April 23, 2021. 22:42. Vancouver. 7 days left till Italy.
Within thirty minutes of Mister calling Chief Woods, the basement flooded with uniforms.
Elias was taken away, brought back to the station for processing and interrogation. We kept our distance, silent as the cops shackled him and hauled him out, along with everything in his house.
The timing couldn't have been better. Right as the police arrived, so did Michelangelo, giving us a safety net of witnesses. Prior to both arrivals, Shock said she was able to "work some magic" on all the versions of the viruses.
Not entirely sure what she meant by that. She promised she'd explain later.
For now, at least, we had a moment to breathe. Michelangelo seemed satisfied with our results and filed his report straight to his superiors, no questions asked. Thank God.
But it was both strange and concerning that, even after he confirmed the truth of Elias' claims about how the viruses worked, he accepted it and treated it as just another mundane discovery—much to everyone's confusion. Thankfully, after that, nothing happened, and Arasaka never ordered him to do anything else.
Maybe, if I had more energy, I'd dwell on it. But right then, I just wanted out of the psycho's den.
Of course, given standard procedure, everyone was called down to the station. The team was given a ride, while Michelangelo was scooped up by an Arasaka armoured truck. How "nice".
The rest blurred into flashing sirens and restless thoughts. Azure fidgeted with her sleeves. Remi chewed his cheek. Mister just stared out the window like nothing mattered. Shock finally crashed, taking her nap. Tetra tried to make small talk with the officers, which helped break the tension but never went beyond surface-level chatter. And I did my best to calm my nerves, piecing together everything that had just gone down.
By the time the van door opened, the basement felt miles behind us. We were back in downtown Vancouver. Right at the headquarters of the VPD.
The building was half clinical, half chaotic. Steel walls and floors dressed up with bulletproof glass and glowing holo-panels, but the air inside was loud with radios, boots on tile, and the constant hum of overclocked servers. Paperwork still piled on desks beside steaming coffee mugs, but officers wore wrist rigs that pinged with live AR warrants. Drones drifted overhead in lazy patrol arcs, their lenses sweeping both cops and civilians alike. It was the only functioning police force left for the greater Vancouver area, stretched thin across Burnaby, Surrey, Richmond, and beyond. Order held—barely—but in a way that felt like patchwork welded together by tech and stubbornness.
I take in the sight. It's nostalgic. I remember the days my dad took me in for "bring your kids to work" days. It was nice, being shown around places that not many people got to see. All the restricted doors with "AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY" signs, the uniforms stacked neat in lockers, the firing ranges echoing with reports, and the endless forms—those fun little papers filled with bureaucratic text that could bore anyone but him.
Around us, officers and staff move crates and tagged evidence past the desk—Elias' world, boxed and logged.
But something else grabs my attention.
Michelangelo approaches us, with a woman and two more armoured guards beside him.
Sharp, violet-tinted hair swept to one side, high-tech business attire tailored with military precision, and a glowing datapad in hand like it was welded there. She's flanked by two Arasaka bodyguards, their armour plated in sleek black composites and faintly humming with servo-motors.
Damn, they don't mess around.
Full corporate issue—layers of defensive tech that make my own body armour feel like cosplay. It took me months of curating, trading, and upgrading just to get one working set, and even then, it only put me a cut above the average merc—just barely on the higher end of edgerunners. And these guards wore theirs like it was nothing. Which, to be fair, wasn't too far from the truth, with a megacorporation like Arasaka in mind.
Michelangelo steps forward, his voice carrying its usual calm. "Everyone, this is Ingrid. My handler."
Her eyes scan us, cool but not hostile, and she offers a small nod. "I've heard a lot about you all. Thank you for cooperating with us. I understand that the last few days have been… tense."
She shifts her datapad, the Arasaka crest glowing faintly across the glass. "Rest assured that we at Arasaka are doing our part to ensure this cyberpsychosis crisis is managed swiftly and cleanly." Her tone is steady, professional, every word polished. But her eyes… her eyes scan us one by one, like she's measuring values on a balance sheet.
