It's pitch black.

Cramped.

You lie supine, spine pressed against cold, flat metal. The interior of the cargo container is barely tall enough for you to shift onto your side, your knees slightly bent – just enough to wedge you in lengthways. Every inhale seems to shrink the walls further, pinning your ribs and stealing your breath.

Each shallow exhale merges with the stale air, heavy with the scent of synthetic oil, soldered plastics, and dusty metal.

"Smells like the inside of a mechatronics landfill," you murmur, the tight metal space warping your voice into a hollow drone. "Takes me back."

There's a brief moment of silence, broken only by the soft plinking of steel settling in the desert heat.

Then-

CLUNK.

A latch turns, and light floods in as the container's top panel creaks open, and Mitch's face appears, grinning down at you.

"Comfy?" he asks, clearly amused.

"Like a rat in a can," you reply, squinting as your eyes adjust.

Mitch lets out a weary laugh. "We've slapped this thing together in record time. Panam's been breathing fire down our necks – feels like I've worked three days straight with no shut-eye." He nods at the half-stripped rig, wiring spilling out like frayed nerves. "Not exactly showroom quality, but it'll stay together. Probably."

You push yourself into a half-sit, and glance at Mitch, noticing the dark circles under his eyes.

"You look beat, Mitch. Is running on coffee and curses gonna get us to the deadline?"

Mitch gives a sure nod. "Forty-eight hours, give or take a power nap." He slaps the side of the crate. "We'll have it functional and loaded onto one of the trucks tomorrow, then it's just blockade the train, swap it out with the real thing, cram three of you in there and lock the door – after that, it's smooth sailing."

Forty-eight hours. Once, you might have called that a weekend. Now it's a question mark hanging over your head – a deadline you can't outrun, ticking away in the back of your skull. You're left wondering if you'll see the moment it expires – or if you'll blink and miss the final second of your life.

"You know, all this prep for what's essentially a glorified shipping crate..." You give the interior a sardonic knock. "Really makes you feel special."

"Hey," Mitch grins. "You wanted a stealth op. This is stealth, not glamour."

You grunt, shaking your head. "Getting shipped into Dogtown like some care package. Feels poetic."

Mitch sobers slightly, gaze settling on you. "Just make sure there's something left for you on the other side."

You nod once, slow. You don't say anything.

Mitch helps you out of the container, you stretch your legs and let your spine realign from its practice run as compressed cargo. The Badlands sun's low in the sky, burning a soft orange through the dust as the camp buzzes with motion – Nomads welding, shouting, pushing crates, hauling cable.

River stands nearby, arms folded, his brow furrowed. Not just in thought – concern. You've seen that look before. He's chewing on something, and not the kind of thing you wash down with whiskey.

"You really buy this?" he asks quietly, eyes flicking toward the container. "The Rogue part, I mean."

You glance at him. "Panam does."

River doesn't nod. Doesn't shake his head either. Just lets the words hang.

A moment later, Mitch joins you, wiping grease from his hands with a rag that's seen too many engines.

"If you're worried about the extraction," Mitch says, catching the tail end of River's words, "you're not the only one. Truth is, I ain't got a clue why she's so confident." He slaps the side of the container for emphasis. "But if Panam says Rogue'll have it sorted, I believe her. Ain't like her to put trust in someone unless she's damn sure."

River scoffs quietly, shaking his head slightly. "Yeah, well... we don't exactly have the luxury of being picky right now."

He trails off, glancing back at the crate, gaze lingering. You see it clearly: he's hoping, desperately, that this plan holds together.

River finally speaks again, voice lowered, weighed by all the things he can't afford to say out loud. "I just hope she's right."

You nod, because it's the only thing left to say.

You're relying on Rogue. On a maybe. On a plan built from burnt bridges and half-truths.

And the only backup is a moral sinkhole that none of you want to stare too long into.

You work until the morning breaks in streaks of copper and violet across the desert sky. The wind's soft, but it carries the sting of sand, biting lightly at your face as you work your way around the cargo crate, securing the rigging under Mitch's direction.

His voice barks across the lot like a drill sergeant in old boots:

"Cables tight. Feed it through the upper bracket – no, the other one, V."

You're wrench-deep in one of the shock mounts when Panam arrives, sleeves rolled up, toolbelt hanging low off her hip. She doesn't speak right away – just gives Mitch a sharp nod, then slams a crate of lead panels next to the rig.

"Lead lining, full spoofware suite."

Mitch looks up from his end of the crate, wiping sweat from his brow. "Panam, we already reinforced the casing. You slap lead plates onto this thing, you'll lose comms completely – no nav, no net. Once sealed, it's dead air. Nothing in, nothing out."

Panam stands firm, arms crossed. "Better that than getting shot out of the sky. I'm not debating this."

Mitch mutters something under his breath, but he doesn't fight her too hard, clearly trusting her judgement. Even if it means no signal. Total isolation.

You step away from the crate, wiping grime from your fingers with a rag, and catch Aurore across the worksite.

She's leaning against a low supply stack, hair back, a faint sheen of sweat on her brow from helping Panam carry the lead panelling.

She notices you. A look passes between you. Not warm, but no longer laced with knives. Something… neutral. Maybe even tentative.

You walk over, a bit slower than usual.

"How'd you sleep?" you ask, voice kept low beneath the hum of welding torches and the bickering.

She shrugs at first, like it doesn't matter. But after a second, she relents.

"Well enough."

Her eyes flick toward the camp – at the rows of tents, the laughing Nomads sharing morning coffee, kids racing between cargo haulers.

"They gave me a tent." She hesitates, then adds, almost like she's confessing it, "One with an actual cot and bedroll, not just floor tarp."

You nod, brushing dust off your thigh. "Aldecaldos don't skimp on their friends."

