April 20, 2021. 15:38. Burnaby. 10 days left till Italy.
Turns out Mister did have a way in.
While we're on our way to Nathan's high school, Mister already made some calls. Fixer friends, bureaucratic favours—whatever strings he pulled, it gave us access under the guise of a "safety inspection."
Since the city's been panicking about the sudden rise of designer street drugs showing up near school zones—SynthCoke, mostly—Mister was able to frame our investigation as a public concern tied to a recent case with relative ease.
Which wasn't that far away from the truth.
The administration wasn't thrilled, but they cooperated just enough. We weren't allowed into classrooms or anything sensitive. But hallways, bathrooms, the commons? Fair game. All under "observation protocol."
None of us argued. Easier to play along than blow our cover.
We arrive at the school just after classes ended. It's still active, of course, with students shuffling out for clubs or after-school detention. Security cameras blink in the corners. Hall monitors give us sideways looks.
And of course, we stand out like hell.
A woman decked out in mercenary gear, a guy wearing a hoodie that still screams "off-world wanderer", and someone wearing a biker helmet. You know, just 'regular' investigators.
We enter through the side lot, badging in with the clearance cards Mister provided.
"Don't talk unless you have to," he mutters, while scanning the walls. "Let me handle the staff."
"Right," I say. "Wouldn't want to scare the kids."
Tetra snorts under his breath. "Assuming we haven't already."
"Fair point."
The halls smell like floor wax and hormonal tension. Same as every high school I've ever stepped into—sterile on the surface, but you can feel the rot if you linger too long. Somewhere between the student council posters and vape-scented bathrooms, something's always festering.
Mister walks beside me, phone in hand. "Admin gave us limited access to the building and security systems. Hallways, washrooms, open common areas. That's it."
"All this from a 'safety inspection'?" Tetra asks, glancing around at the students loitering nearby.
"Technically, it's true," I say. "It's kind of a grey area, but it works. Since there's an increase in street drugs and gang violence, the city's very eager to get it solved. Plus, admin didn't want bad press on them."
He hums, unconvinced. "Makes sense, still feels like a stretch to me though."
"Most schools are used to inspections," Mister replies. "They just didn't expect this one to come with tagalongs."
We pass through a set of glass doors into the older west wing. Most of it's still active—lockers, classrooms, hallways buzzing with teens—but a section near the far end has been sealed off. The windows beyond look out over the yard, which is also cordoned with hazard tape and construction fencing. A faded notice warns: Access prohibited.
"Is that the spot?" I nod toward the taped-off area outside the windows. A sliver of yellow tarp flutters in the breeze.
"Yes, it is," Mister says. "Nathan was stabbed near the west entrance. Admin claims that the entire associated hall is under renovation, but…"
"It's too clean," I finish. "And it's too vague. Like, someone didn't want people looking."
Tetra leans against the windowsill, peering out. "Do you guys think the gangs are tied to the school too?"
"We already know there's activity in the area, so the connections might run deep." Mister glances at a few students—brief, but odd—then shifts his focus back to us. "Let's see if anything inside links to what's happening outside."
"Hmm, we know Nathan was stabbed out there," I murmur, "but if he was targeted, whatever heat he picked up might've started inside the school. Wrong hallway, wrong bathroom, wrong face."
Tetra nods. "Maybe someone was watching him? Or following him? Maybe someone passed notes, left warnings—or threats. Stuff like that, anything the admin missed."
"Or ignored," I add. "I'm willing to bet this was sweeped under the rug. 'Too expensive' to properly take care of and all."
Mister gestures for us to split up. "I suggest we search different areas. We don't have long, admin's already on edge, and I think we have less than an hour to look."
I nod and head off toward the closed-off wing. The tarp rustles faintly in the breeze coming from a nearby cracked window. I duck behind a vending machine near the corner, noticing something stuck to the floor—fine residue that sparkles faintly under the light.
I crouch and stare at the powder. Dust? No. I rub it between my fingers. Gritty. Familiar.
My eyes narrow and I use my free hand to text Mister. "Found something."
Mister responds. "Where?"
