DISTRICT III – CLUB SPHERES – NIGHT
The lights in Club SPHERES pulsed like a heartbeat. Music rumbled low, industrial and bass-heavy, as neon holograms hovered above the crowd.
It was Midas who spotted her first.
"Plukett!" he shouted over the noise, pushing through the haze of dancers to pull her into a hug.
Plukett stiffened. Hugs weren't her thing. Especially not with half-healed bones under her jacket. She winced. John caught the expression.
"You good?" he asked.
She pulled her coat aside, revealing a jagged scar. "Just a party favor from my last adventure," she said dryly. Her glasses clung tight to her face, reflecting purple light. Her eyes locked on Sakarah.
"And who's the sidekick, John?" she asked, tone razor-sharp.
Sakarah's brow tightened. She didn't like Plukett. And Plukett didn't like her right back.
"Sidekick—good one," Midas laughed. "She's not a sidekick, she's—"
"I'm—" Sakarah began, but John cut in, sharp.
"What happened up there, Plukett?"
They slid into a booth. Drinks came. Plukett made sure the server brought Sakarah a bottle of orange juice.
"For the sidekick," she said with a smirk.
Sakarah's glare could cut steel. This one was going to be trouble.
Plukett launched into the story—Steve Baflin, the commandos, the dead scientists, the firefight. It was wild, but it tracked.
John leaned forward, brow furrowed. "That explains the retributor deaths. The public massacres. But something's still missing."
"It's all connected," Plukett said. "Whoever this ghost is—he's pulling strings. The commandos are just muscle."
"We think he might be acting independently from Bineth," John added. "Possibly a personal vendetta. But he's using Bineth's networks—Baflin was tied to them."
"And what about the Adnorm compound?" Sakarah asked, folding her arms.
Plukett blinked. "Adnorm?"
John nodded. "An unregistered compound found in the standard anti-trauma drugs used by the retributors. We think they were dosed."
Plukett's brow tightened. "So, what? Bineth's lacing their own?"
"Or someone is," Sakarah replied. "Two retributors went berserk before they died. This is bigger than vengeance. This is engineered chaos."
Silence settled over the table. Heavy.
Then Plukett's comm buzzed. A flicker. Static. Then a panicked Sweet Elvis popped into view—hologram glitching, weapon in hand, sweat pouring.
"Oh thank God—Plukie! You gotta help me!" he shouted, firing behind him. "They're here—!"
"Elvis?" Plukett narrowed her eyes. "I'm not surprised, but—"
"LISTEN TO ME! They're—"
The image cut. Something fast moved across the feed—then blackout.
Everyone froze. Plukett exhaled, jaw tight.
"Something's not right."
She rewound the feed, scrubbed frame by frame.
There.
A blur. Then a silhouette. Spyder.
The same commando who nearly killed her.
"There you are," Plukett muttered, eyes burning. A grin curled her lips. "We've got unfinished business."
"We're coming with you," John said, already on his feet.
Plukett stood. "Sure. Three's not a crowd in this party. But Spyder girl is mine." She tapped the scar under her collar. "I owe her a thank-you for this little tattoo. She did a hell of a job."
She threw a look at Sakarah.
Pointed.
Unfriendly.