When her gaze lingers on me for a fraction longer than I'd like, my shoulders stiffen before I can stop them. What does she want? Does she know about the virus? I'm not sure how up to date she is. What do they plan on doing with us now?
In my peripheral, I catch the rest of the crew. Azure's stance is guarded, her arms crossed, expression locked tight. Remi isn't far behind, practically buzzing with pent-up energy, though Tetra lays a steadying hand on his shoulder—subtle but firm, keeping him from blurting something reckless. Shock and Mister, as always, hold their composure.
After what we just uncovered, could anyone blame us for being on edge? Who wouldn't be, after learning the so-called virus was really an activation key—a switch wired into implants the corps had buried in plain sight all along.
My mind keeps circling around it, trying to make sense of the pieces. But there's no revelation. No clarity. Nothing. It just festers. Even if part of me doesn't want to believe it, the evidence is too damning to ignore. And judging by the tension running through the team, I'm not the only one drowning under it.
Michelangelo tilts his head, almost a gesture of reassurance. As if that would help.
Ingrid smiles faintly, the kind of smile that feels rehearsed. "Of course, our interest here is to help the city. Nothing more. Mutual benefit, as it were."
Michelangelo tilts his head, as if to soften the edges of her phrasing. Ingrid doesn't correct him, just lets the silence do the rest.
That silence doesn't last long. The doors at the far end of the station open with a hiss of hydraulics, and two new figures step inside.
The first is hard to miss—broad-shouldered, battle-worn, a face carved from grit and long nights. His navy coat is frayed at the edges, glowing lines faintly pulsing across it. His eyes are ringed with exhaustion, a scar dragging down into the cybernetics that make up his nose. Chief Woods.
But what catches me off guard is the man behind him. Someone you don't mistake for anyone else. Mayor Gestalt himself. His presence feels like it swallows the room whole—pale skin cut clean with angular chrome, red neon etching lines into his tailored coat, and those eyes. Red, glowing, alive with conviction.
Wow. The cameras definitely make him larger than life, but in person? He's still that. Maybe even more, actually.
Remi audibly sucks in a breath. "No way. Holy—"
Azure nudges him, whispering, "Hey, be respectful," though her own expression is also wide-eyed.
I just freeze. My pulse spikes. The man who rebuilt Vancouver, who rallied the corps and the people, who kept the whole city from fracturing into dust and ashes. My hero. And he's standing right here.
Tetra and Shock straighten politely but remain calm. Mister takes a step forward, already preparing to meet the moment head-on.
Woods' voice comes first, low and gravelly, like he's chewed through too many cigarettes and wars. "So, you're the crew I heard about." He gives a nod of acknowledgment. "Great work."
He extends his hand, rough and scarred. Mister takes it, his own grip firm. "Mister. My crew and I did what we could."
Woods studies him a moment longer, suspicion clear. "Yes… but what I'd like to know is how you got my number. That's… unusual."
Before the tension builds further, Gestalt cuts in, his tone velvet.
"Perhaps this isn't the time, Chief." He steps forward, smiling faintly. "What matters is that they stepped up when it counted."
His crimson eyes flick over each of us—not predatory, but inviting.
"Mercenaries. Edgerunners. In times like these, Vancouver needs every hand. And you've proven yours capable."
Gestalt extends his hand to each of us.
Remi stammers out some half-slang greeting, grinning like he's meeting a rockstar. "Ayo, nice to meet you, choom."
Shock beams, tossing in a playful, "Yassss, Mayor, love the coat. Slayyyyyyy!"
Azure keeps her response measured, professional. "Hello."
Tetra's genuine friendliness makes Gestalt's smile widen, if only slightly. "Hey, nice to meet you."
When his gaze finally falls on me, I force my voice steady. "Artemis." Just that. No gushing, no shaking in my boots. But inside, I'm going crazy. WHAATTTT?!?!I can't believe I'm actually shaking his hand! Mom would lose her mind!