"Vending machine near the west wing tarp. I think I found some more SynthCoke. Same powder in Roderick's place."
"Noted. Keep moving."
Tetra's text pops in next. "Uh… check this out."
I make my way down the hall and find him staring into a bathroom, flicking his phone flashlight toward one of the stalls. On the tile above the toilet, a symbol glows faintly—sloppy, rushed—but unmistakable. A jagged crimson spiral—wire wrapped around a neuron—twisting into the rough shape of an eye. The red paint reflects faintly under the light, corrupted by glitchy flecks of white and black along the edges.
"The fuck… that's the Melders symbol." I stand beside Tetra, eyeing the surrounding area.
Tetra squints at the symbol, tilting his head slightly. "Sure looks like it. Too specific to be coincidence."
I exhale through my nose. "If they were tagging here, they were either recruiting—or marking turf."
"And that means they were watching the school."
We reconvene near the admin office, where Mister's already gone snooping through trash. He lifts a torn-up document with a gloved hand. "Student wellness report," he mutters. "Anxiety. Hallucinations. Nervous breakdowns. All traced back to drug exposure—suspected off-campus."
"Yeah, it's the same profile as Michelangelo mentioned," I report. "Same drugs and all."
"Right." Mister nods. "And the timing does match."
Outside the window, I catch a flicker from one of the retro security cams still mounted above the back doors. Mister notices it too and approaches it with his phone—already pulling the footage with his admin privileges.
"I got something. Luckily for us, the footage for the last few weeks weren't scrubbed," he mutters, tapping through a list of files. "It's grainy… but it's there." He shows us the screen, zooming in slightly. "You see that?"
Onscreen, a tall figure stands across the street—long coat, face hidden under a hood—just outside the school gates on a regular day.
"Trench coat?" I murmur, leaning in.
"Yes. They never go inside though," Mister adds. "Just stand there. Watching. And then, a few minutes later…" He swipes forward. "That."
Several cars pull up—beat-up vehicles marked by red tags and old gang stickers. The Melders.
Older members get out first, definitely past their twenties. Heavy chrome covers their arms and necks, some even across their jaws. The students trailing behind have smaller, more patchy implants—neck ports, exposed skin wiring, amateur mods.
They walk toward the entrance at first—confident, casual.
Then something changes.
Their posture stiffens. Faces tighten. Their pace picks up.
"What the hell…" I mutter. "Why do they start freaking out?"
Onscreen, the group erupts—one shoves another, then they're lashing out, yelling at bystanders. Shoving random students. One passerby says something back.
That's when the stabbing starts.
Multiple angles catch it—blades flashing, bodies falling. The camera can't zoom in well, but the panic's obvious. Screams. People scatter. One kid drops to the ground, bleeding out on the pavement.
Tetra frowns, squinting at the footage. "Shit… that was Nathan."
"Yeah, that's just… fucked up," I whisper. "He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. The gangsters though… what's up with them?"
I glance at the screen again. The figure hasn't moved. He's just standing there. Motionless and detached. Like they were waiting shit to hit the fan.
"It's odd, but at least we got our answer about Nathan," Mister mutters, powering off the slate. "He wasn't caught up in the gangs, at least not as a member. He got steamrolled by something bigger."
"Great. We got implanted gangster-recruit students." I groan and pinch the bridge of my nose. "SynthCoke up Greater Vancouver's ass. Melders pushing lines through high schools in Burnaby. And now this trench coat asshole, just standing there watching."
Tetra exhales sharply. "Man, what kind of person just lurks at the edge of a school while kids tear each other apart?"
"The type that doesn't care who gets hurt," I reply. "Or maybe the type that wants it. I don't know."
Mister crosses his arms. "They were definitely there to observe the fallout. The question is why? Do they watch the Melders usually or… was it that day specifically? Either they were scouting for someone or were testing something."
Tetra taps his foot on the floor. "Maybe they were watching how SynthCoke affects people with implants?"
I bite my lip. "This is assuming they were watching for SynthCoke. The guy could've been just checking out the Melders' behaviour in general. Still doesn't explain why they flipped out like that, but I doubt the security footage alone can confirm anything."
