09-11-2355 | 23:24
Downline Commons — Clinic Row, Bay Three
—
Dax comes up fast, the way soldiers do: eyes open, body trying to sit before the head signs off. Nyra palms him down with professional irritation.
"Don't be stupid," she says. "You're fine. You were out for, what, forty minutes? You can glare in a minute."
Ryn's in the chair beside him, elbows on knees. "You back?"
Dax blinks, fighting the residual white noise in his skull. "Yeah. My head feels like Veil's been using it for a drum." His hand immediately goes to his side, patting his hip for his sidearm holster. It's empty.
Ryn pulls the pistol, a HARBOR-issue carbine, from the medical table beside him. "Looking for this?" He holds it out grip-first.
As two men approach from the edge of the bay, Ryn nods to them. "This is Calyx. He runs Downline. And the charming fellow still trying to be tough is Veil. He's the one who introduced you to the floor." Nyra remains by the med-drone controls.
Veil moves forward, his expression losing its usual chirp. "That's not a good idea, Ryn. Baby boy is still jumpy."
"He's not going to open fire on anyone here," Ryn says, meeting Dax's eyes and still holding the pistol out. "He's not that type of person."
Calyx looks directly at Dax, his eyes steady and busy. "Is he right, Lieutenant? Are you that type of person?"
"Im not getting killed in an underground bunker," Dax takes the pistol, the weight familiar and anchoring. He slides it smoothly into his holster. He tries to push himself up to stand, but a wave of nausea hits, and he nearly slides back to the cot.
Ryn reaches out, placing a gentle hand on Dax's shoulder, steadying him. "Take it easy, Lieutenant."
"I'm fine," Dax says, voice rough, though he accepts the stabilization. He sits up slowly, ignoring Nyra's fresh hiss of protest.
He looks past the bay, into the main artery of Downline. People move: a woman with lensed sclera is gone, but he sees a couple, one of them showing dermal plates like armor, holding hands with a child who looks mostly baseline. The kid on the next cot is still breathing under Ryn's thin water film, his jacket tucked over him like dignity. This isn't a lair. It's a neighborhood.
"What... is this place?" Dax asks.
"This is what I wanted you to see," Ryn says, voice low.
"The reason I intended to bring you down here. Sans blackout." He says and Calyx glances at Nyra, who shrugs and continues to work.
Dax touches his temple. "Intentions noted. Next time, try an invitation. Waking up in a strange bed with zero memory is usually how my bad holidays start."
Ryn manages a small smile. "Sorry about Veil. He's sort of a hothead."
"Standing right here." Veil says.
"We're aware," Dax says, taking in the clean, quiet organization of the clinic. "How did this happen? Downline."
Calyx steps forward. "The tunnels were there. We made the rest. Five years ago, a few of us decided that 'Containment' meant community, not a cage." He finishes.
"The people you see: they can't live topside without being a target or a test subject. We give them a life." Ryn adds.
Dax frowns. "But you go topside. You work for HARBOR. You're the Conductor."
"I look like one of them, and I only stay in the cage they gave me so I can keep doing this," Ryn says, tapping the silver ring on his finger. "I find as many subs as I can. I bring them here. I sleep better at night knowing they're not being tested on."
"HARBOR isn't allowed to test on civilians," Dax snaps, the ingrained Bureau doctrine rising up.
Ryn looks at him, pity in his eyes. "Wake up, Lieutenant. HARBOR studies subhumans and their abilities. They call it 'asset coordination,' but they are collecting data on every fluctuation, every anomaly. You saw Silas's interrogation. They don't want to save him. They want to catalog him."
Dax looks away, processing. His new employer. His new command. He tightens his jaw, the denial a hard edge in his voice. "I'll see it for myself. I have to. They're my team now."
"You're clear to roam," Nyra interjects, having finished checking Dax's patches. "No stairs fast. No heroics. If you puke, you clean it. Now get out."
Dax nods. "Copy."
Calyx appears at Veil's shoulder, not looming, not smiling. "You walk out, you don't call this in tonight. We clear on that?"
"We're clear," Dax says. He looks at Ryn. "Let's go before I change my mind."
Ryn stands. "Door's this way."
09-11-2355 | 23:39
Downline Exit — Forty-K Market
—
They take a tight service elevator up, the noise muffled and mechanical. A door opens into a busy night market, Forty-K: neon-lit food stalls, the smell of burnt sugar and hot synth-meat, crowds elbowing past carrying light-up grocery baskets. This is the busy, careless, colorful sprawl of the mid-level city.
Dax rolls his shoulders, the noise and light a stark change from the tunnel. He focuses on adapting to the shift, watching faces and exits.
In the low-shadows of a broken ATM alcove, a slim, dark figure watches them, then melts back into the deeper shade.