"I noticed."

Another pause – longer. Like she's just about to say something more–

Then–

"Alright!" Panam barks from the other side of the container. "Lead's going in, and we start the sealing tests by midday. Let's move."

Aurore blinks as if the moment shatters, her mouth tightening slightly. Whatever she was about to say is gone.

She steps back toward the rig, dusting her palms. "Guess we best get started then."

The hours roll on beneath a blistering sun, air thick with the sharp tang of hot metal and ozone. Sweat clings to your skin, and inside the container the heat presses down relentlessly – but the work keeps coming.

Somewhere between welding torches, sensor calibrations, and Mitch's increasingly frustrated instructions, you and Aurore find yourselves shoulder-to-shoulder, focused quietly on her newest addition.

You're helping her install a modular console on the internal side panel of the crate – small, slim, but packing enough interface options to do far more than just monitor temperature and vitals.

"You sure about this cable routing?" you ask, watching her carefully tuck a thin wire into the narrow housing along the wall.

"Yeah. Hold it steady there," she mutters, shifting closer. Her fingers move quickly, expertly. There's something grounding about the way she works – her mind clearly focused, mood softer than it's been all day, gentled by concentration.

You keep the cable in place, your attention drifting toward the small black box she's securing into the mounting plate.

"What's this thing do exactly?"

She doesn't look up, eyes still trained on her work.

"You heard Mitch and Panam earlier. Once this thing's sealed, comms will be completely offline – no signals, no diagnostics, nothing." She glances up at you briefly, her gaze steady. "This is my solution. Let's us run internal diagnostics, keep an eye on the drop parameters ourselves… And if that cargo door doesn't open when we hit the ground, I'll have a way to force it."

You nod slowly, appreciating the foresight. "Smart."

Aurore's lips quirk faintly. "I thought so."

Eventually, the installation finishes, and the two of you end up lying side by side in the cramped space, testing how much room you'll actually have when the mission kicks off.

Spoiler: Not much.

You're both on your backs, shoulders brushing, arms tucked in close to avoid the panelling and insulation. Her breathing slows, and for a moment, you forget the heat, the stink of metal, the tension crawling around the edges of everything.

And instead…

You notice her profile.

The soft freckling across her nose, something you only spot because of your proximity.
The metallic gleam of her eyes, sharp and thoughtful.
A thin scar near her jaw, barely noticeable, making you wonder briefly about the story behind it.

She turns slightly, catching your gaze.

"V?"

You blink, slightly embarrassed.

"Yeah, sorry. Got lost in thought."

She smirks faintly, then looks back at the console you helped install.

"You wanna know why I really wanted this thing in?"

You nod, watching her closely.

She exhales slowly, pushing a few loose strands of hair from her face. Her eyes linger on the newly installed console, its soft lights blinking faintly in the cramped darkness.

"I told you before – my br– " She hesitates, her voice catching. "Aymeric – was the reckless one. Always charging headfirst into whatever came next, aiming for the stars." Her words come softer now, heavy with memory. "And me... I always thought it was my job to hold things together. To predict the angles, to see every outcome before it happened."

Her expression wavers, caught somewhere between bitterness and a delicate, fragile resolve.

"This?" She gestures at the console, her fingertips lightly tracing its edges. "Feels like a piece of that control again. Like I'm choosing instead of just reacting."

Her voice grows quiet, wavering under a weight you can't fully grasp. "But even with all that planning, all that careful calculation – none of it saved him."

She blinks rapidly, turning away slightly, hiding the rawness in her eyes.

"Even if the choices are shit – even if they end badly – I need them to be mine. So I don't have to wonder later if it could've mattered."

You exhale softly. "Couldn't agree more."

You're about to ask her about earlier – that moment of hesitation – when your vision flickers with static. A soft buzz hums in your ears, lingering just long enough to draw a tense breath from your lungs, then fades.

Before you can speak, Panam strides up abruptly, something metallic and flat clutched in one hand. She drops to a crouch by the cargo wall and starts affixing it beneath the container's lift rail with practiced efficiency.

The quiet moment between you and Aurore shatters instantly. Both of you straighten, watching Panam wordlessly for a moment.

"That a beacon?" you ask, breaking the sudden silence.

Panam shakes her head, eyes focused sharply on her task. "Signal blocker. Experimental shit Rogue got off some smuggler. Normally, Barghest tracks these drops by pulse beacon and radar echo – this'll suppress that signal just long enough to give us a few minutes to disappear."

Aurore glances sidelong at you, uncertainty flickering across her face. Her brow furrows slightly. "And you trust Rogue enough to use this 'experimental shit'?"

Panam smirks, tightening the final bolt without bothering to look up. "Not even a little. But Rogue trusts the tech – and right now, that's good enough for me."

Aurore hesitates, eyes narrowing with suspicion. "I thought you– " She stops abruptly, visibly reconsidering. The silence hangs thickly between the three of you. "Forget it."

Without another word, she climbs the rest of the way out of the container, disappearing into the muted hum of the Aldecaldo camp beyond.

You watch her go, the moment left unresolved, a tension lingering at the edge of perception, unsure if the quiet between you was peace or just a pause.

The fire crackles low, gentle sparks spiralling upward into the velvet darkness, the Badlands stretching endlessly beyond the faint glow of the flames. Behind you, the cargo container sits sealed and ready, strapped to the back of a gutted Thornton rig, casting long shadows across the sand.

You sit in the dirt, legs crossed loosely, a battered tin cup of whiskey in your hands. Aldecaldo veterans lounge around the fire – some sipping from dented flasks, others cleaning their weapons in comfortable silence or exchanging quiet jokes between bites of stew. River nurses a beer, eyes distant, staring thoughtfully into the night. Beside him, Aurore sits quietly, hood drawn up, the golden glint of her eyes flickering softly beneath the fabric as she gazes into the fire.