Mister shakes his head. "Okay, then maybe it wasn't the drug. Maybe it was the people. Maybe they were checking to see how violent the Melders are? Seeing how they behave? It could be gang-related."
Tetra glances between us. "But why? I mean… do you think they're building some sort of weird profile? Or maybe they're a rival gang? I assume that's how it works."
I pace around, slowly, with my arms crossed. "Well, if Nathan was just a victim… then whoever's watching clearly isn't interested in the average person, that's for sure. They're watching very specific groups, like the Melders."
Mister sighs. "As of right now, we don't know why though. They didn't intervene. Didn't clean up. Just watched and left. That's not 'normal' gang behaviour. That's data collection."
Tetra mutters, "So who the hell wants data like that?"
"That's the question. And right now, we don't have the full picture. Yet."
I glance toward the nearest classroom door. Voices buzz faintly behind the walls—just a normal school day continuing like nothing happened.
"So, uh…" Tetra tilts his head. "What now? We've got traces of the Melders, the drug, and a ghost in a coat. Do we wait for Remi to dig up more gang info?"
Mister shakes his head. "Remi's chasing the dealers. That'll take time."
I click my tongue. "Then we follow the other lead. Roderick's workplace."
Tetra lifts a brow. "Right. That's where his trail goes cold, right? He worked there for at least several months so he must have some sort of trail.
Mister nods. "My thoughts exactly. I propose that we let Remi handle the street, we'll stick with corporate."
No one disagrees.
We leave the school, moving down the hall. The noise of kids and lockers fade behind us. As we exit through the back of the school, the security cam above the door still hums quietly.
Outside, the wind's picked up. Light drizzles of rain pepper the cracked pavement as Mister finishes a conversation by the school's front doors, giving the admin a practiced fixer handshake.
"We'll submit the report by the end of the week," he says, slipping a fake ID badge back into his coat. "I appreciate your cooperation."
The admin nods, still wary. He keeps talking with Mister, but is satisfied enough to let me and Tetra leave first without a scene.
We wait for Mister by the curb.
I lean against the edge of the truck as the rain dances on its hood. Tetra crosses his arms, exhaling through his nose.
"So," he mutters, "are we taking one vehicle or are we splitting?"
I nod toward the lot. "Best we keep going. Parking's going to be hell in Richmond, and we don't want to roll up to Redpoint in three separate rides like a convoy."
He tilts his head and glances at the truck. "Right. By the way, do you always drive this thing around?"
I smirk. "It's my heavy-duty vehicle."
Tetra raises a brow. "Heavy-duty?"
I walk over to my metal baby, click a latch by the backseat, and pop open a hidden compartment. Inside: a compact assault rifle rigged for urban CQB, a collapsible drone, a toolkit fitted for bypassing car security systems, and an EMP charge no bigger than a lunchbox.
"Jesus." Tetra blinks in surprise. "And here I thought your duffle bag was the best you had."
"Most of my real toys are at home," I say, shutting the compartment with a satisfied grin. "But yeah, I keep this one stocked. Just in case."
Tetra grins, half-impressed, half-shook. "What about that sedan you drove a while back?"
"Oh, that one?" I tap my chin. "She's got her own tricks. Nothing crazy, but enough to turn heads or lose a tail."
"You must be rich," he mutters. "Or ridiculously overprepared."
"Both," I say, eyes twinkling. "But it comes with the field. You do enough contracts, you learn to invest in good wheels."
He chuckles. "So how many do you have?"
"Oh! My rides?" My energy and mood shoot up. "Ooh, let me show you. One sec."
I pull out my black phone and scroll to a folder labeled Garage Babies. With a swipe, I start flicking through the photos, each one more ridiculous than the last. We skip past pictures of my truck and sedan, instead going right into my favourites.
First up is a matte-black SUV, military-grade, bulky as hell with infrared masking and enough thermal shielding to sneak through a warzone.
Next is my custom street bike—sleek, aggressive, low-slung with neon blue underglow and modified purely for slicing through city streets like a needle.
