The night stretched out before me, cloaking Neo Lyon’s streets in an oppressive, suffocating darkness. The air carried the faint tang of rust and oil—a stench that always seemed to hang over the Red Hands’ territory. This part of Brotteaux wasn’t a place you wandered into at night, unless you had business here, and most people knew to steer clear. But I wasn’t most people. I had plenty of business with the Red Hands.
Perched atop a derelict warehouse, I surveyed the streets below. The hum of flickering street lights buzzed in my ears as I watched the ebb and flow of their operations. Men and women in red armbands loitered in clusters near shadowy corners, keeping a watchful eye over their turf. Their confidence was sickening. During the past months, they’d terrorized this part of the city with their small time heists. But nowadays, they were more organized, with a clear goal it would seem.
I have been surveying them for the past 2 weeks like that, and saw the machine starting to move like clockwork. If I had to move to obtain answers on who backed them, it was tonight.
The cool metal of the grappling hook felt steady in my hand as I prepared to descend. My black hood shrouded my face, blending into the shadows like a second skin. To them, I was a myth—an ominous rumor whispered in dark alleys. Tonight, I’d remind them that I wasn’t just a story.
I leapt from the rooftop, landing silently in the alley below. My boots barely made a sound on the cracked pavement as I crept toward a group of Red Hands thugs. They were clustered near a rusting van, its back doors open to reveal crates stamped with strange symbols. My pulse quickened. This was what I’d been looking for.
“Load it up,” one of the goons barked, his voice sharp in the cold night air. “Corsair wants it moved by midnight.”
Another thug grumbled something inaudible as he heaved a crate into the van. The others stood guard, weapons at their sides but not drawn. They didn’t see me yet—good. I stepped closer, my movements precise, my breath steady.
I struck without warning.
The first goon crumpled beneath the force of my elbow against his temple. The second barely had time to draw his weapon before I kicked his legs out from under him. He hit the ground hard, a grunt escaping his lips as I grabbed his collar and slammed him into the side of the van. The other two turned, shock written across their faces as they scrambled to pull out pistols.
“Drop them,” I said coldly, my voice low and threatening. “Or you’ll regret it.”
They hesitated, and in that moment, I lunged. My fist connected with the jaw of the nearest thug, sending him sprawling. The other raised his gun, but I twisted his wrist, forcing him to drop it. A quick sweep of my leg took him down, his body hitting the pavement with a dull thud.
The crates were mine now. I crouched next to one, inspecting the symbols stamped on its surface. They were unfamiliar—elegant, almost intricate. Not the crude markings I’d expected from an organization like the Red Hands. This wasn’t their style. They were working for someone, someone with resources and influence. The Genesis Serum had to be tied to this, but the pieces still didn’t fit.
“Breaking into other people’s business again, I see.”
The voice came from behind me—smooth, amused, and infuriatingly familiar. I turned sharply, my fists clenching as I faced Tempus. He leaned casually against a lamppost, his midnight-blue suit speckled with silver motifs gleaming faintly in the dim light. His Venetian mask hid most of his face, but I could feel the smirk behind it.
“Tempus,” I said, my tone sharp. “What are you doing here?”
He tilted his head, mockingly casual. “I could ask you the same thing, but I already know the answer. You’re poking around, looking for trouble.” He gestured to the unconscious Red Hands thugs scattered around us. “And judging by the mess, you’ve found it.”
“This isn’t your fight,” I snapped, taking a step closer. “Leave.”
Tempus chuckled, his green eyes glinting behind the mask. “Oh, but it is my fight. The Red Hands have been encroaching on my business for weeks now. They’re bad for Neo Lyon and bad for profits. I figured I’d pay them a visit tonight, but it seems you beat me to the punch.”
“You don’t get to play hero,” I said, my voice low. “Not after what you’ve done.”
His amusement didn’t falter. “I’m not playing anything, darling. I’m just here to clean up a mess. Though I have to admit, you’ve made quite the mess yourself.”