Mister offers his name with old-school politeness. "A pleasure, Mayor Gestalt."
Michelangelo bows with samurai formality, and Ingrid simply inclines her head. "Good evening, Mister Gestalt."
Gestalt's warmth seems almost tangible, like a halo in the cold fluorescent station. "Well, it's fantastic to meet you all. Introductions aside, I won't take up more of your time. Chief Woods will guide you from here. If you wish to find me, I'll still be here when you're done."
The Mayor steps back, leaving Woods to business. The Chief scratches absently at the metal seam across his face, then squares his stance.
"All right. I'll need statements from each of you. What happened, what you saw, and anything you didn't tell the officers already."
Soon after, Woods calls in several of his detectives and officers. It's a swift process, with many of them ushering us into separate rooms, making sure we can't compare notes. Doors shut, and the voices of my crew fade one by one.
It takes several minutes, but I'm eventually led down a corridor to a plain interview room—four walls, a table bolted to the floor, two cheap chairs, and a recording unit blinking quietly in the corner. My escort leaves me with a detective: sharp suit, tired eyes, the kind of look that says they've been doing this too long.
"Take a seat, Miss… Artemis, was it?" He gestures to the chair opposite. His tone isn't hostile, but it's sharp and all business.
I sit, forcing myself to look calm. Inside, my nerves hum like live wire.
He sets a file down between us, flipping it open. "We'll keep this formal. You're a contractor, not a suspect—but that doesn't mean your word goes unchecked. Tell me, in your own words—what happened tonight?"
The recorder blinks red. Silence stretches. I breathe once, twice. Time to decide how much of the truth I can afford to give.
"My team and I were hired to investigate cyberpsychosis," I say, keeping my voice steady. "By someone with… connections. High up. They wanted us to look into the recent outbreaks, see if there was a common thread." I shrug like it's no big deal. "That trail led us through a handful of incidents—different parts of the city, different people, but they all pointed to the same guy. Elias. We followed the pattern, found where he was living, cleared the building ourselves, then Mister called it in."
The detective leans back, pen poised over the file. His attention flicks from page to page, weighing, before his gaze fixes on me, his tired eyes sharpening.
Alright, here we go.
"Cyberpsychosis investigations. Hired by someone 'high up.'" He repeats the phrase like he's testing it for cracks. "That's vague. Who exactly hired you?"
I cross my arms, tapping a finger against my sleeve. "Can't say. Nondisclosure agreement. You know how it goes—break it, I lose more than a paycheck. And if you think corps don't enforce those contracts, you haven't been paying attention."
The detective taps his pen, gaze steady. "And Elias—you're saying he's tied to multiple incidents. You're asking me to believe a group of freelancers tracked him faster than an entire task force?"
A dry smile pulls at my lips. "Guess the difference is we weren't buried in paperwork. Less committee meetings, more boots on the ground." I lean forward just a touch. "Sometimes being small and off-the-books has its perks."
He doesn't argue the point—his brow furrows instead, thoughtful. "Interesting. You claim that a mysterious employer is pulling your strings… or were you really just chasing Elias on your own initiative?"
I tilt my head. "Why act like it can't be both? Someone wanted answers, Elias kept showing up where bodies dropped, so we followed the trail. Simple."
His pen scratches over the page. "You cleared the building yourselves. Did you encounter resistance? Any casualties, civilian or otherwise?"
"No." My answer is clipped, fast. "Barely any resistance, no casualties, no civvies. The place was practically empty."
The pen stills. His gaze lifts.
"No resistance. No casualties. Too clean. That doesn't add up for an armed takedown. You sure you're not leaving something out?"
I fold my arms tighter. "What, you'd prefer a pile of bodies?"
That gets the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth before it vanishes.
"You look calm now, but you don't strike me as someone who just stumbles into this line of work. Where'd you learn to clear buildings? Not something you pick up at the gym."
For a heartbeat, my pulse skips. Then I smirk. "Guess I had a good teacher."
