[SCOURGE'S POV]
The command deck bar was a hidden gem—literally hidden behind a false wall panel that most people didn't even know existed. I'd built it myself years ago when I realized that running a criminal empire meant dealing with stress levels that could only be properly addressed through alcohol and violence. Since violence had been thoroughly addressed today, that left option two.
I poured two fingers of actual whiskey—not the synth shit, but real pre-war stock I'd been saving—into two glasses and slid one across the reinforced table to Kane. The big bastard had finally taken off his armor, revealing the network of scars and old wounds that mapped his body like a violent history textbook.
"What a damn day," I said, raising my glass.
Kane clinked his against mine with enough force to crack lesser glassware. "That's putting it mildly. Forty thousand plague-soldiers, a kingpin assault, mass conversions, and Hawk threatening to shoot a man's dick off. Just another Tuesday in Scarpoint."
I snorted, downing half my drink in one pull. The burn was exquisite—real alcohol, aged properly, not the chemical shit they passed off as booze in most of the undercity. "Hey Kane, I thought I was trouble. But damn, that K—wherever he goes, a trail of death follows. Today was what, three thousand confirmed kills? Four? Lost count after the first hour."
Kane laughed, deep and genuine, the sound of someone who'd survived impossible odds and found dark humor in it. "Yeah. Bastard's been a troublemaker since birth. You should've seen him as a kid—Tyler back then, before he became Kaiser. Even at sixteen, he was picking fights with war veterans twice his size and winning through sheer audacity and spite."
"Tyler," I repeated, testing the name. It felt wrong on my tongue, too normal for the chaos-incarnate trait-thief I knew. "Hard to picture him as anything but Kaiser the Emperor."
Kane's expression went distant, memories playing across his scarred features. "He earned that name in blood. Multiple times over." He paused, swirling his whiskey. "You know why he's called the Ghost of Tartarus, right?"
"Yeah," I said, leaning back in my chair, feeling the weight of that particular legend settle over the conversation like a shroud. "Heard the stories. Never knew if they were true or just undercity myth."
Kane's grin was sharp as a blade. "Oh, they're true. Every word. Tartarus Maximum Security Prison—the place where they sent the worst Apex criminals, the ones too dangerous to execute because their traits might spread or cause cascading failures. Kaiser infiltrated that hellhole, killed the warden, freed exactly one prisoner he needed for information, then disappeared like he'd never been there. No footage, no witnesses who lived, just empty cells and corpses. They called him the Ghost because he moved through that fortress like he didn't exist. Like death itself walking."
I whistled low. "And the prisoner he freed?"
"Dead within twenty-four hours. Kaiser got what he needed, then tied up loose ends. Clean. Efficient. Ghost-like."
"Fucking terrifying is what it is," I muttered, pouring another round. "Remind me never to get on his permanent shit-list."
"Too late for that, probably. But you helped the people he cares about, so you're in the 'useful ally' category instead of 'future corpse.'"
"Comforting."
We drank in companionable silence for a moment, letting the alcohol work its magic on muscles that had been tensed for combat for hours. The fortress around us was finally quiet—Varn imprisoned, his Rotting Field contained but not deactivated (killing him would kill all the infected), and the remaining plague-soldiers either dead or fled into Scarpoint's wastelands.
A victory, technically. Though it felt more like survival.
The false wall panel slid open with a soft hiss, and suddenly our quiet drinking session became significantly more crowded.
[JERRY'S POV]
I bounded into Scourge's secret bar like I owned the place—which, technically, I'd helped install the security systems for, so partial ownership wasn't entirely inaccurate. Behind me came Hawk, looking exhausted but satisfied in that post-violence glow she got after particularly good fights, and Tara, whose small hand was firmly clutched in Hawk's larger one.
"Gentlemen!" I announced, gesturing grandly at the bar. "I hope you've saved some of the good stuff for those of us who spent the last six hours managing logistics, tactical data, and keeping one unconscious trait-thief from getting murdered."