I bristled, my hands itching to throw the first punch. But there was something in his tone, something in the way he regarded the Red Hands, that stopped me. He wasn’t here to defend them. He was here to destroy them—just like me.
“What’s your angle?” I demanded, crossing my arms.
Tempus pushed off the lamppost, his movements fluid as he approached. “No angle. I just think we have a common interest tonight.” He glanced at the crates. “And it seems we both like to ask questions.”
“I don’t trust you.”
He smiled faintly. “You wound me, girl–”
“Replica.” I cut him off coldly. “My name is Replica, not girl or darling.”
Tempus gave a slight, theatrical bow, his midnight-blue coat rippling like water. “Replica, then. My sincerest apologies for the slight.”
I ignored his feigned politeness, stepping back toward the crates. “You’re still not answering me. What’s your real reason for being here?”
He shrugged, his tone maddeningly casual. “Believe it or not, I don’t like the Red Hands any more than you do. They’re reckless, destructive, and—” he paused, tilting his head toward the van— “they’ve been meddling in things far above their station.”
I frowned, glancing down at the elegant markings on the crates. “You mean this?”
Tempus took a step closer, inspecting the symbols with a critical eye. “Hmm. Intriguing. This isn’t their handiwork. Whoever is supplying them, though…” He trailed off, then looked back at me, his green eyes gleaming. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
I bristled at his smug tone but held my ground. “That’s what I’m here for. Don’t get in my way.”
He laughed softly, a rich sound that made my skin crawl. “Get in your way? No, no, darling—I’m here to help. Consider it… a partnership. For tonight.”
“A partnership,” I repeated, disbelief dripping from my words.
He stepped back, gesturing grandly to the scene around us. “Why not? We both want the same thing: answers. The Red Hands are pests, and I have a vested interest in removing them from the equation. You can keep whatever noble crusade you’re on, and I’ll get to see them grovel when their operation falls apart.”
I narrowed my eyes, weighing my options. Tempus wasn’t exactly trustworthy—he was a rogue, after all—but he wasn’t lying about the Red Hands being a nuisance. His tone, smug as it was, carried a certain sincerity. And as much as I hated to admit it, I could use the extra help.
“Fine,” I said reluctantly. “But don’t get in my way.”
He grinned, an infuriatingly self-satisfied expression. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Tempus’s grin was insufferable, the kind that made me want to knock his teeth out on principle. But he wasn’t wrong about the Red Hands. They had grown bold, and whoever was backing them had more power than I was comfortable with. The crates at my feet were proof enough of that.
“Do you have a plan, or are you just here to enjoy the chaos?” I asked, my voice clipped.
“Plans are overrated,” Tempus replied, inspecting one of the downed goons with feigned disinterest. “But since you seem to have made yourself quite at home, why don’t we start with whatever you’ve uncovered? Gonna use what you stole from me?” He laughs despite the cold tone he put at the “stole” part.
The night wrapped itself around Brotteaux like a suffocating shroud, the distant hum of the city muted by the oppressive stillness of Red Hands territory. My gaze shifted between the unconscious thugs sprawled across the pavement and Tempus, who seemed far too amused by the chaos I’d wrought. His green eyes sparkled mischievously behind his Venetian mask, his midnight-blue coat gleaming faintly under the dim streetlights.
“I didn’t steal anything,” I snapped. “It was a tactical acquisition.”
Tempus chuckled, a low, melodic sound that grated on my nerves. “Semantics, darling. The grenades were mine, you took them, and now here we are. But I’ll forgive you—this time.”
I bristled, tightening my fists to resist the urge to wipe the smug grin off his face. “Do you always talk this much?”
“Only when I’m in good company.” He flashed a toothy grin before kneeling to inspect one of the crates. “Now, what do we have here?”
I stepped closer, keeping a wary eye on him as he ran his fingers over the elegant markings. The symbols etched into the crates were unfamiliar—curved lines and angular shapes that seemed almost organic in design. Not the crude branding of a street gang.
“You know what this is?” I asked, folding my arms.
Tempus straightened, brushing imaginary dust from his gloves. “Not exactly. But it’s certainly not Red Hands material. This reeks of a third party—a powerful one.”
