The three of them—Bobo, Luce, and Elliot—slipped out into the night, shadows in a city built on silence.
The moment they stepped past Luce's gate, a sharp, repetitive voice echoed through the streets like a cold warning:
"7PM CURFEW—IT IS NOW CURFEW—STAY IN YOUR HOMES—7PM CURFEW—STAY IN YOUR HOMES—"
The announcement blared from loudspeakers mounted on rusted poles overhead. Spotlights swung methodically across the alley, carving white arcs of danger into the darkness.
They kept low, moving single file against the brick wall, every step calculated. The faint whirl of a surveillance drone hummed in the air above them.
At the corner, Elliot held up a fist—stop. He peeked around the edge of a building, breath shallow, eyes scanning.
"…Clear," he whispered, waving them forward.
They moved in tight. Bobo ducked behind a crate, eyes scanning the sky, metal fingers curling into a silent warning. He held up one finger to his lips.
"Shh…"
A beam of light passed just overhead. They froze—barely a breath between them.
Luce peered over the edge.
"We're good."
They pushed forward.
Winding through alleyways like smoke, they weaved between dumpsters, broken fences, and rusted-out vehicles. Drones buzzed above them in rhythmic passes. Every step was a gamble. Every second, a countdown.
Finally, the junkyard came into view—beyond a chain-link fence and a patch of open ground bathed in flickering yellow light. They ducked behind a stack of shipping crates, crouched low as Elliot carefully peeked out.
His face tightened.
"Shit…"
Luce tensed.
"What?"
Bobo leaned in, his whisper like gravel.
"The fuck's the hold-up, Eli?"
Elliot pulled back, shaking his head.
"They didn't rotate. The guards. They're still posted."
"They're supposed to rotate," Luce hissed. "You said we'd have a window."
"I know what I said," Elliot snapped under his breath. "But something's wrong. They're on full lockdown. Has to be 'cause of Desmond. They're spooked."
Bobo clenched his jaw.
"How long till they move?"
"They won't," Elliot muttered. "That's the problem. Once they go high alert, they lock positions and reinforce with more boots. No rotations. No gaps. Just... walls of guns."
A silence settled over the three of them—heavy and tight.
Bobo's hand slowly curled around the grip of his shotgun.
"So what now?" he asked, eyes narrowed. "We go loud?"
Elliot swallowed hard.
"If we go loud, we better be ready to run through hell."
Luce glanced up, eyes sharp and calculating.
"Then we will.."
They each cocked their weapons—muscle memory meeting resolve. The quiet clinks of metal on metal rang sharp in the tense silence as they rose from behind the crate, ready to go head-on.
But just as they stood—
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Gunshots cracked in the distance—sharp, rapid, close.
They all froze.
"—The fuck?" Bobo growled, turning sharply, eyes scanning the dark alley behind them. "That ain't for us…"
Luce dropped low instinctively, peering through the gaps between crates. But she couldn't see the source. Smoke maybe. Muzzle flash? Nothing.
Elliot looked toward the soldiers.
"Wait—look!"
The guards by the junkyard fence pressed fingers to their earpieces, heads turning as voices barked through their comms. Within seconds, they moved—one after another, peeling away from their post and heading back toward the noise.
"Well, would you look at that…" Luce muttered, a dangerous smirk pulling at her lips.
Elliot's eyes tracked the movement.
"Someone just took the heat off us."
Bobo gave a low, impressed chuckle.
"Hope whoever that is makes it. We owe 'em a drink."
"Or a goddamn monument," Elliot muttered. "Let's move. That's our window."
He checked the corners one last time, then gave the signal.
They sprinted.
Boots hit pavement, pounding hard as they darted toward the junkyard gate. Bobo reached it first—no hesitation. He grabbed the thick iron chains and with a metallic screech, ripped them free like they were thread. The gate burst open.
They tore into the junkyard, weaving through towering piles of old metal—rusted refrigerators, half-crushed sedans, twisted beams from buildings long forgotten. The air stank of oil and decay. The sharp crunch of gravel and scattered glass marked every step.
Behind them, sirens erupted again. Boots thundered. Soldiers shouted. Gunfire cracked in another direction. Someone else was still taking the heat.
"Where the fuck is it, Eli?!" Bobo shouted, ducking under a crumbling frame of an old cargo truck.
"Back corner!" Elliot called out, dodging a fallen girder.
They reached it—a rusted car barely recognizable, sitting alone in a patch of open dirt. Bobo didn't stop. He grabbed it by the hood, grunted, and heaved. The vehicle groaned but lifted, dirt and rust raining off the undercarriage.
Luce slid beneath his arm, brushing off a rectangular dirt-covered panel in the ground.
"What's the code?!"
"Seven-two-three-four!"
Elliot yelled over the wailing sirens.
She punched it in fast—beep-beep-beep-beep—HISS. The panel split open with a blast of stale, cold air.
Elliot didn't wait.
"GO! GO! GO!"
Luce dropped first, disappearing into the opening. Elliot followed a second later. Bobo gave one last glance back—boots stormed across the far end of the yard—and then he ducked in.
They slid down a rusted ladder, boots clanking off handles until they hit solid ground.
An old tunnel stretched ahead—wide enough for two people shoulder to shoulder, arched and ribbed with decaying support beams. The scent of mold and metal choked the air.
"Move!" Elliot hissed, and they took off again, feet pounding through the muck and sludge-covered floor.
Behind them, the open hatch yawned.
