew.
Even in the dim light, he didn't miss the malicious glint in the man's gaze.
After a beat of contemplative silence, Cyrus returned his attention to Glitch.
Picking up his earlier thread of curiosity, he directed his inquiry towards the bartender. "Who was he?"
"That was Maine," Glitch's voice was even, betraying no emotion as her gaze skimmed over the intimidating figure. "One of those killers I was talking about."
"Do they frequent Afterlife?" he asked, his voice mirroring her distinct lack of emotion.
"Quite regularly." Glitch responded with a nod. She leaned onto the bar top, a wicked twinkle in her eye as she shot him a roguish grin. "I told you, we serve some of the nastiest killers in here."
Cyrus was quick to mirror her grin. "Your sales pitch needs work, Glitch." She shot him a glare, feigning offense at his comment, which only served to deepen his grin.
As Glitch busied herself with Maine's order, readying herself to brave the gauntlet, Cyrus was left in the humbling company of his thoughts and Chamber's ethereal presence.
"What do you have for me, Chamber?" he asked, pitching his voice low enough to meld seamlessly with the rippling rhythms coursing through Afterlife.
A few beats of silence echoed back at him, followed by the ghostly mirth of Chamber's voice. "Well, Maine's crew is quite an interesting lot."
Detailed profiles filtered into Davian's mind, and in some ways, Chamber was right.
This crew had an interesting history.
Lucyna Kushinada, or 'Lucy' as the streets called her, was the group's designated netrunner. Interestingly, she was a wanted person, a fugitive who had managed to irk Arasaka corporation. A trailblazer with her pastel rainbow tresses, her bright red-hued eyes appeared to mimic her flamboyantly colored hair.
In contrast, their second Netrunner, Kiwi, was more of an enigma. Wanted not by one but an array of mega-corporations, she was even more intriguing due to her icily composed demeanor. A slender, towering silhouette clothed in a sanguine coat, her face was half-concealed by a cryptic red mask.
Dorio, their edgerunner, was every bit the veteran, the calculating serenity in her eyes revealing her extensive experience in the harsh roads of Night City. With her imposing stature and molten orbs of amber, she was the wall that bore the brunt of physical threats.
At the back stood Pillar, stationed like a towering obelisk to the side of the crew. His cybernetic hands radiated a steady golden glow, and his curious beard-like chin cyberware cascaded down his face, enhancing his sharp looks.
The final piece of this startling puzzle was a petite fighter aptly named Rebecca. Her chalky skin and subtle blue tint made her pink tattoos even more stark and mysterious. Her sharp eyes held a hint of warning, a solo not to be trifled with.
Intriguing, Cyrus mused as he idly swirled the remainder of his drink, his steel-blue gaze tracking Glitch as she neared the vivacious group.
A whisper of caution threaded his thoughts.
"Best not to draw their attention," Cyrus remarked quietly, his gaze drifting back to the table where Maine and his crew were settled. The subtextual pulse of his words added an added layer of gravitas taking root in his thoughts.
"I couldn't agree more," Chamber affirmed, adding a note of caution to the air. "Rogue's about ten minutes out. So long as we avoid any ripples, we should be... oh, for heaven's sake."
Cyrus caught the abrupt halt in her words; it pervaded the silence between them like a dagger-thrust. "What is it?" His voice echoed the sudden surge of concern.
"Remember those mercs running security for the Red Room gig?" Chamber asked, her tone mirroring her digital equivocation.
"Yes," he responded, the vague hint of apprehension already threading his tone. The memory of that job held less than pleasant aspects for him.
"They're here," Chamber stated with an undercurrent of lament weaving through her words.
"Why should that be a problem?" Cyrus inquired, more as a rhetorical retort than a genuine question.
"Because Rogue is not thrilled about their operations," Chamber revealed, transmitting a hint of anticipatory tension along their neural link.
As if summoned by the thread of their thoughts, the club doors swung open dramatically. A woman with a storm brewing in her eyes and an air of undisputed authority around her stomped into the rollicking Afterlife.
The moment Rogue entered the venue, the club's cacophonic din seemed to simmer down by a few degrees.