I hesitated, weighing his words. As much as I hated to admit it, he was right. The Red Hands were petty criminals, not masterminds. Whatever was in these crates was beyond their pay grade.
Tempus gestured to the unconscious goons. “Let’s wake one of them up, shall we? I’m curious to hear what they have to say.”
Before I could protest, he crouched beside one of the thugs, a burly man with a shaved head and a jagged scar running down his cheek. Tempus lightly tapped the man’s cheek, coaxing him back to consciousness.
The thug groaned, blinking groggily. When his eyes focused on Tempus, they widened in terror. “Y-You! What the hell—”
Tempus smiled, a wolfish expression that sent a chill down my spine. “Good evening, my friend. Let’s have a little chat, shall we?”
The thug’s gaze darted between Tempus and me, sweat beading on his forehead. “I don’t know anything, I swear—”
“Let me stop you right there,” Tempus interrupted smoothly, holding up a gloved hand. “You’ll find I’m far more reasonable than my charming companion here.” He gestured to me with a flourish. “So, let’s keep this simple. Who are you working for?”
The thug swallowed hard, his face pale. “We’re just moving crates, man. I don’t ask questions.”
“Wrong answer.” I stepped forward, my voice cold. The thug flinched, and I crouched beside him, locking eyes with him. “You’ve been terrorizing this district for months. Who’s backing you? What’s in these crates?”
His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, his fear rendering him momentarily speechless. Tempus leaned in, his tone conversational. “You see, she’s very impatient. I’d answer her if I were you.”
The thug’s gaze flicked between us, weighing his options. Finally, he stammered, “I don’t know the names, okay? We just get the stuff and move it. It’s some... chemical or something. That’s all I know, I swear!”
My stomach churned. Chemical. Genesis Serum had to be involved, but there was no way the Red Hands were manufacturing it on their own. Someone was using them, and the implications were unsettling.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
“Where’s it going?” I demanded, my voice sharp.
“I... I don’t know!” the thug sputtered. “Corsair’s got the details. He’s the one who talks to the suppliers. We just follow orders.”
Tempus tilted his head, considering the thug’s words. “Corsair, hmm? Where can we find him?”
The thug shook his head frantically. “I don’t know! He moves around a lot. He doesn’t tell us where he’ll be.”
I glanced at Tempus, who sighed theatrically. “Well, that’s disappointing. Still, it gives us a lead.”
I stood, my mind racing. Corsair was the key, but tracking him down wouldn’t be easy. Tempus followed suit, dusting off his coat.
“Well, Replica, it seems we’re on the same trail. Shall we continue our delightful partnership?”
I hesitated. Trusting Tempus felt like dancing on the edge of a blade, but I couldn’t deny he was useful. And if Corsair was involved with the Genesis Serum, I needed answers—answers Tempus might help me find.
“Fine,” I said grudgingly. “But if you get in my way—”
“Perish the thought,” Tempus said with a mock bow. “Lead the way, darling.”
I ignored the nickname and turned my attention back to the crates. We couldn’t carry them all, but I grabbed a small vial from one of the boxes—a sample, something to analyze later. Tempus, for his part, plucked a red armband from one of the unconscious thugs, twirling it around his fingers.
“A souvenir,” he said with a smirk.
“Focus,” I snapped, already moving toward the shadows. “If Corsair’s moving these crates, we need to find out where.”
Tempus fell into step beside me, his easy confidence grating against my nerves. “You know, you’re surprisingly good at this. Not bad for someone who crossed me.”
The back alleys of the Brotteaux district stretched like veins into Neo Lyon’s darkened heart. Every step felt like a descent deeper into the belly of a beast, with graffiti-streaked walls whispering warnings to anyone foolish enough to linger. Tempus and I navigated the streets silently, though the tension between us hung thick in the air. He was smug, too smug, and I was all too aware of the thin thread of necessity binding us together.