Mitch has been recounting a story about rewiring an AV flight rig while hungover – something involving sparks, melted cables, and Saul's shouting that draws laughter from the others. You chuckle along, half from politeness, half because the vivid image of Mitch tangled in wires practically paints itself.

The laughter fades into quiet murmurs. Mitch leans back slightly, cup balanced in his hand, his expression shifting subtly – less playful, more earnest. He meets your eyes over the flames.

"Y'know," he begins gently, his voice quieter now, thoughtful, "she took it harder than she let on, when things didn't work out between you two."

You blink, taken aback by the sudden shift. "Panam?"

He shrugs slightly, a slow, careful gesture, careful not to press too hard. "She never said it outright. But I've known her long enough to read between the lines." He pauses, holding your gaze. "You mattered to her, V. Still do, I reckon."

You shift uneasily in the sand, eyes flicking downward, unsure how to respond. It was never love – couldn't be, not then. Maybe in some other lifetime, but here, now, it just wasn't. "It wasn't– " You hesitate, words coming slowly. "I didn't feel that way about her. Not exactly. Nothing personal, it just– "

Mitch lifts a hand gently, smiling in understanding. "It's fine. You don't owe anyone an apology for what you don't feel. Love's not some corpo contract." He chuckles softly, the warmth returning. "Hell, if it were, half the Aldecaldos would've filed breach-of-contract on me years ago."

You breathe out quietly, relieved at his easy acceptance. Mitch settles back comfortably against a weather-worn crate, gazing thoughtfully toward the distant horizon.

"You know," he says after a moment, quieter now, "once you're through with all this Dogtown nonsense, maybe you should think about it."

"Think about what?"

He turns toward you again, eyes steady and sincere. "Staying."

You frown lightly, not immediately catching his meaning. "Here?"

"Here," he confirms gently, nodding slowly. "With us. With the Aldecaldos."

His lips quirk into a wry, knowing smile, like he's fully aware how impossible that might sound. "You've bled with us, fought alongside us. Not many left out here can say that – and mean it." His voice softens, genuine warmth in his words. "Might not be so bad, y'know? Trade in the concrete jungle for desert sun, cheap coffee, good whiskey... yelling at Saul every time he tries to sell out to another corpo sponsor."

You laugh softly, warmth blooming in your chest despite yourself. "Careful, Mitch. Might just tempt me."

He shrugs, smiling now with the same easy warmth you've always seen in him. Then his eyes flicker subtly toward the other side of the fire – toward Aurore, who still sits quietly, gaze fixed on the flames.

"Maybe it wouldn't be so bad having her around, either," he adds carefully.

At that, your gaze drifts toward Aurore almost involuntarily. She hasn't said much through all this – still lost somewhere far away, reflected in the shifting glow of firelight. Yet, as if sensing your attention, her head shifts ever so slightly. For just an instant, her eyes catch yours.

Only it's not Aurore staring back at you.

Not in that moment.

Instead, it's Songbird – her form flickering faintly, her magenta hair catching and distorting the glow of the fire. Her eyes molten red, pulsing darkly with corrupted data, the same broken-code glare from your nightmares.

Your breath catches.

Then you blink – and it's gone.

Aurore is there again, eyes reflecting nothing but quiet firelight, none the wiser. Your skin prickles, heart rate elevated.

Mitch stretches, groaning quietly. "We should all get some sleep. Tomorrow's the big day. Might be the dumbest thing we've ever done – and that's saying something." He pats your shoulder as he rises and walks away, the easy camaraderie grounding you back in reality.

Slowly, you stand, casting a wary glance toward the container, then back at Aurore.

The red, the distortion – gone. Only gold eyes, softly reflecting the embers.

She lingers by the fire a moment longer before rising quietly, slipping away without a word.

And you're left alone, staring into the dying flames.

You can't sleep in a tent, not when you'll be locked in a box for the next who knows how long. You lie back into your bedroll, eyes drifting upward toward endless stars, and let the darkness slowly claim you.

It begins in cold.

Not the kind that touches skin – this is deeper, internal, like something in your bones remembering a world without warmth.

It's not a place you recognise. But something about it whispers familiarity, echoes of comfort stripped away, leaving behind a raw, empty frame.

An apartment. Frosted glass windows bleed pale moonlight onto cracked drywall, paint peeling away like skin. Steel beams puncture the walls at odd angles. Every surface etched in frost, air heavy and motionless.

In the silence, voices rise like whispers carried over a frozen lake – fragile, distant.

You step forward, breath fogging in the airless dark.

"You do this, or they'll hunt you, and you're not going to like it when they catch up." Reed's voice – cold, even. You glimpse him standing stiffly near the door, features etched in quiet ruthlessness. "The NUSA protects its assets. It erases threats."

You hear no answer at first. But your eyes find her immediately.

So Mi stands apart from him, body rigid, hands trembling faintly at her sides. The harsh moonlight traces the delicate edges of her profile, the gentle slope of her shoulders. Her dark, loose hair spills down, strands fraying softly against pale skin.

Her voice comes quiet, brittle with defiance masking desperation: "And if I refuse?"

Reed's response is immediate, precise. "Then Netwatch will flatline you and anyone even remotely associated to you. Is that a price you're willing to pay?"

Silence. You watch her body still, a thin shudder running through her frame.

Then Reed turns away, footsteps fading as shadows claim him, wisping him into nothingness.

So Mi sinks slowly to her knees. The strength in her shoulders melts away, crumbling quietly in the emptiness. She wraps her arms around herself as though holding her own body together, trembling gently.

