April 14, 2021. 20:40. Vancouver.
"The hell is Autumn Blade?" I stop reading and turn to Wissen, confusion clear on my face. "I've never heard of them."
Everyone knows the big corporations—Arasaka, Militech, Kang Tao. They're the ones who make, move, and price every firearm on the planet; weapons distribution is literally their business. Even their newest "public" models are just refinements of older designs.
A railgun, though—that's something you'd only see in movies or games.
Last I heard they've built a few working prototypes, but the tech lives behind military R&D doors and corporate NDAs.
You'd think recoil is the problem, but dampeners mostly fix that. The real blockers are raw pulsed power, heat and rail erosion, and the cryogenic or superconducting systems needed to make a compact, repeatable package—issues the corps still haven't solved for anything but full-scale military rigs.
I uncross my legs and lean forward. "Are they legit?"
Wissen gives a brief, confident nod. I know better than to doubt his intel—or the way he gets it.
"I assure you, they're very real," he says, gesturing at the folder in my lap. "The pages you're holding contain everything I currently know. Take a closer look."
I flip to the next sheet. Each page feels crisp, freshly printed. A few coloured images—news clippings, video stills—detail a shadowy organization. Boogeyman? Internet hoax? Urban legend? The headlines treat Autumn Blade like a myth. I set the page aside and glance back at him.
"So, a mysterious group that people joke about around a campfire. Give me the short version—I'll read the rest later." I close the folder. Long debriefings were never my thing, and Wissen knows it.
"Autumn Blade has been circulating for years as a niche internet horror story," he says. "An organization that exists only in the darkest corners of the Net. They offer their services to the highest bidder—protection or assassination."
"Big deal," I say, shrugging. "Plenty of groups already do that. Hire out bodyguards, merc teams, small armies—it's nothing new. What makes these guys special?"
"What if I told you they also manufacture weapons, equipment, vehicles—even implants—on the same level as major corporations?"
I blink twice. "And they've only been around for five years?"
Wissen nods once.
"Wait—how the hell is that even possible? You're telling me a ghost company that can rival the big corpos has only existed for half a decade?"
"That's just the first record of them based on my sources; it doesn't necessarily mean they've only existed for five years."
"Okay, but still—where are they getting their buyers or recruits? How the hell are they funding all this and accessing such high-end tech?"
"As of right now, I'm in the dark on that too. I'm not sure how Autumn Blade recruits or makes contact, but I'd imagine it's invitation-only—maybe through the darknet or specific brokers acting as intermediaries." Wissen taps the side of his glass in thought. "Even my best agents have struggled to dig up any data on them."
"So even your top netrunners and local fixers have come up with nothing? No leads online or on the ground?"
"Nothing. My netrunners have been tracing their presence for months, but so far, no luck. Every contact I have across the globe knows as much as we do. Anyone who starts asking too many questions hits a dead end—or goes missing."
I shudder at the thought. I've had missions go sideways before, but chasing ghosts is never fun. "Alright—hard to track, good at staying hidden. So how were they discovered in the first place?"
"I suspect it was intentional," Wissen says. "They first surfaced in the East Asian black market, where local gangs started getting their hands on Autumn Blade gear. Whenever we tried tracing a common supplier, that person vanished."
"Okay, so what about their services? Same deal, right? Some mystery contact shows up, word gets around, and suddenly everyone's saying it's Autumn Blade?"
"Correct."
"Realistically, no organization climbs that fast without serious backing. Wouldn't surprise me if they've got help from other corps—or governments."
"It's likely."
"So what's this mission, then? You're not flying me to China or anything, are you?"
Wissen pauses to refill his glass, cracking open a new bottle. I resist the urge to ask for one too.
"No," he says, voice lower now. "And that's the concerning part. For the past few months, they've been spreading across the globe."
I tilt my head, surprised. "Worldwide, huh? Let me guess—they're here in Vancouver?"
"Correct. Arasaka and Militech are especially on edge. The rumor that a new megacorp can produce weapons at their level—or better—has been the talk in executive circles."
"So you want me to prove whether it's true?" I show Wissen the page with the prototype.
"No—we know it's real. Multiple reports worldwide claim they've released one and even done live firing tests. What I need you to do is acquire one."
"Wait… what?"
"I'm not sure if you noticed, but there was a gang shootout in Richmond earlier tonight."
"Uh… I was gaming at the time." I laugh, sheepish. Wissen raises an amused eyebrow and sips his drink.
"A few street gangs in Vancouver were told they'd get a chance to buy a railgun. You can imagine the chaos."
"So you want me to take it from whoever ends up with it?"
"Yes. But you won't be doing it alone. You're my ace on a team of contracted operatives. I'll introduce you to them."
I frown slightly; the thought gnaws at the back of my mind. "A team, huh? It's been a while since I've worked with one."
Wissen studies me for a moment. "You'll be fine, Artemis. I know you prefer to operate solo, but everyone in this group has a reason to be here. You'll fit right in."
I lean back, crossing my arms. "I guess we'll see."
"Just do what you do best," he says with a faint smile. "The rest will work itself out."
I exhale through my nose, still not convinced but willing to trust his judgment—for now.
At this point, we pass through a dense stretch of suburban sprawl and stop near a large, bustling shopping mall I know well. People stream through the vast parking lot, loading bags into cars or heading inside. The mall looms like an architectural behemoth—bathed in neon light and plastered with advertisements—a hub of shopping and entertainment, its multiple towers linked by a massive central structure.
The limo rolls past the main entrance and turns toward a dimly lit section near an alley, where I spot two people waiting.