“This Corsair,” Tempus began, his voice low but conversational as we moved between shadowed buildings, “he’s not exactly subtle. Word is, he likes to play pirate—hence the name. A bit theatrical, even for my tastes.”
I rolled my eyes, keeping my focus on the task ahead. “Do you ever stop talking?”
He flashed a grin, his Venetian mask catching a sliver of moonlight. “Not when I’m in such charming company. And you should be grateful. I’m giving you a crash course in Red Hands sociology, free of charge.”
We reached a fork in the alleys, and I motioned for him to follow me to the right. The Red Hands’ operations had an unnerving predictability once you understood the rhythm. This path would lead us toward a decrepit garage I’d marked as a potential hub during my previous reconnaissance. If Corsair was coordinating tonight’s shipment, he’d likely be there.
The alley opened into a wider courtyard surrounded by crumbling buildings, their windows gaping like empty eye sockets. The shadows stretched long and deep under the dim glow of a single overhead light, buzzing faintly as moths flitted around it. The garage ahead loomed like a crouching beast, its doors shut but not locked. A faint murmur of voices seeped through the cracks, muffled and indistinct.
“Corsair may not be here, but this is definitely his playground,” I muttered.
Tempus stepped beside me, his presence irritatingly casual. “Ah, the classic villain lair vibe. You’d think these criminals would invest in better aesthetics. Still, it’s quaint in its own way.”
I shot him a glare. “Focus.”
He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Always, darling.”
Keeping low, I approached the garage, my movements precise and deliberate. Tempus followed, quieter than I’d expected, though his infuriating smugness radiated off him like heat. When we reached the side of the garage, I pressed my ear to the cold metal door. The voices inside grew clearer—arguing, by the sound of it.
Tempus leaned in close, his breath brushing my ear. “How charming. Internal strife. Should we knock?”
“How come you are so different from that time at the hangar? You know, your… professionalism…”
Tempus chuckled, pulling back slightly, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. “Oh, darling, this was then, and this is now. At the time I thought you were just some small-time henchwoman, not a stunning Rogue Meta.”
I smirked, biting back the retort that sprang to mind. "Glad I could elevate your opinion of me," I said, my tone dry as the desert. "Now, can we focus? There's movement inside."
Tempus nodded, the glimmer of mischief in his green eyes undimmed. He gestured theatrically, allowing me the lead, though the twirl of his gloved hand made it clear he was only half-serious.
The voices on the other side of the door grew louder, punctuated by the clatter of something heavy being dropped. I glanced at Tempus, who tilted his head as if straining to listen.
“Seems like we have an argument brewing,” he murmured. “Shall we join the conversation?”
Ignoring his theatrics, I moved to the edge of the garage’s side door and tested the handle. Unlocked. Predictable. I motioned for Tempus to stay close as I slipped inside, my boots silent against the concrete floor. The air was thick with the metallic tang of oil and gasoline, mingling with the acrid smell of cigarette smoke. My eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light, taking in the scene.
Three Red Hands thugs stood near the center of the room, their postures tense. One of them, a wiry man with a shaved head, gestured wildly with a wrench, his voice rising above the others. “I told you, Corsair said midnight! You were supposed to have the shipment prepped hours ago!”
“Yeah, well, maybe if you pulled your weight, we wouldn’t be behind schedule,” another snapped, a stocky woman with a scar running from her lip to her jaw. She crossed her arms, glaring daggers at the first man. “We’re doing the best we can, but half the crew’s gone, and these crates are a nightmare to move.”
The third thug, a younger man with a nervous twitch, shifted uncomfortably between them. “Maybe we should call Corsair—”
“No one is calling Corsair!” the wiry man barked, his wrench coming down hard on the nearest crate for emphasis. The resounding clang echoed through the garage.
Tempus leaned close to me, his voice a low murmur. “Quaint, isn’t it? The Red Hands have all the coordination of a flock of drunk pigeons.”
“Quiet,” I hissed. My eyes scanned the garage, noting the scattered crates marked with the same strange symbols I’d seen earlier. Several were already loaded onto a truck parked near the far wall, its engine humming faintly. They were preparing to move out.