Ryn taps Dax's arm, pulling his attention from a stall selling synth-noodles. "We have bogeys."
Dax turns his head slightly, clocking the direction Ryn indicates. Two figures in gray HARBOR field shells are threading the crowd, faces blank, eyes scanning. They're moving toward their location. Dax turns back to the stall, reaching for a pack of nutrient gum like he's bored.
"They're coming this way," Dax says, voice low.
"Kiss me," Ryn says.
"What?" Dax asks, surprised, turning his head back to Ryn.
Ryn doesn't wait. He grabs Dax's face quickly, thumb and forefinger brushing his cheekbone, and presses his mouth against Dax's. Dax freezes completely, a rigid sheet of denial and shock, his mind racing through tactical options. Then, just as abruptly, the rigidity softens, his body dropping its guard in confusion.
The HARBOR enforcers glance at the brief, clumsy, and entirely public display of affection, their eyes dismissing the two men immediately. Ryn breaks the contact, stepping back instantly. He is already looking past Dax at the nearest skyrail station.
Dax just stares at him, heart now beating at a ridiculous, non-tactical speed.
"Your fake kiss is definitely better than any kiss I've ever had," Ryn says, the corner of his mouth just hinting at a smirk.
He pushes his hands into his coat pockets and walks away, blending instantly into the market chaos.
Dax stands there for a beat, touches his lip lightly, and then, annoyed and utterly thrown, shoves the nutrient gum back onto the rack and follows. He glances toward the dark alcove.
"We're not done with this," Dax says, catching up to Ryn at the edge of the crowd.
"We're not," Ryn says. "Not by a long shot."
09-11-2355 | 23:45
HARBOR HQ — Mezzanine Level
—
Dax slips out of the city transit station, the noise and color of the Forty-K market dropping away instantly. He feels exposed, still vibrating with the shock of Ryn's kiss—a calculated distraction that had worked too well. The massive glass doors of the HARBOR Tower slide open, revealing the cold perfection of the Mezzanine. Every step on the polished marble floor feels like a lie.
He moves toward the security console, the motion automatic, but his hand finds only empty fabric where his comm slate should be.
The guard, face set in an unreadable mold, nods stiffly. "ID, Lieutenant."
Dax pats his pockets, a wave of profound fatigue washing over him. "My comm slate is damaged," he says, his voice flat. He rubs his temple, where the ghost of Veil's knock still throbbed. "Log me in manually: Mercer, Dax. Lieutenant, Tactical."
The guard's eyebrows barely move. "Damaged, sir? That is a Level Three infraction. Positive control of electronics is mandatory." The reprimand is clinical, devoid of human judgment, which somehow makes it worse.
"I'll file the paperwork at oh-eight-hundred," Dax grits out, leaning heavily on the console. "It's a broken piece of plastic. I need access now."
The guard types, slow and meticulous, running the name through the system. "Your access is approved, Lieutenant. Next time, report the loss immediately."
Dax doesn't reply, just walks toward the internal lifts. The polished steel of the car reflects his appearance: tired, disheveled, boots dusted with the dirt of Downline. He felt the contamination of the last few hours—the unfiled mission, the moral compromise, the unauthorized intimacy of the forced kiss—settling deep into his bones.
10-11-2355 | 00:46
HARBOR HQ — Dax's Quarters
—
The apartment is vast and hushed. Dax keys the lock, and the embedded lights bloom, silent and precise. It is a penthouse-style suite, undeniably luxurious but lacking any warmth. The kitchenette is fused steel and obsidian, opening into a small dining space. The main living room is minimalist, framed by a massive, curved stormglass wall that offers a stunning, sprawling view of the Port Helix docks and the Outbelt's neon sprawl. It is a gilded, beautiful cage.
He spots the source of the subtle, roasted spice scent: a travel cooler sitting on the dining table. A figure rises from the lounge chair, stepping out of the shadows.
"You're late, Dax," his Aunt Elara says. She is tall, dressed in soft, deep blues, her expression etched with worry and sharp, immediate scrutiny.
"Aunt Elara? It's almost one in the morning. What are you doing here this late? How did you get past security?"
"Aunt perks, and I've been here since nine. I know you hate to eat early, or at all." She says, dismissing the question with a wave. "And I worry. Did you run a marathon? You look like you just spent three hours wrestling a moral quandary and lost."
"I had a long first day," Dax admits, the exhaustion a physical weight. He shoves his carbine into a locker and sinks into a kitchen chair. "Thanks for the food."
"You need sustenance, not synthetic protein paste." She opens the cooler, revealing containers of slow-cooked protein and fresh greens. "So, these digs. They're immense. Great view. Very isolation chamber chic."