Then a cherry-red convertible, vintage, the kind of car you drive just to be admired in traffic—a personal favourite of mine when I'm just flaunting my wealth.
I pause on the next one, and a smile curls at the corner of my mouth.
The '69 Mustang Fastback. Pristine paint, custom engine tune. All bite under a classic frame. That thing could wake the dead.
Then I swipe again—and grin wider. The recent addition to my collection.
"And then… this one."
Sleek and black. Porsche 911 GT3. Blood-red racing stripes across the hood and sides like claw marks.
Tetra whistles. "Oh wow. That one's really nice."
"Best car I've ever stolen," I say, almost proudly. "Ripped it from AXIS during a bad gig."
He looks at me with a raised brow. "Wait, the same AXIS that got involved with you and Remi? The same car that Blake was talking about?"
"Yeah... same one. Honestly, for the car's value, I should've put in more effort to steal it. It was mostly a bonus for myself after putting him down."
"Huh, so that's how it all lines up."
"Yeah, so anyway—that's the story."
He pauses. "Was it worth it?"
I grin. "Absolutely. The semantics are… questionable, but at least I still own it. The more I think about it, the more satisfied I feel with my choices involving the Dead Kings."
Tetra shrugs and shakes his head. "Can't say I get the whole 'car collecting' thing… but hey, everyone's got their hobbies."
"You don't get attached to your ride?" I glance over at him.
"I do, but it's just that—a ride. All it does is just get me where I need to go." He pauses, then stares at the surrounding neighbourhood. "Then again, I haven't really driven anything in the city yet. I've mostly just been relying on transit."
"Right. Forgot you're not really a city guy. Remind me to toss you the keys sometime." I faintly smile and lean back against the truck. "To me, my rides aren't just transportation. Each one's tuned differently. It's like a… toolkit—but with wheels."
He returns my smile with a slow nod. "Oh, you don't need to go that far, but thanks. Still don't think I fully get the hobby, personally—but I get the love behind it."
Just then, Mister approaches, adjusting the strap of his helmet. "Let's move. I've concluded everything, and we won't need to come back here anytime soon."
Tetra climbs into the passenger seat while I start up the truck. The engine growls to life, a deep mechanical growl beneath the rain.
…
April 20, 2021. 17:02. Richmond. 10 days left till Italy.
Redpoint sits nestled in the outer stretch of Richmond's mercenary district—not quite slums, not quite downtown, but that greasy middle layer where work is loud, credits are quick, and laws are mostly optional. The cops show up if the blood leaks too far past the sidewalk. Otherwise? You're on your own.
Unlike the hyper-corporate coldness of Vancouver proper—at least when you ignore the sections that aren't controlled like the Dead Kings' area—or the wild and reckless chaos of Surrey, Richmond's scene simmers in a constant state of functional anarchy. Gunshots aren't rare. Contracts get settled in alleys. The same food vendor might sell you noodles one night and smuggled ammo the next. You learn not to ask questions.
Tetra leans forward, eyes scanning the loud street filled with neon signs and too many people packed into not enough space. "It's… busy."
"Don't stare too long," I murmur. "They'll think you're either a narc or a target."
He straightens. "Got it."
I glance at the crowded streets, then back toward the direction we came from. "This part of Richmond's different from the docks," I add, mostly for his sake. "The docks were somewhat in-between Vancouver and Richmond—barely anything out there except warehouses and leftover gang turf. Think of Redpoint as part of the centre for activity in Richmond. Packed, dirty, loud. No one runs it clean, but everyone plays by their own rules."
I pull the truck into a side lot between a pawnshop and an old cyberdoc den with flickering signage. "Stay close, don't ask questions, and let me handle the talking."
"Will do," Mister says. He's quiet, watching the scene unfold with practiced detachment. "I haven't operated in Redpoint before, but I'm smart enough to keep low."
Tetra, by contrast, follows my lead with a bit more hesitation.