One is a tanned man with a mullet and a partially open vest, revealing a toned physique covered in tattoos: anchors, sharks, and other aquatic themes. Looks comfortable in his skin. He's got the build of a brawler, but not the look of a merc.
Next to him stands a pale woman with long white hair tucked under a green beanie, her outfit all baggy, functional streetwear. Cropped top, light jacket, cargo pants—casual but practical. Hm… skinny, agile, not a front-line fighter.
Wissen catches my gaze. "Two of your teammates. You'll meet the rest later."
"Where are the others?" I ask.
His eyes glow faint blue, and a faint whirr hums as a polished metallic arm extends from the red velvet interior. It takes his glass as the limo door swings open and he steps out.
"They're on the way," he says, gesturing for me to follow. "Come."
I step out, careful to avoid puddles on the wet concrete as we approach the two figures. The alley's dark, lit only by a flickering streetlight at the corner. My new teammates are half-silhouetted in shifting shadow.
The girl with white hair waves energetically, her tone playful and expressive. "Heyyy! Name's Shock." Her grin is wide and bright, her nails flashing a holographic shimmer of purple and blue. "Nice to meet you."
"Hi." I return the smile, polite but measured. "Artemis. Pleasure to work with you."
The man gives an easy nod. "Tetra. How's it going?"
He extends his hand. I blink, caught off guard—handshakes aren't exactly my standard these days. Still, I take it. His grip's firm.
Wissen clears his throat, stepping beside me. "Tetra, Shock—this is the solo I mentioned. A trusted gun-for-hire and additional support for your team."
Tetra and Shock share a quick nod. Behind us, the door opens, and two more figures emerge—formally dressed, but in very different ways.
The first is a European man with a fair-skinned neck covered in tattoos and slicked-back hair. Sharp features, dark sunken eyes—the kind that belong to someone seasoned in the art of killing. He carries himself with cold precision, gloved hands steady, posture disciplined. Crosses and skulls hang from his piercings and chains—religious iconography, but twisted by violence. A holy man with dirty hands. Interesting.
The other figure wears a full motorcycle helmet that completely conceals their face, a long trench coat draped over a suit and tie. The visor reflects the nearby lights in a warped, liquid sheen, hiding any trace of identity beneath the metal. Their height and build blur into the coat, like someone meant to be forgotten.
Wissen glances their way and smiles politely.
"Artemis, meet Dante and Mister," he says.
Dante, the one with the dead eyes, gives a curt nod. "Pleasure to meet you, Artemis," he says, his words carrying the faint lilt of an Italian accent.
The helmeted figure turns toward me. When he speaks, his voice is male but filtered through heavy modulation, a synthetic hum beneath every word.
"Good evening, Artemis."
The distortion throws me off—it takes a second to parse the tone. I blink, caught off guard. "A-Ah… pleasure to meet you both."
Wissen and Dante start talking quietly beside me. Dante absently taps a finger against his arm, a steady rhythm that betrays his impatience.
"I assume the others are arriving?" he asks.
"They'll be here shortly," Wissen replies, eyes faintly glowing as he speaks. "While we wait, I'll make introductions."
He gestures toward me. "Artemis—your solo. Her skills and reflexes are among the best Canada has to offer."
I give a polite smile but keep my hands at my sides.
"Tetra," Wissen continues, "a nomad from the Thelas Nation. His ties to his family's network and his experience with heavy labour will be valuable assets."
Ah. That explains the look.
Wissen turns next to Shock. "Shock, your netrunner—and Dante's sister, incidentally."
I blink twice. They're siblings? No way.
Shock grins and gives an exaggerated bow.
"And Mister—the local fixer in Vancouver. His anonymity's his greatest strength."
Mister gives a short, silent nod.
Then, a distant motorcycle engine cuts through the night. The low growl grows louder, echoing down the alley. My head tilts toward the sound before anyone else reacts.
"As for the remaining two," Wissen begins, "they should be—"
He's interrupted as the bike rounds the corner. A sleek black motorcycle slides to a stop beside the limo. The rider dismounts, pulls off a black helmet, and sets it on the seat.
A young man stares back at us—snow-white hair, icy blue eyes, a sharp yet angelic face caught somewhere between Asian and Caucasian. The kind of beauty that doesn't belong on a battlefield.
He gives a lazy wave. "Yo."
I arch a brow, then glance past him—toward a faint silhouette at the mouth of the alley.
A pale Asian woman steps into view, her dark hair cropped into a sharp bob, short bangs framing her face, two small buns perched on top. A lopsided grin flashes—equal parts charm and trouble. Dressed in a black turtleneck and pleated pants, she moves with easy confidence, owning the ground she walks on.
She winks at me before striding closer, her footsteps and voice finally drawing the others' attention.
"Hope I'm not too late. Came as fast as I could."
Wissen turns toward her and the young man by the bike, continuing as if nothing had interrupted him.
"As I was saying," he says, gesturing to the woman, "Azure—one of the best techies in the city."
Azure steps forward, taking a place just behind my shoulder. Wissen's hand shifts toward the rider with the white hair.
"And that is Remi, the rising star of Vancouver—a real rocker."
My jaw nearly hits the pavement. That kid? The local celebrity?
Flashes of late-night scrolling rush through my mind—his name trending across feeds, headlines about a twenty-one-year-old breakout musician lighting up Canada's scene.
I was still fumbling through university at that age. Then again, I'm a twenty-six-year-old model-slash-assassin now, so maybe we've both made unconventional career choices.
Wissen looks from Dante back to the rest of us.
"And this," he says, sweeping a hand toward the group, "is your team of edgerunners for tonight."