He studies me longer this time, silence stretching. Then his tone sharpens. "Let's move on. We both know Arasaka doesn't lend out talent for free. So how does someone like you end up working alongside one of theirs?"
I let the silence hang, then lean back. "Same way anyone does. Common interest. They want answers about the outbreaks. So do we. Sometimes even enemies row the same boat when the tide's bad enough, y'know."
"And who's steering this boat? You? Mister? Or your mysterious 'higher-up'?"
"Does it matter? Boat's still afloat, isn't it?"
He exhales, pen tapping harder now. "Smart mouth. Doesn't change the fact your story leaves holes big enough to drive a crawler through."
My lips twitch. "Then patch them however you like, detective. You've got my statement."
Another pause. Then the pen clicks shut. His voice hardens.
"If one piece of this doesn't line up, we'll pull your contract and bar you from the city's operations. You understand me?"
I meet his stare and smile, sharp enough to sting. "Crystal."
The recorder light blinks off. He slides the papers back into the file and stands, motioning toward the door.
"Sit tight until your friends are finished. Chief Woods will decide what happens next."
I nod, forcing my hands to stay loose in my lap, even as my pulse hammers. His footsteps fade down the corridor, leaving me alone in the little grey box.
The clock keeps ticking. The procedures drag along—fingerprints, paperwork, the shuffle of boots past the door.
And I sit through it all, waiting for it to end.
It's almost funny.
In between the moments of inactivity, I recall the days Dad used to let me sit in on mock interrogations, SWAT guys running drills, and detectives walking rookies through their paces. He called it "training my eyes."
Yet, I never thought it'd pay off like this. But here I am, replaying his lessons in my head. Watching every move and tell.
Time drags by. Maybe an hour, maybe more—it blurs together in the stale air and humming lights. When the lock finally clicks, I'm the first they let out.
The hallways buzz with activity. Fluorescents continue to hum overhead, boots thud even harder against tile, and multiple clipped voices rise and fall as evidence gets hauled down crowded lanes. I catch the hiss of hydraulics behind a secured door. The whine of a capacitor charging somewhere deeper in the building. A ripple of laughter from a cluster of uniforms on break, muffled through glass. Every sound stacks sharp and layered, my senses too alive, until I'm hyper-aware of every tick in the building.
I wander as I wait for my team, pacing halls I hadn't had the chance to see yet.
It's the same station. The same layout.
The real difference is in the people—fatigue worn openly on their faces now.
My boots echo over tiles I used to race down, little-girl legs scrambling to keep up with Dad. The memories come easily: the locker-room laughter, the half-serious banter between cops, the smug one-liners tossed during drills. They'd ruffle my hair, call me "the mascot," and let me watch SWAT run live exercises. Dozens of mock raids, breaching drills, clearing rooms. My favorite way to spend the hours after school, from elementary through high school.
I catch myself smiling, but it slips when I notice where I've stopped.
The memorial wall.
Dozens of faces stare back from polished steel and glass. Officers. Detectives. SWAT. All of them gone in the years when Vancouver nearly tore itself apart. The RCMP collapsed. The riots. Gang wars carved the city raw until Gestalt dragged it back from the brink. Canada fractured—the prairies burned, the Maritimes drowned, the north swallowed whole. Toronto and Vancouver left standing. Everything else, wastelands.
I recognize more than a few of them. Men and women who used to nod at me in the halls, who slipped me candy from their desk drawers, who treated me like the station's equivalent of a princess when Dad had me tagging along. They're gone now—etched forever in metal and glass.
Anyone still alive has long since retired, burned out, or left the city for someplace quieter. The station feels emptier without them, even if it's louder than ever.
But my eyes keep searching, landing on one face in particular.
And there he is. Austin Smith, Senior Tactical Instructor and Field Operations Sergeant.
Dad. In his prime.
Tall and broad, built like he carried the whole city on his shoulders. Arms thick from the gym, uniform pulled tight against his frame. Black hair cropped close, grin faint but steady—the kind of presence that made rookies stand straighter without thinking. He was a goliath of a man, but he was always smiling.