"It's decent," Dax says, taking a steaming bowl. "Beats the barracks I had at the Federal level."
"You could have taken a federal contract, or reenlisted," she points out, sitting opposite him. "Less atmosphere. This place is cold, Dax. It's all sharp edges and quiet, hungry ambition."
Dax pushed the food around, his appetite fighting his conscience. "I couldn't reenlist, Elara. Not after the clinic incident. I let my team down. I failed my mission. They needed me, and I collapsed the moment the stress hit. I can't go back to the service after that." The words are raw, painful to speak aloud.
"So you come here to punish yourself," she counters, her eyes holding his. "You come to the only place that doesn't care about honor, only output. You're trying to absolve one failure by committing to a greater one."
"I'm protecting the grid," Dax insists, holding his bowl tightly. "Coordinating assets. Stopping spills."
"You're coordinating assets for the enemy of people who need help," she says, leaning forward, her voice dropping to a low intensity. "They are human beings, Dax. The subhumans. Even the Rendlings. They are living, breathing things. My brother, your father. They did not ask to be killed by a confused monster, no. But none of those people in the tunnels asked for their organic code to be rewritten by our reckless, arrogant science. It's rough. It's terrible. But this is our life now."
Dax stares at her, his throat tight with old grief and new, immediate shame. "A Rendling tore him apart, Elara. Don't stand here and tell me I shouldn't hate them."
"And I miss him every single day," she says, the admission heavy, thick with emotion. "But the system that created the Rendling is the system you're now serving. You're trading your life for a paycheck and a lie. You get to make a choice, Dax. Are you going to aid the organization that studies and harvests the desperate, or are you going to use your position and your integrity to make a true difference? A quiet, meaningful difference."
She reaches across the table and takes his hand, her grip firm. "With all the guilt you're carrying, you have a chance to do something that matters. One that's bigger than trying to earn back a medal."
He nods slowly, the conflict written across his weary face. He finally pushes the spoon to his mouth. "Let's eat," he says, the simple act a surrender to comfort. They eat, they talk, and the familiar, safe rhythm of their companionship begins to soothe the raw edges of his night.
10-11-2355 | 01:19
HARBOR HQ — Mezzanine Level
—
Dax walks Elara back to the Mezzanine. He feels marginally better, heavier with food but lighter in spirit.
"You promise me you'll think about what I said," Elara says, adjusting her shawl.
"I'm thinking about it already," Dax confirms.
The doors to the transit station open, and Ryn steps out. He's dressed in his official HARBOR jacket, the graphite immaculate. His dark clothing contrasts sharply with his striking platinum blonde hair, which catches the sterile mezzanine light. He is heading for the internal lifts, looking sleek and utterly composed.
Elara's eyes widen. She stops dead, her focus snapping to Ryn with the reverence of seeing a known public figure. "Dax. Is that... the Conductor? Ryn Vesper?"
Dax stiffens, his entire body flooding with dread and annoyance. "Elara, no. That's just a colleague. We're going."
But Elara is already moving, her stride purposeful and elegant. She approaches Ryn with genuine respect, not giddiness.
"Mr. Ryn, is it? Ryn Vesper?" she says, her tone polite but clear.
Ryn stops, turning to face her with a pleasant, practiced smile that doesn't quite hide the sharp intelligence in his eyes.
"Ma'am, it is," Ryn says, his voice charming and kind.
Elara studies him, taking in his famous, controlled presence. "I'm Elara Mercer, Dax's aunt. He is new to HARBOR. He is a good man, Mr. Ryn. Very dependable. And very, very single." She leans in slightly, her voice conspiratorial but serious. "Available, too! We're working on his ability to talk about his feelings, but I can vouch for his heart."
Ryn's smile widens slightly, a genuine flash of amusement reaching his eyes. He glances briefly at Dax, who is now rigid with mortification.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Ma'am," Ryn says, his manners impeccable. "Your nephew here is certainly... memorable. And I can vouch for the good heart part, even if he did ruin my comm slate tonight." He lets the last part hang, a subtle, private wink at the deception they shared.
Elara looks back at Dax, tapping her foot, a silent demand for better behavior. "See? Memorable. Now you two boys be careful out there. I'll send more food tomorrow, Dax."
She gives Ryn an approving, respectful nod and disappears into the transit station.
Dax watches the doors close, feeling the cold weight of Ryn's gaze on him.
"Your aunt is wonderful," Ryn says, his tone still pleasant, yet carrying a faint edge of challenge.
"Don't you dare," Dax warns him, his voice tight with humiliation.
Ryn just smiles a slow, calculating smile that promises trouble. He turns toward the internal lifts. "Good night, Lieutenant. Try not to ruin anything else."
—