Sven's hand came down, not hard, but with a finality that silenced the unspoken plea in Leo's eyes. "I will deal with this," he said, the words a vow carved from ice. He didn't wait for a response. He was a storm of white motion, already turning, his boots striking the polished floor with a rhythm that spoke of a coming violence.
He moved through the corridors of the West Wing, a ghost in a machine dedicated to holding back the dark. The path to the Axiom Forge was a straight line in his mind, a route he could run in his sleep. As he neared the heavy door, the ARU on his wrist chimed, its tone different from the alert chime. Sharper. More personal.
He didn't break stride, bringing the device to his ear. "Director."
Director Petrova's voice was there, calm but layered with a cold urgency that bypassed the usual formalities. "Sven. The transport container for AMG-014 was a Class-Four secure unit. Gyroscopic stabilizers, axiomatic dampeners. It should not have cracked. It could not have cracked under normal circumstances."
"There is a possibility," the Director continued, her words precise and deadly, "that we are not looking at an accident. This may be a deliberate action. A third party attempting to induce a Malignancy Disaster."
Sven's gaze swept across the workshop, landing on his gear laid out on a central table. His modified A.N.T., his harness. "Make sense."
"Then you understand the need for tactical analysis on-site. You will work with Curator Vance. Her insight could be--"
"No," Sven cut in, his voice flat and final. He was already shrugging into his harness, the weight of it a familiar and comforting anchor. "I am proceeding to the site directly. Alone."
The heavy door to the Axiom Forge hissed open. Inside, Enola was hunched over a worktable, a glowing, intricate holographic schematic of a motorcycle hovering in the air before her. Her fingers danced in the light, tweaking the frame's ergonomics. She looked up, startled by the sudden intrusion.
Her surprise turned to wide-eyed alarm as Sven strode past her without a word, his focus absolute. He went straight to the rack where his gear was stored. His custom A.N.T. handaxe, his reinforced harness, the polished plates of his armor. They were all there, laid out with a neatness that was not his own. The axe's edge gleamed under the forge lights, its brutal lines cleaned of the grime and ghostly residue of his last engagement. The harness showed fresh stitching and reinforced clasps.
He saw it. The work was meticulous, professional. An improvement.
He said nothing. He offered no praise, no acknowledgment. He simply began to strap the gear on with a practiced, violent efficiency.
Enola found her voice, small and hesitant against the clatter of his preparations. "The Director," she said, pushing her glasses up her nose. "She just contacted me. She said I am to assist you. To provide field analysis."
Sven buckled the last strap on his harness, the sound sharp and final in the humming silence of the forge. He did not look at her. "No," he stated, the word leaving no room for argument.
He turned to leave, his movements a study in controlled urgency.
"You will not listen to me," she called after him, a statement of fact tinged with frustration. "You will just go in there. You will not use the data I can give you."
Sven stopped at the doorway, his broad back to her. He half-turned, his single visible eye a sliver of cold blue in the shadow of his face.
"No," he agreed, his voice flat. "I will not."
And then he was gone, the door sighing shut behind him, leaving Enola alone in the forge with the ghost of her holographic bike and the lingering, unspoken sting of his rejection.
---
The garage was a hollowed-out space of concrete and humming vehicles. Sven ignored the tactical vans and the unmarked SUVs, heading straight for the most anonymous vehicle available: a boxy, grey sedan that screamed of nothing at all. He slid into the driver's seat, the engine coming to life with a subdued purr.
He cut through the city with a grim determination, the sedan a grey fish in a river of steel. But the city, especially on a weekend, was a clogged artery. His progress slowed to a crawl as the sun began its descent, painting the skyscrapers in hues of orange and fire. Traffic was a gridlocked beast, unmoving and indifferent to his urgency. Horns blared a useless symphony.
A low growl of frustration escaped his lips. He was only halfway there. Reindeer was out there, lost in a screaming silence, and he was trapped in a metal box.
With a final, disgusted look at the unmoving sea of cars, Sven made his decision. He slammed the car into park, left it right there in the middle of the street, and got out. He began to run, his white uniform a stark beacon against the grimy asphalt. He ducked into the first alleyway he saw, a narrow canyon of brick and fire escapes, hoping for a shortcut through the city's hidden veins.
His ARU chirped. It was Enola. He was ready to snap at her, to tell her to leave the channel clear, to stop her unwanted interference.
But before he could form the words, her voice cut through, crisp and efficient, devoid of any of their previous awkwardness. "Conservator, your current trajectory through the alley network will add seven minutes to your ETA due to construction fencing. Turn left at the next junction, proceed fifty meters, and take the service access door behind the dumpster. It will put you on West 52nd. Traffic flow data indicates a clear path from there."
There was a pause. She was waiting.
Sven, his breath a steady rhythm, didn't thank her. He didn't acknowledge her at all. He simply followed the instruction. He hit the next junction, turned left, counted his strides, and found the dumpster and the unmarked door. He pushed through, emerging onto the street she had named.
He ran on, following the ghost of her voice in his ear, a reluctant thread leading him through the labyrinth.
Enola's voice was a quiet, steady stream in his ear, a digital thread pulling him through the urban maze. "Left here, through the service corridor… the gate code is 78834… you will emerge at the waterfront."
Sven followed each instruction without a word, his footsteps echoing in the deserted spaces she guided him through. He moved with a predator's grace, the world narrowing to the path she laid out and the goal at its end.
"At least you are following my direction," she murmured, more to herself than to him, a note of quiet relief in her voice.
He burst out onto a walkway lining the Hudson. The sun was a dying ember on the horizon, casting long, deep shadows. The air smelled of brine and rust. Up ahead, under the hulking steel skeleton of an old bridge, was the scene.
A small, battered fishing boat was hauled up on the concrete shore, but it was wrong. It had been cleanly sheared in half, as if by a colossal, impossibly sharp blade. The cut was smooth, the edges gleaming in the twilight.
His eyes scanned the area. Movement. Figures, three of them, dressed in dark, nondescript clothing. They wore helmets of a strange, sleek design that covered their entire heads, reflecting the dying light in oily swirls. In their hands, they held weapons that were unmistakably unnatural. Blades that seemed to drink the light, their edges shimmering with a faint, sickly aura. AMG artifacts. They were moving with a swift, coordinated purpose towards the ruined boat.
"Reindeer is there," Enola's voice was tight, urgent. "Taking cover behind the stern section of the boat. Bio-readings are critical. Neurological degradation is accelerating. Sven, you need to-"
Her words were cut off as one of the helmeted figures raised its shimmering blade. The air around it wavered, like heat haze on a summer road. Sven saw the half of the boat behind which Reindeer was hiding begin to… distort. The very space around it seemed to fold and twist.
"Sven," Enola's voice was a sharp whisper in his ear, laced with a terror he had never heard from her before. "They are not just thieves. They are armed with a high-grade spatial manipulator. They are not trying to retrieve the Bell."
The lead figure adjusted something on their weapon. The distortion intensified, the air crackling with silent, invisible energy. The metal of the boat behind which Reindeer was hiding began to groan, its molecules screaming in protest.
"Those people are trying to ring it."