Your chest tightens. You move closer – drawn by a need you don't yet fully understand, urgency humming beneath your skin.

You kneel beside her, reaching hesitantly, almost expecting your hand to pass through empty space.

Instead, your fingertips touch bare skin.

Warm. Alive. Fragile beneath your touch.

Her breath hitches sharply. She looks up at you, eyes wide with shock – a rich, gentle brown flecked with amber, soft and deep, holding warmth even in this frozen place.

In that moment, she's no longer the prodigious netrunner, no longer the static-laced voice in your comms. She's human, vulnerable, someone who once had choices stolen from her, forced into a life she never wanted.

Her lips part, breath fogging softly as she whispers, almost to herself, "Why is it you– ?"

But she stops, fear slicing into her gaze. Like she's noticed for the first time the strangeness of this place. A low whispering creeps through the air. It leaks from the edges of the room – broken syllables, impossible words from a language doesn't exist.

That familiar red light from around the hallway corner bleeds in through the gap under the door, pulsing, thicker than before – like blood pooling across the apartment, slow and deliberate, looking for a way in.

"F̶͚̈́̕o̷̢̳̔͛͠ŗ̶̜̝͐̽̕e̴͖̳̓́̃͜i̶̩̝͌͜g̷̦͔̓̃ň̷̹̘̺̓͠ ̬̩̲̈̐͠v̶͎̽ͅar̶̬͒ī̶̗̟a̷̫̫̒̿̃b̴̦͙͕̎ľ̵̛̜̭͖e̵̺̫̕͝ ͙̄ä̘p̷͍̫̠̌p̶̦͖͊̂̈́ȩ̷̤͇͋͛ȁ̵̮̖̽͝ṛ́s ̷̼͙̀̕ǐ̷̦̟̼̔ṉ̶̨̍̋ ̷̭̜̬̀͊͛u̵͙̍̑̈́n̷̢̲̻̾a̷̢̒͒ut̶̥͙̍h̷͆ͅö̬ṟ̶̼̣̀̄̕į̵̩̾̎͝s̵̠̓̋͌ë̴͉̅̓d̵̛͇ ̷͚͂r̷͓̺͕̈́̏̅é̴̜̠cą̴̘̌͘͝l̵͎̖̳̓̇̈́l̵̞͚͚͝ c̴̻̀͝y̴̧̿̃͠c̡̈lę̵̇.̘̫̊"

Her hand suddenly finds yours, fingers threading urgently through your own – an instinctive need for closeness, her palm pressing tight, anchoring both of you in this moment.

You feel something at her touch – a warmth beyond just skin, something gentle and aching, cutting through the frozen void around you. For an instant, nothing exists beyond her closeness, beyond her eyes, searching yours for reassurance neither of you can fully offer.

"So Mi…"

Her mouth opens to speak again, but–

PAIN.

Your skull screams.

A surge of static rips through your neural link like lightning crackling through your spine. You fall back, gasping.

"Look at me, V. Look at me."

She holds your face. Tender. Careful.
And where her fingers touch your skin–

The pain lessens. Fades to a warm buzz, like her presence is pushing back against something vast and cruel.

Her voice cuts through the numbness:

"Stay with me– "

"N̷̼͝o̵̮̚ṇ̴̉-̵̭̍f̴̫̃ủ̶̠ṋ̈c̶̹͆t̵͓͌i̶͔͝o̵̰͑n̷̗̈́ȁ̵͇l ̴̼̒st̵͎̑i̶̞̎m̴͇̽u̷͇̎ḽ̴͗ủ̷̪s̵̯̃ r̴̛̯ë̴̼t̶̤̋a̵̅͜ï͍ń̵̳ẻ̴̯d̶̜̋ ̶̓ͅḁ̵͆g̴͚̾ȁ̷̘i̶̦̋ñ̶͈st͖̃ e̴̯̓r̶͙͗ȧ̷͇s̴͓͝u̷͓̇r̷̨͝e̴̢̓ ̶͍̕d̷̦͠i̴͍͘r̵̰̆e̵̜͝c̶̹̑ṱ̶̈́i̵̜̇ve̴̫̒s̴͎̑.̶̙̄ ̵̢̔M̵̡̝̑̃e̴̜̮̹͕̍͠m̷̢̰͗͊ę̵͚̫̓t̛͍͙̣̉̌̓i̶̧̻̗̰̽̈́̈́c̷͖̭̩͐͛ ̛̫ċ̷̼o̶̡̔l̵̛̻l̵͔͂ả̷̗p̷͙̕sĕ̷̡ i̵̮̓m̴̨̉m̵̜̑i̶̥͒n̷̫͊ě̶̟ṇ̵̈́t̵̲̐.̴̭̿."

The apartment tears apart at the seams. The walls glitch, fracture, fold inward like burning paper by some inexorable force.

She's pulled away.

Songbird gasps, reaching for you–

"No! Don't go – please, V!"

Her voice is desperate, her fingers catching yours for just a second–

Then the room shatters.

Ripped apart by the howling vortex of a thousand voices speaking from every direction, each syllable slicing like razors across thought.

In that last breath before oblivion claims you both, your name slips from her lips.

Then silence.
Darkness.
Nothingness.

The night is quiet, still. You're back beneath the stars, sand cool beneath your fingers. The wind murmurs softly through the camp, moonlight gentle across the desert.

And your hand is still reaching out, searching in vain for hers.

…

You stumble out of the bedroll, boots crunching lightly on the dry desert soil. Silver light blanketing the desert, stubborn against the creeping edge of dawn.

But it's nothing compared to the brightness that lingers behind your eyes.

The places her fingers brushed against your face in the dream still buzz with warmth, like they'd cut through the fog of everything else.

You try to steady your breathing, but the Relic pulses in your skull – a flash of pain lancing behind your left eye, hot and searing.