Before I could decide on my approach, Tempus stepped forward, his movements deliberate but almost lazy, as though he were strolling into a dinner party. I reached to stop him, but it was too late. The sound of his boots on the concrete drew the attention of the Red Hands, who turned toward us in unison.
“Good evening, friends,” Tempus announced, his tone dripping with charm. “Don’t let me interrupt—please, continue your delightful debate.”
The wiry man reacted first, raising his wrench defensively. “Who the hell are you?”
Tempus placed a hand over his chest, feigning offense. “Who am I? My dear fellow, I’m the man who’s about to save your sorry operation from collapsing under its own incompetence.”
Tempus's voice carried an air of authority that stopped the wiry man mid-swing, though the tension in the room was palpable. I followed Tempus inside, my own steps measured and purposeful. The wiry man’s gaze darted to me, and recognition flickered in his eyes—then fear.
“Shit. It’s her,” he hissed, taking a step back. The woman with the scar shifted her stance, her hand moving toward the pistol holstered at her side.
“Stand down,” I said coldly, my voice slicing through the room like a blade. “Unless you want a repeat of last time.”
Tempus clapped his hands once, drawing attention back to himself. “Ah, now this is getting exciting! Replica, darling, do remind me—what exactly did you do to these poor souls? They seem utterly terrified of you.”
“Nothing they didn’t deserve,” I replied icily, my eyes fixed on the thugs. “And if they don’t want a second helping, they’ll tell us what we want to know.”
The wiry man’s grip tightened on the wrench, his knuckles turning white. “We don’t have to tell you anything! You think you can just walk in here and—”
Tempus interrupted him with a slow clap. “Oh, this is adorable. Truly. But here’s the thing—she’s not bluffing.” His grin turned predatory. “And if she doesn’t take you apart, I might. So, let’s keep this civil, shall we?”
The stocky woman with the scar glared between us, her eyes narrowing. “What do you want?”
I stepped forward, closing the gap between us. The faint hum of the truck’s engine reverberated in the background, a reminder that their operation was on the verge of moving out. “We want to know who’s backing you. These crates aren’t your style, and you’re not smart enough to pull this off on your own.”
The younger thug shifted nervously, his gaze darting to the others. “We don’t know—”
“Shut up!” the wiry man snapped, silencing him with a glare. He turned his attention back to me, his defiance faltering under my unrelenting stare. “Look, we just move the stuff, okay? Corsair’s the one with the contacts. He gives the orders, and we follow them. Watcher also knew stuff, but since you thrashed him, he is stuck in the hospital.”
“Fuuucccck… it’s her…?” I could hear the twitchy man whisper under his breath at the revelation.
Tempus chuckled, amused by the fear radiating from the twitchy thug. He tilted his head toward me, his voice smooth and mocking. "My, my, Replica. You’re becoming quite the urban legend. Remind me to never get on your bad side—oh wait."
I ignored him, my focus fixed on the wiry man gripping his wrench like it was a lifeline. “Watcher’s out of the picture, and Corsair’s ghosting you. You’re running blind, aren’t you?”
The wiry man’s jaw clenched, his defiance crumbling under the weight of his own admission. "We don’t know where Corsair is. He doesn’t tell us. He just drops orders and expects us to make it work."
“That’s a shame,” Tempus drawled, pacing leisurely around the group. “Because without Corsair, you’re all just headless chickens. And chickens, unfortunately, tend to get plucked.”
The scarred woman stepped forward, her hand hovering near her pistol. "We’ve got enough to handle you two—"
Tempus’s voice sliced through her threat, cold and venomous. “Ah, ah. I wouldn’t try it, dear. I can stop time for you before you even finish that thought.” He tapped his temple, his grin never faltering.
I let his theatrics hold their attention while I circled toward the crates. My eyes locked onto the truck, its cargo the key to unraveling the Red Hands’ plans. The twitchy thug noticed me moving and shifted nervously. “Hey! What’re you—”
Tempus raised a hand, silencing him with a flourish. “Let her work. You, my jittery friend, should worry about what happens when she’s done.”