A trio of husky Mercs, evidently blindsided by her sudden arrival, scrambled to part ways, barely managing not to tumble over each other in their hasty maneuvers.
As Rogue traversed through the crowd, nothing about her rapid stride suggested pleasure, her severe gaze failing to wave off the daunting aura she radiated. There was a quiet menace about her, and even the drunkest patrons veered aside, granting her an unhindered passage.
Cyrus watched the unfolding spectacle from his vantage point. He flicked his gaze over the veteran Solo.
Stark white hair fell in a messy bob, accentuating her smoky grey eyes. Her gaze was sharp and calculating, and hate radiated from her like an invisible force field.
That was Rogue, the woman who could terrorize Mercs with just a glance.
And that reputation was being put to the test.
Cyrus reached for his helmet resting beside him on the bar. With a single, smooth motion, he slipped it over his head, the familiar click of the visor engaging with a soft hiss. The darkened world illuminated with the vibrant chatter of his HUD, isolating him once more in the semi-solitude of Spartan armor.
As the HUD's dim light splashed across his features, he faded from view, becoming merely one more soldier in the sea of armored Mercs that filled the Afterlife. He merged into the crowd, indistinguishable from the others, his presence blurring into the mix of metal and muscle that thronged the club.
At a secluded table, Heinrich huffed as he laid Greyson's unconscious form down with unexpected gentleness. The sturdiness of the table was tested under the weight of the man, but it held firm.
Heinrich's expression, a mix of concern and frustration, was directed at the slack figure before him. Sweeping back his hair, he turned to track Isabella, who was trailing after Rogue with all the enthusiasm of a reluctant shadow. Isabella's steps were hesitant, her usual fire subdued in the wake of their unexpected debacle.
Cyrus's gaze traveled over Rogue as she confidently navigated through the club, her boots thudding lightly, each purposeful stride taking her closer to the booth she claimed as her domain. Her eyes were like steel, locking onto her path, and there was an air about her that told everyone in the Afterlife she was not to be trifled with.
As Rogue sank into her booth, the Mercs she passed looked up with a mixture of respect and wariness. The tension at her presence was palpable, and even Isabella felt diminished.
Rogue spoke sharply, her voice carrying over the din of bar chatter. "Isabella, what the hell happened tonight? We lost the Red Room contract because of your screw-up. That was a big payday that just vanished."
Isabella cringed, staying close to Rogue. "I'm sorry, Rogue. It... things got messy, fast. There was this big armored bastard, and he tore through everything —"
"Armor doesn't matter. You were supposed to be prepared for any heat!" Rogue scolded, her voice rising.
Cyrus glanced over; his sense of curiosity piqued.
It wasn't really surprising to hear that Rogue had her hands on the protection job.
In a city like this, money pays well.
Chamber's voice buzzed lightly in Cyrus's ear, teasing him yet again. "You sure about strolling in there like you own the place?"
Cyrus didn't even flinch as he adjusted his grip on his helmet. "I still think it'll work."
"You're an idiot," Chamber quipped, though her tone lacked any real malice.
As Cyrus started weaving between clusters of mercenaries, Chamber's digital presence felt like a silent shadow, tracking his movement from within the labyrinth of data streams.
Meanwhile, Rogue's voice sliced sharply through the noise at her booth. "Isabella, give me the shard. We've lost enough time and money on this already."
Isabella fumbled for a moment before pulling out a shimmering data shard and handing it over to Rogue.
Her description tumbled out as Rogue slotted the shard into an interface on the table. "I swear, he came out of nowhere, Rogue! Moved like lightning and tanked everything we threw at him without so much as flinching."
Rogue glared at the flickering light on the table as the shard interfaced, her face tense as Isabella continued. "He was like a machine—fast, strong... I've never seen anything like him."
"He's no machine," Rogue said curtly, gripping the edge of the table. "I want every frame analyzed, every shadow checked. Someone's going to pay for this."
Isabella nodded, her face pale but her resolve hardening. "I'll find out who he is, Rogue. He'll wish he hadn't crossed us."
Rogue's eye caught a flicker of light reflected off the data shard that bathed her gaze in a spectral hue. As she rifled through Isabella's digital recollections, a steely glint of recognition sparked within her steely grey eyes. The images drew her in, a look of intense concentration taking over her features.