RELIC MALFUNCTION DETECTED

You drop to a knee, bracing yourself on a rusted crate beside the rig.

And then – the cough.

Dry at first. Then wet, thick.

You spit into your hand.

There's more than usual.

It clings to your palm like a warning – red, dark, visceral.

You stare at it, heart hammering, your vision wavering at the edges.

"Fuck."

It's getting worse. Faster.

You wipe your hand on your jacket, but the smear on your fingers is hard to ignore.

Your gaze drifts to the cargo container, still strapped to the back of the rig like some grim Ark.

All that planning. All your hopes. And it all rides on that box.

You'd ride it into the heart of Dogtown if it meant one more breath.
One more second.
One more moment.

You don't notice the footsteps.

You're too caught up in the burn, the blood, the ache curling beneath your ribs.

Then–

A voice. Quiet. Cautious. Right behind you.

"V?"

You flinch. Instincts flaring, body snapping upright, hand halfway to your pistol.

It's Aurore.

Hood down, arms loose at her sides.

Her eyes flick to your face – then to your trembling hand.

She sees the blood.

Doesn't say anything.

Not at first.

She just waits.

Watching.

You force yourself upright, knees unsteady, blood still fresh on your lip.

"I'm fine," you mutter.

A beat.

"I'm alright."

But it's not convincing. Not to her. Not to you.

You wipe at your mouth again, hand shaking just slightly, the sticky smear of red dragging across your palm a glaring, unavoidable reality check. The Relic buzzes, a low static hum behind your eyes, still simmering beneath the surface, like it's measuring each of your breaths. Counting them.

Aurore doesn't move. Doesn't offer help.

She just studies you, eyes sharp but not cruel.

There's no pity there.
There's something that might be concern, buried deep.

"Look at you, V." she says flatly. "You're not even close to fine."

You let out a shaky exhale and wave her off. "Just a glitch. Happens sometimes."

"Happens often?" she counters, quiet but cutting.

You don't respond. Instead, you glance toward the cargo container, the dark silhouette promising hope – or at least, a delay to the inevitable.

She sees your look, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

"That netrunner," she says carefully. "The one you think can fix you. She's your cure?"

You exhale softly, nodding. "Yeah. Something like that."

She studies your face, considering something, then continues cautiously. "You know, last night you… you said a name. In your sleep."

You meet her gaze, your throat tightening slightly. Not fear exactly, just a sudden vulnerability. "Yeah?"

She nods, watching you closely. "So Mi. Is that her?"

You hesitate, then nod once more. "Yeah. That's her."

Aurore doesn't look away, her expression unreadable – but you can sense something shifting beneath her careful mask. Curiosity, maybe suspicion. Definitely caution.

"She's more than just a fix, isn't she?" Aurore says quietly, half statement, half question.

You glance away, the silence lingering as you weigh your response. She's right – but you don't have words for it. Not ones you're ready to use..

"She's…" You trail off, shaking your head gently, struggling to put it into words. "She's been through hell. Like we have. Maybe worse."

You look back at Aurore, feeling strangely exposed. "She deserves better."

Aurore's expression softens just a fraction. It's subtle, not trust – not yet – but understanding. She's putting it together: your desperation, your drive – it's not just self-preservation.

You notice something different in her eyes – not warmth, just recognition. That neither of you can run from this forever.

"You're risking a lot for someone who might not even be able to help you," she says, voice low.

You offer a faint, tired smile. "If you're gonna win, gotta have skin in the game."

She looks at you for a long moment, the weight of everything unsaid settling around you both.

Then, quietly, she reaches into her pocket, pulling out a cloth – worn, stained with grease at the corners, probably from some wiring job earlier. But clean enough. She offers it to you without a word.

You don't take it at first.

And she picks up on the hesitation.

A ghost of a smile touches her lips. Dry. Tired. Not unkind.

"You look like shit, V."

You huff out a low laugh, despite the ache behind your ribs.

Then you reach out – finally – and take the rag.

Her hand lingers a second too long in yours, like she hadn't realised the gesture meant something until it was already halfway done.

As you wipe your mouth, the cloth catching the metallic taste, the evidence of how little time you might have left, you glance at her again.

There's that same freckling you noticed in the container, faint and scattered across her cheekbones. The desert wind has tangled her hair slightly, a few stray strands catching in the corners of her lips before she brushes them away.

She looks exhausted.

Silence settles in again, the wind curling low through the camp, whistling past the crate – the Hail Mary you're all betting everything on.

And in this moment, it's just two people beneath a breaking sky, held together by silence, blood, and things neither of them can say.

The clink of a bolt sliding home echoes through the armoury tent, low and mechanical.

River checks a precision rifle with the kind of practiced attention that comes from years of knowing exactly how many shots a problem takes to go away.

Across from him, two of the Aldecaldo vets are stripping down an old drone turret for salvage, laying components out like puzzle pieces on the bench. The smell of gun oil, old canvas, and desert dust hangs in the air.

You're going over the checklist for the final time when Panam's voice cuts through, all business.

"Blockade will only hold it for twenty minutes. That's our window."

Everyone pauses to listen.

She's pacing the length of the tent, arms folded, voice tight with authority.

"We hit loud at the front. Keep their security clustered at the engine and lead cars. Midsection crew – River, Mitch, V – we drop anyone left behind. Clean, fast. But don't draw attention. Our cargo switch can't be noticed."

She points to a small diagram projected on the wall – a green outline blinking against the schematic of the freight route.

"No reason for anyone to suspect we added a crate."

She turns to you, River, and gestures toward the Hail Mary crate.

"Then V, Aurore, and I slip inside. Crate gets loaded, we ride it straight into Dogtown. First-class ticket."