Scourge raised an eyebrow but gestured to the available seats. "Jerry. Didn't expect you to crawl out of your tech-cave."
"Please. After today's excitement, I need alcohol delivered directly to my bloodstream through the most efficient method available." I slid onto a barstool and eyed the bottles behind the bar with professional interest. "Let's see... synth whiskey for me and the brute here—" I gestured at Kane, who gave me a middle finger without looking up from his drink "—and a mocktail for this cutie."
I ruffled Tara's golden hair affectionately. She'd changed out of the combat dress into something more comfortable—soft pants and an oversized shirt that Kaiser had probably left in the medical bay. She looked like a normal kid, if you ignored the mythic-tier power signatures radiating from her small frame and the way her eyes occasionally flickered gold when she was tired.
"I'm not that cute," Tara protested, but she was smiling.
"You absolutely are, and I will fight anyone who disagrees." I poured her something fruity and non-alcoholic from Scourge's surprisingly well-stocked bar, then fixed my own drink with the expertise of someone who'd spent too many late nights in tech-labs. "So what's up, old friend?" I looked at Kane pointedly. "Still brooding in armor, or have we evolved past that?"
Kane snorted. "Says the man who wears tin augments like fashion accessories."
"They're cybernetic enhancements, you Neanderthal. There's a difference."
"Both make you look like you lost a fight with a hardware store."
"At least I can operate technology more complex than a sharp stick and aggressive shouting."
Hawk slid onto the stool next to me, accepting the drink Scourge poured without asking what it was. She looked like she'd been through a meat grinder—which, technically, she had—but Oracle-Eye was still active, tracking everyone in the room with that subtle red glow.
"You two done measuring dicks?" she asked dryly. "Because I just spent eight seconds killing fifteen trained soldiers and I'm in the mood for actual conversation instead of whatever mating ritual this is."
[HAWK'S POV]
The alcohol hit my system like a warm blanket, dulling the sharp edges of Overdrive's comedown. My body ached—ribs healing but still tender, muscles protesting every movement—but Hellskin had converted most of the pain into a pleasant background hum. Combat afterglow. Better than drugs.
"Eight seconds," Scourge repeated, impressed despite himself. "I watched the security footage. That was... art."
"That was necessity. They were between me and Kaiser. Bad place to stand."
Tara sipped her mocktail, grimacing at the sweetness. "Hawk was amazing. She moved so fast I couldn't even track all the movements, and Clara was analyzing everything in real-time. The efficiency was mathematically perfect."
"Kid's got a tactical mind," Jerry observed, gesturing with his glass. "Scary in someone her age. In ten years, she's going to be terrifying."
"In ten years, she's going to be running this whole damn city," Kane muttered. "Mythic-tier powers, AI assistant, and Kaiser's protection? That's a recipe for a future empress if I've ever seen one."
Tara's cheeks flushed. "I'm not—I don't want to rule anything. I just want Kaiser to wake up so we can be a family."
The word 'family' settled over the table like a physical thing, heavy with meaning. We all knew what it meant—not blood relations, but chosen bonds forged in violence and survival. The kind of family you built when the world burned and you decided these were the people worth bleeding for.
"He'll wake up," I said with more confidence than I felt. "Stubborn bastard's survived worse than Convergence overload. Give him time."
"Dr. Molloy says his neural pathways are stabilizing," Jerry added. "Brain chemistry returning to baseline, trait integration processing normally. He'll be awake within twelve hours, probably bitching about hospital food and trying to flirt with the nurses."
"There are no nurses," Scourge pointed out.
"Then he'll flirt with Molloy, who'll probably punch him. It's their love language."
That got a round of laughter, the kind that only came after surviving something that should have killed everyone involved. Release. Relief. The knowledge that we'd made it through one more impossible day.
"So," Jerry said, leaning forward conspiratorially. "Anyone want to talk about how Hawk literally held a kingpin hostage by threatening his genitals? Because that's going down in history as one of the most effective negotiation tactics I've ever witnessed."