The front of Redpoint looks more like a retro arcade than a merc posting hub. Faded LED lights blink above a steel-plated door, while beat-up couches and half-sparking vending machines line the front lounge. Inside, the air is thick with smoke and synth-oil. A huge digital bulletin board dominates one wall, flickering through contracts, kill orders, courier jobs, and missing persons bounties.
We split up to cover more ground. Mister and I head for the terminals to sift through archived postings while Tetra drifts toward the perimeter, checking the board. I log in under one of my older aliases—nothing that would flag the system—and start filtering for Roderick's records.
Sure enough, his name pops up. Dozens of gigs, all clustered around specific zones. A private delivery job near a burned-out clinic in New Westminster. Armed escort for a sketchy corporate shipment in Delta. Two asset protection gigs near public schools in Coquitlam and Richmond. One of the last logs is a solo sweep through a supposedly "low-risk" Red Zone just outside Surrey. The dates line up suspiciously well with known virus outbreak sites. All of it post-Nathan.
"Shit, man," I mutter under my breath. "I get taking whatever that can pay. But this is workaholism on steroids."
Mister scans the job tags beside me. "These gigs weren't normal. They were pushing him closer and closer to hotspots."
"He knew what he was walking into. He just didn't care."
A quiet chime pings behind us. Tetra's checking his phone, expression softening. He types out a quick message, then notices us watching.
"Oh, it's my family," he says, offering a small smile. "They just wanted to check in."
Mister gives a small nod and steps away to give him some space. I don't say anything, and just let him have his moment. It's good that someone still checks on him.
We head toward the back, where job records are kept and old hands tend to hang out. The office behind the counter is messy but functional—cluttered datapads, hollowed-out gun parts, and a half-empty thermos of something definitely not coffee.
The man behind the desk barely looks up at first. His nameplate reads G. Hermanas—Gustavo, the one who runs this whole damn place.
I clear my throat and tap lightly on his desk. "Hi. We're looking for old job logs. Roderick Hale. He used to run contracts through here. Big guy. Cybernetics creeping up his neck. Merc with Redpoint tags."
Gustavo squints. "Haven't heard that name in a while." He taps on a rusted keyboard, eyes narrowing. "You his handler?"
"Something like that," I say smoothly. "Just following up on patterns. Making sure he wasn't working rogue."
Gustavo stops typing, narrowing his eyes. "That's all? 'Following up on patterns'? You don't look like corpo cleanup, and you're too calm to be grieving. So what's your angle?"
I don't flinch. "No angle. Just cleaning up the mess before it turns into a bigger one."
He leans back in his chair, arms crossed. "You here on the Gestalt's dime?"
"Not directly or officially."
"Lone freelancer?"
"If I say yes, does that make you more or less likely to help?"
He grunts. "You sound like someone who knows how this place works. But plenty of wannabes try to sound like they do. So let's say I do have old logs—how do I know you're not here sniffing for a rival outfit? Or worse, trying to sting one of my boys?"
I glance over at Mister, who remains silent, calmly scanning the area. Then back at Gustavo. "Because I'm not asking for active job data. I asked for dead contracts, archived listings, posted through the system. Nothing more."
I take a step closer. "I'm not here to burn Redpoint. I'm just here to trace a merc who's already self-imploded. You've got nothing to lose by helping me, and I'm not here to waste either of our time."
He stares at me for a beat longer, measuring.
Then something shifts.
His posture loosens, and he leans in, squinting at me like something just clicked.
"Y'know… I knew a merc who used to talk like that. Loved hiring her. Real professional. Ran tight gigs, good attitude, and always got the job done." His eyes flicker with recognition. "Damn shame she dropped off the map though. I think her name was Kyu—"
"Doesn't matter," I interrupt, voice just sharp enough. "That's irrelevant to my job."
Gustavo blinks, then smiles, catching on quick. "Right. Doesn't matter. I just hope she's doing well."
Crisis averted.
"I think so." I smile back. "She probably misses you too."
Mister doesn't react—his gaze glued to a screen, unmoving.
"Anyways, here," the older man mutters, scrolling through logs. "Roderick was a regular. Took jobs close to the ground. Security, courier, containment. Dangerous ones. Either he was trying to forget something… or he had nothing left to lose."