River stills. Slowly turns to look at her.

"Since when do you get final say on who goes with V and Aurore?"

The question hangs in the air like smoke.

Panam doesn't even blink.

"Since I'm the only one here who knows how to fix that flying death box mid-flight if something goes tits-up."

She walks up to River, pokes him once in the chest.

"What, you planning to cushion a failed descent with your good intentions? Didn't think so."

That gets a soft chuckle from one of the veterans.

But River doesn't laugh.

His jaw shifts. His fingers tighten just slightly around the rifle stock.

There's a flicker of something behind his eyes. Doubt. Maybe not in Panam's capability, but in the certainty she's projecting.

Like the explanation makes sense, but… not quite enough.

Still – he nods.

"Alright."

But the hesitation is there.

You can feel it lingering, like a static charge in the room.

He doesn't say anything else.

Just goes back to loading his gear, slower now.

You glance at Panam. She's already turned away, calling out more orders.

The screech of the train's brakes slams through the air like a blade, metal grinding on metal, a high-pitched mechanical scream that cuts across the quiet Badlands like thunder.

Then the horn – low, blaring, shaking the earth beneath your boots.

The steel behemoth howls into view around the bend, charging toward the blockade the forward crew set up with just enough junk and smoke to look real but not enough to actually derail the train if it decided to keep sailing through.

You're crouched low behind a rise, the replacement crate strapped down and covered with a sand-blasted camo tarp just a few meters behind you. You can feel the rumble in your chest, the throb of adrenaline beginning to rise.

Then – gunfire.

Short bursts. Controlled.

Popping sounds, distant, carried by the wind.

You all start your timers.

Five minutes.

Five agonizing, slow-burning minutes.

The voices – shouts and commands – drift toward the front of the train, moving away from the midsection. Just like planned.

Panam doesn't speak.

No one does.

Until the timer pings.

You, River, Mitch, and Panam launch over the hill, boots pounding down the loose slope.

The train's maglev tech is loud up close, massive and furious, humming deep inside your chest, even as it idles. The midsection cargo cars are clad in heavy plate armour.

Panam leads the pack, moving like a blade.

Usually the ranged overwatch type, but today she carries a small, silenced pistol, trained steadily on the cargo car doors like she expects an ambush.

You match her posture, heart pounding louder than the train's pulse, hands tight on your weapon.

But no one emerges.

No guards.

No alarms.

Just the rhythmic thrum of the train's systems and the caustic stink of overheated brakes.

Panam signals sharply downward with one hand. Clear.

You reach the car, Mitch's immediately busying himself with the lock override. Within seconds, the door groans open against the weight of the armouring.

You raise your weapon, finger already tightening–

–but nothing.

Just stacks of sealed canisters, drones powered down, and an unmarked generator unit humming in standby mode.

Wrong car.

You knew it was a risk. Manifest was incomplete, no full cargo tag registry, just educated guesses based on what little data Aurore could scrape from the grid.

"Shit," Panam breathes, barely audible.

Without waiting, she slips silently into the car, pressing toward the internal connector door. She peers briefly through reinforced glass, pistol angled low, and slips into the next compartment.

River moves seamlessly behind her, rifle raised, eyes sharp.

You and Mitch follow close.

The next car's interior is tech-laden, pallets of Militech gear secured firmly in modular frames.

Then–

movement.

Three guards, Militech – smart rifles, light armor, visors catching dim auxiliary lights.
They haven't spotted you.
Yet.

Panam signals quietly. River moves fluidly into position, his rifle poised. You breathe out slowly, leveling your silenced pistol, sights narrowing onto a guard's helmet.

Panam raises three fingers.
Counts down silently.

Three.

Two.

One.

PFFT. PFFT. PFFT.

The suppressed shots are nearly simultaneous, the sound muffled, swallowed by the confined space.

Three soft, muted impacts.

The guards slump forward, dropping simultaneously. No alarms. No screams. Just irregular, agonal breaths – the final twitches as brainstems struggle against a non-existent blood supply.

The sharp scent of gunpowder lingers momentarily, mingling with the metallic tang of fresh blood.

Panam steps forward, rapidly scanning ahead, pistol ready. She nods once – clear for now, tension etched deeply in her expression.

River glances over at you, expression tight, unreadable in the dim light.

Mitch checks the fallen quickly, then moves back toward the crate dolly, pushing your cargo through the space.

"Stay sharp," River murmurs, already shifting forward through the shadows.

You follow, each step heavier with the quiet aftermath.

The next door hisses open.
And you know immediately – this is the right car.

The air's colder, humming with stabiliser fields. Rows of high-value containment crates locked into rigging clamps line the walls, each with encrypted transponders and corporate seals glowing faintly.

You step aside as Panam moves forward, raising her gloved hand to unlock one of the lower crates from its position.

Then abruptly-

The far exterior compartment door slams open.

Militech. Fully armoured, this time.

His weapon's already raised –

And time slows.

Your optics spark.

The quickhack interface blooms into view, translucent panels flickering urgently across your vision.

You lock onto his helmet, his internal systems glowing red as your targeting cursor snaps into place.

Sonic Shock – Uploading…

0.3 sec.

ERROR 503 - Connection Unavailable.

Your quickhack interface collapses uselessly. You blink in confusion – blocked? Here?

But Panam moves like lightning.

She slips inside the guard's defence, one precise elbow jab to his throat. He staggers, choking–

PFFT.

A suppressed round punches cleanly through his neck armour.

He falls, twitches once, then stills.

Panam rises calmly, dusting off her jacket, as casually as if swatting a fly.

You glance at River. He's frozen mid-motion, rifle half-raised, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and disbelief.

Not just at the violence.

But at how cold it was.