I raised my glass. "Desperate times, creative solutions."
"Creative is one word for it," Kane rumbled. "Terrifying is another. Varn's face when he realized you weren't bluffing—that was beautiful."
"I wasn't bluffing. I'd have done it."
"We know. That's what made it beautiful."
[TARA'S POV]
The adults were drinking and laughing, and it felt... normal. Almost like how I imagined families were supposed to be before the trafficking, before the horror, before everything went wrong. Clara hummed contentedly in my mind, processing the social dynamics with what I'd learned to recognize as her version of happiness.
This is good for you, Clara whispered through our neural link. Healthy social bonding, safety, positive reinforcement of family structures.
It feels nice, I admitted. Like I belong.
You do belong, Tara. Kaiser chose you. Hawk protects you. These people would go to war for you. That's family.
Jerry was telling some ridiculous story about a tech-heist gone wrong, complete with dramatic hand gestures that nearly knocked over his drink. Kane was laughing—actual laughter, deep and genuine, not the grim humor of combat but something lighter. Hawk was smiling, Oracle-Eye dimmed to a soft glow as she relaxed for the first time since I'd met her.
Scourge caught me watching and winked. "You doing okay, kid?"
I nodded, sipping my too-sweet mocktail. "Yeah. Just... this is nice. All of us together."
"Gets rare in this business," he admitted. "Moments like this. When nobody's trying to kill us and we can just be people instead of weapons. Treasure them."
Before I could respond, his comm crackled to life. Karin's voice, crisp and professional: "Scourge, we've got a situation with the prisoner containment. Varn's Rotting Field is fluctuating. I need your authorization for enhanced suppression measures."
Scourge sighed, the relaxation bleeding out of his posture. "Duty calls. Kane, don't let them drink all my good stuff." He stood, downing the rest of his whiskey in one pull. "Jerry, that story about the heist? Finish it later. I want to hear how you got out of the ventilation shaft."
"It involves nudity and considerable charm!"
"Of course it does." Scourge paused at the door, looking back at our little gathering. "Glad you all made it through today. Tomorrow we deal with Varn permanently, figure out what to do with three thousand infected soldiers, and probably face whatever fresh hell the undercity throws at us. But tonight? Enjoy the peace."
He left, and the bar felt slightly emptier without his presence.
[JERRY'S POV]
With Scourge gone, the conversation shifted to lighter topics—old war stories, embarrassing moments, the kind of bullshit people shared when they'd survived impossible odds together and needed to remind themselves they were still human.
Kane told a story about young Kaiser trying to seduce a weapons dealer by pretending to be a corporate buyer, only to get so drunk on the sample alcohol that he forgot his cover story halfway through and had to shoot his way out. "Naked," Kane emphasized. "Completely naked because he'd used his clothes to tie up a guard. Just Tyler at seventeen, covered in blood and tactical shame, stealing a truck while drunk off his ass."
"That explains so much about his personality," Hawk muttered.
"Oh, it gets better. He crashed the truck into a rival gang's hideout, stumbled out, and somehow convinced them he was there to negotiate. They gave him weapons, money, and an apology. I still don't understand how."
"Kaiser energy," I supplied. "It's like charisma weaponized into a war crime."
Tara giggled, the sound bright and young. "He does have a way of making people do what he wants."
"Manipulation, charm, and strategic violence," Hawk agreed. "The holy trinity of his skill set."
We drank and talked until the fortress's artificial night-cycle made it clear we should probably sleep. Tara had dozed off against Hawk's shoulder, small body finally succumbing to exhaustion after using mythic-tier powers all day. Hawk carried her without complaint, probably the most maternal gesture I'd ever seen from the deadly assassin.
Kane and I helped clean up the bar—well, Kane cleaned while I supervised and offered commentary—before heading our separate ways. The fortress was quiet, wounded but standing, survivors settling in to heal and rebuild.
Tomorrow would bring new problems. Tonight, we'd survived.
That was enough.
