They’d met in an alleyway, of all places. Fitting. It certainly seemed to be where they spent most of their time after that. Striker had been walking in search of food scraps—aimless, for the most part. Like the rest of his life here in the old city.
He hadn’t been Striker then, of course. He was James. And he was only thirteen.
Instead of food scraps, he’d found a weird kid sitting on a semi-splintered barstool in the middle of the alley. The boy was a year or so younger than him. However, perched atop the wobbly stool, dressed only in a tattered, oversized hoodie and baggy jeans, he looked even younger.
He was also addressing a mangy alley cat.
“Well, it works for now,” the kid was saying. “It should hold for the main part of our roof supports. If not, we can always bust it up and burn it.”
The cat blinked. It spotted James and stood, arching its back. It hissed. The boy atop the stool turned. His expression darkened.
“What do you want?” the kid asked.
“Nothing from you,” James said, hands in his pockets. “Were you… talking to a cat?”
“Yeah? So?”
“Huh. Well, I’m looking for food. Got any?”
“No.”
“Technically the cat is meat.”
“What? No! Get lost, if you’re going to be like that.”
James raised one eyebrow. “Whatever. Guess I’ll go find some sane people to help me. Good luck with your cat-friend.”
He raised his hand in a farewell gesture and turned to exit the alley. Just as he reached the mouth, the boy called after him.
“Wait.”
James turned. “What?”
The kid hopped off his barstool and wandered a few steps nearer, although from the way his shoulders tensed, James could tell he was wary.
“There’s a restaurant around the corner that sets out a box of leftovers every night,” the kid said. “I share them with a couple other street dwellers… and my cat. There’s probably enough for you.”
“A whole box?” James asked, perking up.
“Yeah. But only if you’re fair. Try to take more than an equal portion, and the older kids will probably beat you to a pulp.”
“Noted,” James said. He sauntered over, grinning at the prospect of food. “What’s your name, anyway?”
The boy eyed him. “Colin.”
“I’m James. Thanks for the tip.”
“No problem.”
They shook hands.
***
That was all it had taken.
Striker blinked. People were shouting behind him and screeching at the top of their lungs—he didn’t really care about what. But they had pulled him out of his memory and reminded him he was still on his knees with a gaping hole somewhere in his chest. He turned over and saw DiVazzo with the girl in her grasp, clutching a pistol against her head.
“You shot my father, Mr. Martell,” DiVazzo was saying. “You took him away from me. Don’t think for a second I’m not going to do the same to you, and begging is the last thing that will help.”
This wasn’t what he had taken the job for. Not to watch a little girl die.
Not to lose his squad.
Not to lose Phantom.
A shot rang out, making Striker jump. DiVazzo screeched as her shoulder jerked back and blood sprayed at Striker’s feet. To his surprise, she straightened again and took an aggressive step forward.
“I’ve got enough bio-metal in me to last a hundred gun battles,” DiVazzo snarled. “Give up, Martell. I’m going to kill your daughter and you can’t stop me.”
“No!” Martell yelled, somewhere out of sight.
“You deserve this,” DiVazzo said.
“Evie!”
Striker raised his weapon and looked down the sights for a moment. Then he pulled the trigger and shot DiVazzo square in the back. She lurched forward and dropped the girl with a shriek. Evie fell on her side, and DiVazzo smashed face-first off the tile floor. Beyond them, Martell stood, eyes wide-flung and his mouth hanging open. As soon as Evie was free, he scrambled to her.
“Evie, come here, shh, it’s all right,” Martell murmured, dragging her out of DiVazzo’s range.
“Sh-she… she was going to…” Evie whimpered.
Her father clung to her. “I know. It’s over now.”
“No, it isn’t,” Striker muttered. He pulled himself to his feet. Martell’s gun was on him in an instant. “Shoot me if you want. We’re still on DiVazzo’s station. If you don’t get out of here immediately, you’re going to die anyway.”
Martell narrowed his eyes. “Why help me now, after trying to kill me?”
“What do you care?” Striker asked. “I’m done with you.”
He started back toward the room, shoulders sagging. He could feel Martell’s eyes—and gun—still on him as he went. He didn’t care.
Just as he passed Miss DiVazzo’s body, her stiff hand snapped out and clenched his ankle. Striker yelped in surprise, but then she jerked his leg out from under him and sent him crashing to the ground.
“I’m not finished!” DiVazzo screamed. She raised her head to reveal a mouth and chin covered in blood. Her eyes were wild. “I didn’t kill him yet!”
“Just get out!” Striker barked at Martell. “I’ll keep her here.”
Martell looked like he was about to say something, but he shut his mouth. He gathered his daughter in his arms and took off down the hallway without a word. As Striker tried to pry DiVazzo’s fingers from his ankle, he caught a glimpse of Evie’s face as it bounced down the hall, peering over her father’s shoulder. Watching him.
They disappeared.
“No!” DiVazzo roared.
She freed her other arm from beneath her and grasped Striker’s ankle with both hands. With a twist of her upper body, she flipped him onto his face and slammed him off the tiles.
“Argh!” Striker yelled. “Get off!”
He pivoted his torso and changed angles just enough to kick her in the face. It clanged, which was odd, but he had no time to dwell on it as she came right back and attacked again. He tried to dodge, but the next thing he knew, her hands were grasping his throat. Once again, she slammed him to the floor, the back of his head cracking off the tiles and making him bark in pain.
“I hired you to help me,” DiVazzo boomed in his face. “Why betray me now?”
Striker couldn’t answer. Her frigid fingers were crushing his windpipe. He threw his arm to the side and felt for his gun—for anything. His palm met something solid and grasped it, then swung it at her head. Martell’s gun. His gun—the one Martell had spotted lying next to him and had then used to…
Striker positioned the barrel under DiVazzo’s chin and fired four shots in a row.
DiVazzo’s body arched backward and flopped over his legs. Blood gurgled from the gaping hole in her throat. Somehow, she still twitched, moaning. Striker freed himself, dragging his legs from beneath her heavy body with some effort, little zaps of pain shooting through his nerves when he had to twist his joints the wrong way just to be free of her. DiVazzo’s fingers scraped the floor.
A strange quiet fell.
Striker sat several feet away and watched her for a few minutes. Every once in a while, she would try to sit up, but it always ended with her falling back with a heavy clank. Her once-blonde hair was now matted and stained red. The nano-bots tried to repair the hole in her neck as she died—Striker watched it closing—but to no avail. She bled out before they could finish.
Striker rubbed his eyes. The mission was lost. His squad was gone. Even his primary chance of reversing the bio-metal injection lay dead at his feet. Not that it mattered much anymore.
He cursed softly. “What a waste. Guess there wasn’t much point injecting me in the first place, was there?”
He glanced at the doorway to the room where Phantom still lay. Nobody moved in there. Martell’s two aides must be dead as well. Everyone was dead. Or dying, if he counted himself. It would have been better if he’d just allowed himself to bleed out behind that dumpster after all. Then they never would have come here in the first place.
But then again.
Phantom would never have allowed such a thing. It wasn’t like him. He couldn’t even let a mangy alley cat starve to death when he could hardly find enough food to keep himself alive. If Striker let himself die now, all that would mean nothing.
Striker hauled himself to his feet. Alarms were going off. People were shouting on the decks above and below him. In a matter of minutes, this place would flood with the remnants of DiVazzo’s soldiers.
He turned and left the room. He left Phantom also.
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