District I buzzed with chaos—robots weaving through lanes, neon signs flickering above the grime of human traffic, and the scent of smoke and synthetic food lingering in the air. Chavez sat behind the wheel, tense and focused. Beside him were Spyder and Echo, unfazed by the noise, the people, or the layers of decay the city wore like a badge.
They pulled up outside The Sweet Chrome, a glitzy-looking club whose glittering signs masked what everyone in the underworld already knew—it was B-Block's territory, and beneath the surface, a cesspool of crime thrived with his blessing.
Inside, guided by two bulky men, they passed through private lounges, secret elevators, and dimly lit shafts until they arrived at a backroom poker table. B-Block, surrounded by his goons, smirked mid-game. The moment he saw them, the cards vanished and the room fell silent. Chavez was offered the only seat. Spyder and Echo stood behind him like shadows.
B-Block lit a cigar. "You've got everything you need in there," he said, sliding a sleek drive across the table. "Addresses, associates, the full mess. I expect a clean job."
Chavez picked up the drive, scanned the data, then frowned. "There's a problem. Multiple IDs here. This was not the arrangement, the boss—"
"The boss sent you to fix our little infestation," B-Block interrupted smoothly. "He said you were the best. Cable Gang. Scorpios. All that. Big fan. Maybe I could—"
"Not interested, pal," Chavez cut in. "We'll be in touch. Next time, provide mission clarity."
Some of the goons stiffened at the slight. Spyder and Echo stayed relaxed, but alert. B-Block, unfazed, raised a hand to calm his men. No point losing heads tonight.
Instead, he turned to Spyder, who was eyeing a weapons display nearby. "That one's rare. Twin Metheon Laser Katanas. Pulled off the marker. Last guy who tried using them lost more limbs than he bargained for."
Spyder took the weapons. They lit up in her hands—sleek, humming with deadly energy. She gave no thanks. Just a nod. That was enough.
B-Block chuckled. "You're welcome," he muttered. To no one in particular, he added, "Those guys get it done. I'd pay a million creds to have one of them."
Meanwhile, at the Sons of War HQ, General Imagawa sat with Cox, his successor, when the door slid open and Feline stepped in. She didn't come alone. Behind her strode Gilmore Chest—bearded, suited, and confident. A Bineth envoy. An ex-Retributor. One of the first and deadliest Bineth-users ever made. The type of man whose presence never meant peace.
Cox smirked. "You didn't tell them?"
Imagawa frowned. "A little party gift."
Gilmore sat without invitation. "Congratulations, Imagawa. You've lasted longer than most expected."
"What do you want, Chest?" Cox growled.
"I'm just a messenger," Gilmore replied coolly. "What I want doesn't matter."
"Then speak and leave. Cox if you would excuse us,"
He smiled thinly. "On the contrary, she stays. You're no longer active, Imagawa. The boss wants to confirm our 'arrangements' are still... In place."
"Our internal alignments remain," Imagawa said cautiously. "There's been no breach."
"And externally?" Gilmore asked. "The Guild's presidency... we assume your side isn't undermining Bineth's interest?"
Silence answered him.
Gilmore nodded to himself. "Sad. You, of all people, should know how this works. Loyalty. Structure. Obedience."
"I've done my part," Imagawa said. "What Cox does now is her own decision."
Gilmore stood. "The Sons of War are what Bineth allows them to be. You forget that, and consequences follow." He turned to Cox with a wry smile. " I wouldn't go all celebrating too soon,"
As he left, Cox stared at Imagawa, understanding dawning. "So Atsumori, huh? You old devil."
Imagawa smiled. "I'm just stepping aside for someone I can bet on. Are you scared?"
"Of Bineth?" Cox scoffed. "Not even slightly. Now get out of here, old man—I've got work to do."
He stood and moved toward the door, then paused.
"Cox."
She turned.
"Don't be too hard on the kids."
She smirked. "Didn't know we hired kids."
With that, she left.
Imagawa stood still for a moment longer, proud and quiet. His time was over—but the war was far from done.