A wave of dread began to creep through her veins as the imagery on the shard came into focus.
There, amid the chaos of Isabella's memories, appeared parts of armor and the outline of a visor — not just any visor, but one Rogue knew all too well from a time long past.
It was a ghost come to life, back from the annals of her history.
"That's no machine," Rogue said sharply, her voice tight as she gripped the edge of the table, trying to contain the fear rattling through her.
"I'll find out who he is, Rogue," Isabella remarked. "He'll wish he hadn't crossed us. It's just a matter of time until we find him."
A cold voice interrupted all thoughts.
"You won't have to look far."
Time seemed to freeze as Rogue's eyes shifted up, and she locked gazes with a man who had just interrupted their conversation. He stood there, a looming presence clad in armor that bore a resemblance to a legend that had long since faded away. Her mind flashed back to that one brief encounter, and her body recoiled ever so slightly.
In a heartbeat, every weapon in the vicinity was aimed at him, every threat directed towards the interloper. The entire club had become a gallery of potential violence, every arm braced and ready to shower the Spartan in an avalanche of fire.
Despite the tense readiness, amidst the drawn weapons and the emotions running through the crowd, a formidable calm resonated from the man in the armor.
Only one was truly in control of the situation; only one seemed unperturbed by the hostility — and it wasn't Rogue or any of her mercenaries.
It was him.
He held the true power.
Cyrus stood before Rogue, unflinching, his gaze piercing. "Rogue Amendiares," he said, his voice firm and level. "We need to talk."
Weyland, ever the protector, stepped up despite the electric tension in the air. He squared his shoulders, ready to defend Rogue against any threat.
Weyland opened his mouth to issue a threat, "Back off choom or–"
But Cyrus was faster. In one swift, silent motion, Cyrus's hand shot out, striking Weyland in the throat with a precision that left no room for retaliation. As Weyland staggered, gasping for air, Cyrus grabbed him by the collar.
With a strength that seemed effortless, Cyrus hurled Weyland's struggling form onto the table in front of Rogue, rattling glasses and causing a few patrons to jump back from the sudden commotion.
Rogue watched as Cyrus made short work of Weyland. She forced herself to swallow the knot of fear rising in her throat. She couldn't afford to show weakness, not in front of her crew, not in front of him.
Eliza's warning echoed in her mind, a haunting prelude to this moment. "Cyrus is the more dangerous of my siblings. He's not the fastest or the strongest, but he is the most determined, ruthlessly so." Her voice had been steady, but Rogue had seen the truth reflected in her eyes.
"Tread carefully around him," Eliza had continued, and despite the sternness in her words, there had been a clear undertone of concern — something Rogue was beginning to understand in its full intensity.
Rogue recalled how Eliza's intense gaze had hardened when she said, "He'll come looking for me. Just like I did all those years, and I have no doubt he'll knock on your door one day looking for those answers."
Eliza's pain during that conversation had been tangible, but as she issued her parting words, her vulnerability had transformed into an implacable resolve. "And when he does." Rogue could still hear the steely determination in her tone, "Don't lie to him. Ever."
Now Rogue sat, the weight of the warning heavy on her shoulders. As she locked eyes with Cyrus, she could feel her heart pounding, drums of war in her chest. She had to get a grip. Showing fear was like baring your throat to a wolf.
Rogue reached into her pocket, pulling out her cigarettes with a practiced nonchalance. She tapped one out. The slide and click sounds were familiar and grounding amidst the tightening tension.
She placed the cigarette between her lips, her fingers momentarily brushing against them as she steadied the stick of rolled tobacco. Her hands were steady as she struck a match, the brief flare illuminating her steeled expression. As the tip glowed with the small inferno, she took a deep drag, inhaling the comforting burn.
The smoke seemed to smooth the jagged edges of her fear, offering a moment's balm to her nerves. As she exhaled, a pale plume danced upwards, diffusing into nothingness.
"Ok. Let's talk," Rogue said.
Her voice was steady now, her fear tucked away.
Cyrus remained silent, giving her all the space she needed.
He had all the time in the world.
She didn't.
He hoped there would be no lies at this table.
No one would like where that line of thought would lead.