I stare at the screen. The timestamps don't lie. The loss of his son really broke him.
I nod once, absorbing the data. "We'll take a copy."
Gustavo waves it off. "Already sent to your device. Good luck."
We turn to leave, and I glance once more at the office—at the memories crawling up through the walls.
I used to have a name here. Back when I dropped out of university just to pay bills. Before I met Wissen. Before the modeling gigs. Before Artemis.
But none of that's for today.
We step out of Redpoint, the buzz of merc chatter and engine growls swelling around us. I take a breath. Oily air, neon heat, distant shouts—and shake off the weight of old ghosts.
Back at the truck, I pull up the job logs on my phone and show the others. "Take a look," I say, letting the list of contracts project across the screen. "This matches what we found at Roderick's place." I zoom in, highlighting a few key entries. "His recent jobs are all clustered near cyberpsycho zones… or places with Melder activity."
Mister crosses his arms. "Alright, so now we know, for certain, he was working in infected zones. Did Michelangelo ever confirm how the virus spreads?
I shake my head. "Nope. There's not much known."
"Right. So, it's uncertain if he was exposed to the virus or not—or if he found a seller within the local area. Either way, it's progress."
"I highly doubt there's someone that sells drugs in an extremely dangerous area—like Surrey's combat zone. Unless it's an extremely capable vendor, I guess. So it's either near his home, or here, in Richmond."
Mister taps the screen, marking a few locations that line up with Roderick's frequent visits. "The Melders have a solid foothold in Surrey and Richmond, but Roderick isn't in Surrey enough times to make drug runs there. Still, I wouldn't be surprised if the Melders are selling to people in Surrey, considering their aggressive takeover."
Tetra leans over my shoulder, frowning. "Wait, don't forget they're in Burnaby too. Remember the graffiti or whatever? They're expanding into Burnaby too."
"Yes, which ties into the spike in gang wars and general violence," Mister mutters. "I don't know if it's connected yet, but it's worth keeping in mind."
I chew my lip. "Shit. That doesn't really narrow down where the SynthCoke first got to Roderick."
"Yeah… but at least it confirms what we already suspected," Tetra says. "I guess all three locations are crawling with Melders. How did they even grow so fast? Even the Dead Kings aren't that big."
"Desperation breeds recruitment." I don't mean to say it aloud, but I do.
Mister folds his arms. "They didn't start big. The Melders used to be a fringe gang with maybe one or two blocks under their control—mostly junkies and implant scavengers. But after the economic crash, half the city was left scraping by. When people lost homes, jobs, and everything else overnight? Suddenly, even the worst gangs started looking like salvation."
I nod. "Sell a kidney. Smuggle a chip. Burn a storefront. The Melders don't care what you do—as long as you're useful."
"They offer fast credits with no questions asked," Mister adds. "You either join willingly or get buried trying to resist. Either way, they grow."
Tetra mutters, "God. No wonder we're seeing their tags in Burnaby now…"
"And it's not just graffiti anymore," I say, eyes still on the screen. "They're organized now—more than they've ever been."
Mister nods, tone grim. "Remi's the one tracking the gang side. If anyone has leads right now, it's him. Otherwise… I'd have to burn a few more favours to dig deeper, and I'd rather hold off unless he hits a dead end."
"Then we check in with him soon." I lock my phone and slip into the driver's seat.
Tetra's gaze lingers on the map as I start the engine. "Hey, wait. Before we dive into the next step." He rubs the back of his neck. "Mind if I grab something? My family requested a package. Tech parts—they've got a guy who prepped it for pickup."
I raise an eyebrow. "Nomad errands, huh?"
He nods, chuckling. "Yeah. They're docking near the southern beaches tomorrow. Just a small group, nothing major. I said I'd bring it by."
Mister tilts his head. "How far out?"
"It's not far. It's still in Richmond."
"Alright." I start shifting gears. "We'll swing by before touching base with Remi."
"Appreciate it." Tetra says with a grin. "They'll probably feed us if we show up."
"Free food and a favor owed?" I smirk. "I'm sold."