To most, he was just another white man. But to me—and to Mom—he was everything.
My throat tightens. I try to smile, but nothing comes. It's been years since he was cut down, trying to stop a gang firefight, back when order was still more theory than fact. Mom and I cried rivers back then. The tears dried, but the loneliness never did.
Now, seeing him again, it all comes rushing back.
At least Mom's okay. At least she's rebuilding her life. That thought alone keeps me steady.
"I'll see you at the anniversary, Pa," I whisper, soft enough that it's only for me.
For a moment, the station's noise fades away. It's just me, the wall, and the man who made me who I am.
Footsteps approach, measured and calm. I snap to attention.
Mayor Gestalt.
He stands beside me, gaze falling on the wall. The glow of his red eyes softens, catching against the steel and glass.
"These are the real heroes," he says quietly. "Not me."
The words catch me off guard. When he glances at me, he asks gently, "Artemis, right? Did you know someone here?"
I freeze. "I—"
My mouth starts to form an excuse, some quick deflection, but Gestalt is already chuckling under his breath, his smile faint.
"You don't have to answer. I can tell. There's a difference between someone looking out of curiosity and someone looking back on memories."
I pause, unsure what to say, caught between a lie I should give and a truth I can't.
"Anyways." He waves the thought off, but his gaze returns to the wall. "Every single one of them held back the darkness. Saved lives you'll never count—including mine."
My brow furrows before I can stop it. "Yours?"
Gestalt trails his hand across the framed photos, pausing at one in particular. My stomach lurches when I see who it is. Dad. Austin Smith.
"He saved my life. Or rather, his squad did."
I almost lose composure right there. I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting to stay still, but my mind is racing. Dad… saved Gestalt's life?
The Mayor doesn't seem to notice my reaction—or maybe he does and chooses not to call it out. He keeps speaking.
"It was years ago. Before the reforms, before people believed in politicians—many still don't. Back when Vancouver was burning with riots after the crash, and others circled like vultures. The city was tearing itself apart, and there were plenty who wanted me gone—some of them nearly succeeded."
His words hang in the air, heavier than the silence around us.
"On one particular night, a group of armed assailants attacked me. I never found out if they were paid or if it was mere coincidence. Nonetheless, I was fortunate enough to have a squad like them respond in time. Brave men and women, holding the line when no one else would. Sergeant Smith… was the one leading them. When the bullets came for me, his squad stepped forward—into the line of fire when I couldn't. If not for them, I wouldn't be standing here."
He lets out a slow breath, almost a sigh. "People like them… are rare. They carried this city on their backs when no one else could. They don't get the statues or the headlines, but they were the pillars that kept Vancouver from collapsing completely." His gaze flicks to me again, warm and steady. "Your team reminds me of them, in a way. Not in looks. But in presence."
My throat locks. I want to say something—anything—but all that comes out is a quiet, "…Thank you."
Gestalt smiles faintly. "The city needs people willing to stand against the darkness—those who step forward when it would be easier to walk away."
He straightens, shifting the weight off his words, and the mask of calm authority slips back into place.
"I assume you're waiting for the rest of your team to finish. I—on the other hand—am waiting for a briefing with the Chief and… let's just call it another round of city politics." He glances at me with an easy smile. "I don't mind passing the time here, if you'd be willing to have my company."
"Y-Yeah, I don't mind." I blink. "I'm just waiting."
"Right. So, how was it? Catching Elias, I mean. Was he as slippery as the reports made him sound?"
I exhale slowly, thinking of everything leading up to Elias—getting involved with the Dead Kings, looking into Roderick Hale, checking out his son's high school in Burnaby, heading down to Richmond, and then finally Elias' house.
"Yeah, it… took a while for us to track him. But he wasn't untouchable. And when we finally found his place, the rest was easy. The only thing that bothers me is that it just… felt off. For all his tech and connections, it was kind of easy to take him down. It's almost like he wanted us to find him."