Unclosed.
Forgotten.
But they didn't stop to notice. Not yet.
After minutes of hard running, they slowed to a jog, lungs burning, the silence of the tunnel more deafening than the chaos they'd just escaped.
Bobo let out a low breath and glanced at the walls. "This place is 'boutta collapse," he muttered with a deep, gravelly chuckle.
Luce smiled, brushing her hair out of her eyes.
"Sure is."
They kept moving through the tunnel, boots clanging against rusted grate walkways, every step echoing down the endless dark. The air down here was damp, metallic, thick with the scent of salt and rust.
After several tense minutes, they reached the end—a corroded iron ladder stretching up into shadow. Elliot went first, climbing steadily. Luce followed close behind. Bobo took up the rear, his hands gripping the handles with mechanical ease.
At the top, Elliot punched in a code on a keypad. With a hiss and a faint burst of cold, fresh air, the hatch split open.
Elliot hoisted himself up and turned, reaching a hand down for Luce. He pulled her up with ease. Then he turned to Bobo, who looked at his outstretched hand and snorted.
"I'm not a princess," Bobo muttered with a grin, grabbing the edge and hoisting himself out without assistance.
Elliot laughed. "Could've fooled me."
They all stood, finally, under the open sky.
The ocean greeted them with a roaring whisper—constant, ancient. They stood on a tiny concrete platform, no more than fifteen by fifteen feet wide, just big enough for three people and a boat. This was one of the old smuggler's docks, built into the jagged rocks of the coastline long before the war, now forgotten and overgrown with patches of sea moss and rusted moorings.
Before them stretched the sea—vast, silver under the moonlight, the waves glinting like liquid glass. The ocean smelled clean, sharp, salted. Far in the distance, the Council walls rose like a monolith—cold, metallic, and pulsing with artificial light. Towers glowed with sterile brilliance. Drones buzzed overhead like angry fireflies.
But here, a mile out, it felt like another world.
Bobo exhaled slowly, a smile stretching across his face.
"Every time I leave that place," he said, "I remember how damn good it feels to breathe out here."
The sea wind ruffled his shirt. Luce brushed a few strands of hair behind her ear and laughed softly.
"Yeah."
The three of them stood there for a moment, quietly taking it in—the sounds of the waves, the chill in the air, the wide-open night sky they could finally see without interference.
Bobo turned to Elliot and clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"Thanks for helping us, buddy."
They pulled into a brief, back-slapping hug. Bobo had to lean down quite a bit, his size making Elliot look like a kid by comparison.
"Anytime, pal," Elliot said, his voice low and genuine.
Bobo pulled back.
"You could come with us, y'know. We could use the help. Jöten's a bitch."
Elliot gave a small shake of his head, a bittersweet smile playing on his lips. "I got a family to get back to. Kids need their old man. Besides…" He gave Bobo a sideways look. "Tell Amelia I said hi. I know she misses my wife's cooking."
Bobo let out a soft chuckle.
"She talked about it the last time I saw her. Wouldn't shut up about those damn sweet rolls."
They both laughed.
Luce stepped forward and gave Elliot a quick, tight hug.
"Thanks, Elliot. We're even now."
Elliot raised an eyebrow. "Even?" He pulled back and smirked. "You bet your ass we are. I'm not doing this crazy shit again. I'm retired."
They shared a round of chuckles. The tension was finally bleeding off of them.
Elliot walked toward the far edge of the platform, about five feet away. Nestled there, tucked beneath a camouflage tarp, was a sleek, sea-worn speedboat. Matte black, low profile. Silent engine.
"Here's your ride," Elliot said, pulling the tarp off with a flick of his wrist. The boat bobbed gently in the tide, already fueled, already waiting.
They climbed onto the boat, its sleek, low-slung frame bobbing gently in the tide. The ocean stretched endlessly before them, moonlight carving silver lines across its surface.
Luce dropped into the driver's seat, flipping switches with practiced hands. The silent engine thrummed beneath them—barely a whisper, but full of power. Bobo settled onto one of the long bench seats, his metal hand gripping the edge.
Elliot stood on the dock, arms crossed, wind tousling his short hair. He watched them, a tired smile in his eyes.
"Give 'em hell," he said, voice firm but warm. "Set them free."
Bobo nodded once.
"Will do."
The boat peeled away from the island, carving through black water like a shadow. The Council's walls began to shrink behind them.
They were on their way—to Jöten. To Amelia. To Ryosuke. To retrieve them.
But then—
A voice, high and ragged, cracked through the night like a lightning strike.
"RAH!!!"
Elliot spun around just in time to catch a blur of movement flying up the ladder. A figure burst from the tunnel hatch, slamming into Elliot with a thud that sent him stumbling sideways.
"What the hell—?"
Bobo and Luce both turned sharply at the commotion.
Luce twisted in her seat, alarm flashing across her face. Bobo was already rising halfway from his seat.
And then, in the silver wash of moonlight, they saw it.
A figure—mid-air, leaping wildly from the dock.
His limbs flailed, barely coordinated, driven more by desperation than grace.
Blood-streaked hoodie flapping.
Long black curly hair snapping in the wind.
A pistol clutched tight in one bruised, shaking hand.
In that second, the moon caught him—just right. Framing his face in silver, outlining his sharp features, those stubborn green eyes shining through grime and sweat.
Mikey.
Suspended midair.
Back arched.
Face lit by moonlight.
"WAIT FOR ME!!!"