Mitch pauses, eyes wide, lips pressed thinly together. "Christ, Panam."

You glance toward Panam, unease prickling at the edges of your mind.

Panam notices your hesitation and snaps her fingers. "V, Mitch! Get with it, let's get this fucking crate in here, now!"

You swallow your questions for now, following her lead. Prepping the lift rig to shift out the old cargo container.

The crate locks into place with a heavy thunk, magnetic clamps engaging along the rails with a hiss of pressure. Mitch waves off the hydraulic lift, the old crate sliding back down the ramp, being pulled away into the desert beyond.

Then–

The lid bursts open.

Aurore pushes herself upright from inside the sealed interior, hair damp with sweat, breathing hard.

"Fucking hot in there," she mutters, swinging her legs over the side, letting them dangle. Her tank top clings to her, face glistening with heat and frustration.

Panam throws her a canteen. "Take a breather. But don't get too comfortable – we're climbing back in soon. Next time, it's a long ride."

Aurore groans and flops back inside the crate, just for a moment, letting the brief open air hit her lungs.

You're already stepping away from the car, checking gear, tightening a strap when River appears beside you, shoulders square beneath his jacket.

He doesn't speak right away.

Then–

"Y'know..." he starts, voice low, just for you. "I kept thinking – if this went south, if Rogue ghosted us, if Panam bailed – I'd have to make the call. Didn't sleep much that night. Just... picturing it. What it'd mean. What I'd become."

You stay quiet. Let him speak.

"But we didn't have to."

A breath.

A short laugh. "Thank God for fixers, huh?"

You chuckle, the weight easing a little in your chest. "Seems to be going well so far."

He looks at you again – this time directly, no hesitation in his eyes.

"You know I don't say this easy... but I'm proud of you, V."

You blink.

"Proud?"

He nods.

"For still having a soul. For dragging people out of the fire when you could've just saved yourself. A lot of folks in this city – cops, mercs, suits – they'd have left Aurore for dead. You didn't."

The desert wind picks up again, fluttering the loose tarp on a nearby crate.

You look down, try to shrug it off. "Didn't feel like a choice, River."

"Yeah. That's what makes it matter."

You glance at him again. There's a pause – then you reach out, clasping his arm in a firm grip.

Brotherhood, quiet and solid.

You squeeze his wrist once. Let go.

The moment lingers like the smoke of a fire almost out.

"See you on the other side of all this," he says, features softening just a little. "Just... come back, alright? I don't need another goddamn name to light a candle for."

His voice carries the weight of everything left unsaid – of every moment neither of you will ever get back if this goes sideways.

"You and me both."

And for a second – just a second – you don't feel like you're walking into a deathtrap.

The train groans, its weight shifting as it begins the slow arc southward, steel wheels grinding against rusted rails. The desert fades behind you, swallowed by the dark horizon.

River's gone, his silhouette now part of the past.
It's just the three of you now.

You all stand in front of the cargo crate – your ride into hell.

The lid yawns open, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at the cramped, coffin-like interior.

It's so much smaller than it was hours ago.

Panam mutters, "Still think River would've fit?"

You shake your head. "Pretty sure he would've popped the lid open just breathing."

You eye the space, barely enough to breathe, let alone fit three heavily armed people with egos, trauma, and a shared kill count.

And then–

Johnny flickers into existence, leaned lazily against the side of the crate, arms crossed, that signature smug smirk already loaded.

"Two girls. One coffin." He drawls, low. "Pretty sure I've seen this XBD before."

You shake your head, rubbing your temples.

"Hope you called dibs on the middle."

"Fuck off, Johnny."

But even you can't help the faint smirk tugging at your mouth as Aurore, without a word, climbs in first.

Prone, she slides into the far wall, folding her legs, adjusting her jacket and gear with precise, mouse-like movements. Her eyes flicker toward you briefly.

Then Panam follows, swinging in with a practiced motion, pistol holstered just under her knee. She settles opposite Aurore, back pressed to the other wall, her posture rigid but collected.

That leaves the space between them.

Your space.

You inhale – not just air, but resolve. Like a diver on the edge of a black pool.

Then you step in.

Your back presses against Aurore's front, the curve of her abdomen aligning with the small of your back. You can feel her breathe, steady but shallow. The warmth of her arms along your sides. The scent of sweat and copper hangs in the space.

Panam's knees brush yours, her face right across from you in the dim light. Her expression is unreadable – focused, maybe, or just hiding whatever's underneath. The cold gleam of her pistol rests just below her knee, close enough to feel the weight of it.

You settle in, slowly. Carefully.

The lid closes.
The locking mechanisms click.
Air pressure shifts.

And just like that – the world shrinks to the size of the crate, bounded by six metal walls.

A steel tomb with the heartbeat of engines rumbling beneath you.

The crate hums. Not just from the motion, but from the power of the AV thrumming around you.

Somewhere beyond these walls, engines roar to life – vertical thrusters firing, winding up.

You can feel the lift in your bones, the pressure shift behind your eyes.

"Already?" you murmur. "Feels fast."

Efficient. Like you were first on the manifest.
Priority cargo.

Lucky, maybe.
Or maybe Rogue's name carries more weight than you gave her credit for.

You're suddenly reminded of that "out" she promised.
The way Panam tossed it off like it was a sure thing.
The way no one really followed up.

Out of necessity.
Out of desperation.

And now, here you are.

"You really think Rogue's got a line outta Dogtown?" you ask into the near-darkness.

Panam's voice is immediate. Sharp.

"You're very fucking insistent about this."

Then, colder.

"It'll be fine."

The tone snaps like a mother disciplining a child – no room for argument, no warmth.

Your brow furrows in the dark. Something shifts.

The crate lurches as the AV begins to accelerate, carving a path across the sky, bound for Dogtown's airspace.