Ignoring the tension behind me, I inspected the nearest crate. Its lid was partially open, revealing rows of small vials glimmering faintly in the dim light. The liquid inside was colorless.
“Tempus,” I called over my shoulder.
He glanced at me, then at the vials, his smirk faltering slightly. “Well, now. That’s interesting.”
The sight of the vials sent a ripple of unease through me. Each one was a mystery sealed in glass, containing a liquid that whispered of power and danger. My instincts screamed Genesis Serum—there was no other explanation for why the Red Hands would guard something so meticulously.
Tempus approached with deliberate steps, his usual swagger replaced by a flicker of genuine interest. “I’m assuming these little bottles mean something to you?”
“Maybe,” I said tightly, not taking my eyes off the crate. “But they’re definitely out of the Red Hands’ league.”
Tempus crouched beside me, peering at the vials. “Curious. They look like they could be medicine. Or poison. Do enlighten me—what am I looking at?”
The Genesis Serum. At least, that’s what I think it is,” I replied, my voice low and laced with unease. “A substance tied to metahuman powers—or worse. If this is what I think it is, the Red Hands are more dangerous than we thought.”
Tempus’s smirk returned, but it was tinged with caution. “Fascinating. And here I thought I was the unpredictable one. This stuff… is it dangerous to handle?”
“Potentially,” I admitted. “Depends on what it’s designed to do. But I doubt they’re using it to heal puppies and kittens.”
He chuckled, brushing a finger across one of the vials. “And you believe Corsair is at the heart of this little science experiment?”
“Corsair… or the person Watcher called “the creep”... That creep might be the actual mastermind, I think.”
The room felt heavier now, as if the very air carried the weight of what we’d discovered. Tempus straightened, his gloved fingers lingering over the crate before he stepped back, his smirk sharpening like a blade.
“Well, Replica, it seems you’ve stumbled upon a delightful mystery,” he mused, his voice deceptively light. “Whoever this ‘creep’ is, they’re playing a dangerous game. And Corsair? Just a pawn, I’d wager.”
“A well-paid pawn,” I muttered, closing the crate with deliberate care. “But we need more than guesses. If this is Genesis Serum, someone in Neo Lyon is manufacturing it. The Red Hands are just couriers.”
Tempus chuckled. “And here I thought you were the brawn of this partnership. Who knew you had brains to match?”
I ignored the jab, my focus shifting back to the thugs. The wiry man was still clutching his wrench, his resolve fraying with every passing second. I stepped toward him, my voice low and cold. “The ‘creep.’ Who is he? Where does he operate?”
The man faltered, his defiance collapsing under the weight of fear. “I don’t know who he is, okay? We never meet him! Corsair handles all that. We just move the shipments.”
Tempus sighed theatrically. “Well, aren’t you just a font of disappointment? No names, no locations, no juicy secrets? What do you know?”
The scarred woman glared at him. “We know you two are a pain in the ass.”
Tempus grinned, unfazed. “Why, thank you. I do strive to be memorable.”
“Enough,” I snapped, cutting through the banter. I grabbed the wiry man’s collar, pulling him closer until our faces were inches apart. “Corsair must have a safe house. A fallback point. Where?”
He stammered, his resolve crumbling entirely. “There’s... there’s a place in the Croix-Rousse tunnels. An old hideout we used before we expanded. Corsair might be there. That’s all I know, I swear!”
I released him, and he crumpled to the floor, gasping for air. Tempus raised an eyebrow, impressed despite himself.
“Efficient. Brutal, but efficient,” he remarked. “The Croix-Rousse tunnels, you say? Charming. I’ve always loved a good labyrinth.”
I turned to him, my tone sharp. “This isn’t a game. If Corsair or this ‘creep’ gets away, we lose our lead. You in or not?”
Tempus placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “Darling, I wouldn’t dream of abandoning you now. Besides, this ‘creep’ sounds positively fascinating.”
I suppressed a groan, motioning toward the door. “Let’s move. Before they regroup.”