[KAISER'S POV]
Consciousness returned like a slow-motion explosion—fragments of awareness coalescing into something resembling coherent thought. My head felt like someone had used it for drumming practice with a sledgehammer. My body ached in places I didn't remember having. And there was an annoying beeping sound that suggested medical equipment.
I cracked one eye open, immediately regretting it as harsh light stabbed directly into my brain.
"Fuck," I croaked, my voice sounding like I'd gargled gravel.
"Welcome back to the land of the living."
I forced both eyes open, blinking against the light, and found myself staring at a face I'd seen too many times in too many medical bays across too many cities.
Dr. Molloy.
She looked exactly as I remembered—greying hair pulled back in a severe bun, sharp eyes that missed nothing, expression hovering somewhere between professional concern and personal annoyance. She was checking readings on a monitor, not looking at me, which meant she was absolutely aware I was awake and choosing to make me wait.
"I swear to god," I muttered, trying to sit up and failing spectacularly as my body refused to cooperate, "every time I pass out, I see your face creeping into my soul. Are you haunting me? Is this hell? Did I finally die and the afterlife is just you judging me for eternity?"
Dr. Molloy turned, and I saw the punch coming but was too weak to dodge.
Her fist caught me square in the stomach—not hard enough to cause real damage, but definitely hard enough to hurt and knock what little air I'd managed to gather right back out of my lungs.
"Then don't keep falling, dickhead," she said calmly, returning to her monitors as I wheezed. "Your neural pathways were scrambled like eggs. Convergence overload nearly killed you. You've been unconscious for fourteen hours while your brain tried to remember how to function. And the first thing you do upon waking is complain about my face?"
"Seemed... appropriate," I gasped, slowly getting my breath back. "Tradition... and all that."
"You're an idiot."
"Documented... fact."
She finally cracked a smile—small, but genuine. "Your vitals are stable. Brain chemistry normalized. Trait integration successful. Convergence is fully processed and available for future use, assuming you don't immediately give yourself another overload like a moron."
"No promises."
"I know. That's why I'm keeping you under observation for another six hours."
I groaned, but couldn't muster real protest. My body felt like it had been taken apart and reassembled slightly wrong. Everything worked, technically, but nothing felt quite right yet.
"Everyone make it through?" I asked, the question more important than my discomfort.
Molloy's expression softened slightly. "Everyone you care about survived. Hawk, Tara, Kane —all alive, mostly intact, currently sleeping off the worst day of their lives. Scourge lost some people but held the fortress. Karin's already analyzing battle data and preparing tactical reports. And you..." She paused. "You collected quite the family while you were out causing apocalyptic warfare."
"It's a gift."
"It's a liability. But I suppose someone has to keep this city interesting." She adjusted something on the IV connected to my arm. "Rest, Kaiser. Let your body finish healing. Tomorrow you can go back to being emperor or whatever dramatic title you're using this week. Tonight, you're just Tyler in a hospital bed, being monitored by someone who's pulled your stubborn ass back from death more times than she can count."
The use of my real name—the one almost nobody knew anymore—hit differently. A reminder that beneath all the stolen traits and earned titles, I was still just a kid from the end of the world who'd decided to become something more.
"Thanks, Doc," I said quietly.
"Don't thank me. Pay me. My rates went up after I had to treat a child with mythic-tier powers and explain resurrection flames to my medical instruments."
"Tara okay?"
"Exhausted but fine. That girl adores you, by the way. Spent four hours sitting beside your bed before Hawk made her sleep. You better not disappoint her."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"Good. Now shut up and sleep. Doctor's orders."
I closed my eyes, letting the medication and exhaustion pull me back under. But this time, sleep came easier. Because I knew everyone had made it through. My strange, violent, chosen family had survived another impossible day.
Tomorrow would bring new problems—, some random fresh hell Scarpoint decided to throw at us.
But tomorrow was tomorrow.
Tonight, we'd all made it through.
And that was enough.
END OF CHAPTER