"Why'd you come with us, Panam?" you ask quietly. "You might've just put a huge target on the Aldecaldos' back."

For a moment – silence.

Then, in a tone that sends a chill through your spine.

"I think it's past that point now, V."

The words settle heavily in your gut. The crate suddenly feels tighter.

Your breathing slows.

You shift your gaze to her, the dim LED strip on the ceiling casting flickering shadows. Her face too still. Eyes unreadable.

But the tension is suffocating.

Then–

"Fuck the lead panels," Aurore mutters behind you, shifting slightly. "Should've put in some goddamn air-conditioning."

It cuts through the silence like a knife.

You feel her move against your back, both your clothes wet with sweat, sticking to one another, but her movement is grounding, human.

Panam speaks again.

Only… it isn't right.

"That target?" she says, voice a degree too calm. "You painted it when you rode out of Dogtown on a panzer, V. Could've tracked that by word of mouth."

Your chest tightens.

A long pause.

Something cold blooms at the base of your skull.

The way she volunteered for this op.
The way she never blinked at the extraction ambiguity.
The ease with which she shot that Militech guard – no emotion.

You look at her again.

Her face is still, eyes utterly calm – calculating.

You don't speak.
Don't make a sound.

Just slowly, carefully, reach behind you, fumbling in the dark.

You feel Aurore's fingers.
You squeeze once.
Hard.

A warning.

Her breath hitches, almost too soft to hear.

Then–

Click.

You hear it before you see it.

The sound of a safety.

Your body acts on pure instinct.

You twist. Grab for the weapon just as it clears her holster.

But she's faster.

Panam's fist cracks into your jaw, hard enough to send flickers through your left optic feed for a moment. Your head snaps against the crate wall.

Stars. Pain.

"V?" Aurore's voice – worried, scared. "What's happening?"

She can't see.
Can't see what you now know.

Because in front of you, 'Panam' exhales–

A soft shimmer of light dances across her face.

Then it melts away.

The real Panam gone.

What's left is a new face, one you know too well.

Alex.

The FIA's shape-shifting wraith.

She grins.

"Jeez, that was a long run, V."

She leans back slightly. "Those nomads? Nice people."

You grit your teeth, feeling blood fill your mouth.

You launch a quickhack, desperate – System Collapse. Reboot Optics. Anything.

The interface opens – then sputters.

Corrupted. Again.

Hijacked.

She tilts her head.

"Not this time, V." Her voice is quieter now. "Do you know how much that last program you ran hurt?"

The 'signal blocker' she installed. Fuck.

Aurore behind you is panicked, struggling in the confined space, trying to shift but still has no line of sight.

She doesn't know.

Doesn't see.

Doesn't know the devil's sitting across from you, armed and very much in control.

There was no Rogue.
No escape route.
No backdoor deal.

Just an express delivery to the FIA's fucking doorstep.

The realization sinks in like acid, burning through your chest as you sit pinned in that tight metal coffin, her pistol pressing to your face with clinical precision.

You stare at the barrel, a perfect circle of cold steel, and for a heartbeat, it's almost… beautiful.
Like the last thing you'll ever see was engineered to be this haunting.

Your mouth is dry.
Your lungs feel too full.

"Alex – just wait. Just fucking wait."

Her name slips from your lips like it's holy.
Like it might be a key to whatever humanity she might still have left.

Behind you, you feel Aurore freeze, her struggling goes still, her breath catching.

Alex narrows her eyes. Her arm doesn't waver.

"They didn't need to die," you say, voice ragged, heartbeat in your ears. "I couldn't watch you zero two innocent people."

"Shut up, V."

The muzzle presses tighter. You can feel it – metal, heat, inevitability.

"Is Songbird planning to turn on the NUS?"

No interest in ethics.
No patience for conscience.

Just the mission.

You glance at the angle of the gun. If she pulls the trigger, you die.
But Aurore won't.
The tech survives. The code stays intact.
Even now, you can't help but feel a twisted glimmer of admiration – her precision, her calm, the unflinching efficiency.

You blink, sweat tracing down your temple.
"No." The lie slips out easy, automatic.

Your mind flashes to So Mi – her eyes fierce, voice steady: "I can save your life."
The memory steadies you, grounds you.

"No," you repeat firmly. "She's not."

Silence hangs, heavy, waiting.

Then, the faintest whir – so soft you might've imagined it.

A personal port extending behind you.
Deliberate. Quiet.

Aurore.
Plugging in.

You don't dare shift.

Alex's eyes flicker.

"Wrong answer, V."

Her voice drops to a pleading hush, almost convincing.

"What's her plan? Do you even know what she is? Whatever she promised you – it's a lie. Just tell us the plan and I promise" – and her eyes do soften, just for a breath – "we can deliver. We didn't start this on opposite sides."

That soft plastic click echoes as Aurore's cable locks in.

Your heart skips.

"She's– "

And you hesitate.

Just for a second.

Because she nearly gets you.
The way she said it.

And that's when she knows.

Her eyes go dead.
Her knee comes up, hard.

You don't even scream–
Pain explodes through your body – the sickening, gut-wrenching agony of testicular obliteration that makes the whole crate spin.

You choke. Eyes watering. Breath gone.

Somewhere, a klaxon wails.

Alex smiles. Glances at her watch.
"What, we're not meant to be dropping yet– "

Then–

CLANG.

The release slams open with a metallic scream.

The world shifts. Quiets.

You feel your stomach drop.

Freefall.

No burn. No brakes.
Thrusters aren't firing.

Aurore presses herself into you. You feel a sob rack her.

Alex goes still.
Her smirk vanishes, eyes wide, body braced.

In the cramped metal box it's just three people.

And silence.

And gravity.