Gestalt hums, amused. "Some men want the stage, even when it kills them. I've seen it before." His eyes flick toward me. "But what about you? Was it a long day?"
I give a small shrug. "More like a long week."
"Well, that's the city for you. It never gives us what we expect, and it never waits until we're ready. But we'll manage. We always do."
"Yeah… that's all we can do." I stare at the wall of photos. "Oh, and what about you? How was your day?"
Gestalt chuckles softly, the sound carrying just a hint of weariness. "Tiring. Most of the time, my days consist of meetings, press calls, and briefings. Now it's even more hectic because I'm preparing for my next campaign."
"Hmm. Well, I hope it's going smoothly. From what I've seen on the news, it looks like a hell of a challenge."
"'Hell of a challenge' is putting it lightly." His smile tilts, almost self-deprecating. "The country's in shambles—most provinces are chaos incarnate. Toronto and Vancouver are the last cities standing. And if someone doesn't step up soon, there won't be a Canada left to save."
His tone softens, almost reflective. "That's why we keep going. Why we push forward—even if it costs me everything. Because of people like them on this wall."
I glance at him. "And people like you."
He chuckles softly, shaking his head. "No. They were the ones bleeding in alleys, holding the line in riots, standing between gangs and civilians. I just picked up the pieces they left behind."
I hesitate, then ask, "So… why you? Why did you take this on, when it looked… impossible?"
Gestalt looks forward, focusing on the rows of photos. "Because someone had to. Cities don't fall in a single night—they rot slowly, bit by bit, until no one remembers what it feels like to live without fear. I couldn't stand by and let that happen." His voice is quiet, but it carries a weight that makes it feel undeniable. "Vancouver isn't perfect. It never will be. But it's alive and breathing. And as long as it does, we'll fight to keep it that way."
Something twists in my chest. I want to believe him. Hell, I already do.
Elias' words play in my mind: "And you really believe that'll last? That a mayor, a politician, can hold back the tide? Either he's lying to you, or he's their puppet."
I frown, clenching my fists at the thought of a Vancouver without Gestalt. No, you're wrong. Gestalt's saved us before, and he can do it again.
Gestalt turns back to me, his face beaming with warmth. "Hm? Did I say something weird?" He smiles.
I blink, shaken out of my thoughts. "Uh, no! It just sounds… easier said than done." I try to regain my composure, my face softening as I do.
A faint smile. "Of course. Nothing worth keeping is ever easy. But it's worth it. Always."
I pause, letting the silence act as a natural buffer as I lean against the wall, arms crossed. "Actually, I wanted to ask… how's it going? The campaign, I mean. Not sure if that's something private or…"
"No, no, I don't mind." Gestalt smiles, then exhales through his nose. "To be honest… it's not easy. Perhaps a little uninspiring for the future Prime Minister, but it is the truth." He frowns, shaking his head. "My opponents see me as too close to corporate interests. Others call me too idealistic—naïve, even. The Bloc remnants in Quebec cling to old power. The Toronto coalition wants everything centralized on their side. And then there are the independents—the populists shouting for isolation." His voice doesn't rise, but every word carries weight, as if he's laid these arguments out a thousand times before.
I raise an eyebrow. "Do you think you can take them all on?"
That earns me a faint laugh, low and warm. "Confidence isn't enough. Idealism without strategy is just dreaming. But I've learned—if you build the right alliances—you can turn impossible into inevitable." His crimson eyes gleam faintly in the glow of the memorial wall. "I'll continue to play the game, but I don't plan on losing sight of my purpose: to give people hope again."
Something in his tone almost makes me believe it, like the words carry a gravity beyond politics. I glance away, trying not to show too much.
Gestalt softens again, leaning back slightly. "But enough of politics. You've had your share of long days already." He tilts his head, almost teasing. "Besides, I'd rather not bore you with speeches. I'll save those for the campaign trail."
"A little too late for that." I give a faint smirk. "You're already in speech mode."
That draws another laugh out of him. "Fair enough."
For a moment, neither of us moves. Just the memorial wall between us.