TW: violence

05 • straight up* •

Industrial District, Third Zone — Sector 4
26 Days Until Zero Hour

She thought getting kidnapped by the Bureau and forced into cooperation was weird. Then came assimilation. And that? That was even weirder.

First of all, their cheerful “mentor” had enthusiastically explained that not everyone would make it into Ace Busterrix’s crew. There were five open spots. Ten of them total. Meaning half were going home—or wherever discarded criminals go.

Secondly, to determine who made the cut, Urs declared they’d be taking part in a quick test. Classic scavenger hunt nonsense: they’d be dropped into an unfamiliar sector and sent off to find five random “items” hidden within a five-kilometer radius.

But the strangest part wasn’t being shoved out the door mid-nap to go chase after mystery objects like it was some kind of dystopian summer camp. No—the truly weird part was seeing a former partner pop up on the opposite (albeit temporarily) side of the war.

She hadn’t recognized him at first. Not until the blond guy from Busterrix’s crew spoke directly to her, and she caught that crooked smirk on his equally crooked face.

Damien “Urs” Deymour. The guy she’d worked with for months robbing the wealthier neighborhoods of Brightmoore. 

Urs Deymour—the guy who, a few years ago, had looked like a greasy-haired marshmallow with a beer gut.

Urs Deymour—the guy she’d totally sold out to the cops while making off with all the loot.

She’d figured he’d ended up in prison for both his thefts and his little drug side hustle. Apparently not. Instead, he was strutting around free as a bird, rolling with one of the island’s most dangerous criminals—and worse, he was now technically her superior.

And she’d bet anything he wanted payback.

Which did not help her mental state as she combed alleys and abandoned buildings looking for her assigned “item.” They had one hour to find it and return to HQ. No item? No chance of making the crew.

“I’m so screwed… so screwed…” she muttered under her breath as she climbed the fire escape to one of the smaller rooftops.

How screwed she was depended on whether Urs still held a grudge. And if he didn’t, he was practically a saint. Because if she had been the one left locked in a room while cops came knocking—and the person who bailed had taken all the loot? Yeah. She’d be furious.

No doubt Urs was just smiling sweetly while plotting to turn her life into hell—whether she passed this test or not.

She finally reached the flat roof, where she had a solid view of the whole sector. Dusk was falling. Half the time was gone. And she still had no clue where her target was. It could be anywhere. Worse, none of them had been told what the item was. A ball? A tampon? A book?

She groaned and rubbed the back of her neck.

Why hadn’t she recognized Deymour in the briefing files? Simple—he didn’t look like Damien Deymour anymore. Gone were the greasy short hair and the hamster cheeks. The guy had glowed up hard. And the file hadn’t said “Urs” at all. It was under Claus Dundershtiz—yet another alias, since he changed them like socks. For all she knew, even the name she’d known him by was fake. The file had only described him as “petty thief, former drug dealer, previously convicted.” No chance she’d have connected that to the rebranded bastard in the ponytail.

So why the hell hadn’t all-knowing Callean mentioned anything? She was almost sure he knew about her past with Urs—even if she hadn’t remembered it until now. And if he did, why the hell would he pair them on the same mission? This was just another ticking time bomb. First she had to save the kid of a family she once tried to rob, and now she was supposed to work alongside a guy she’d served up to the cops on a silver platter?

Hello, logic? Are you up there? Or did you jump off this roof?

She was tempted to follow it.

She had no idea what to do. The only thing stopping her from bailing right now was Esth...

Her chaotic train of thought screeched to a halt when a loud crash echoed from the alley below. She peered over the edge and spotted one of the other contestants pulling himself up after spectacularly wiping out on a trash bin. He looked around quickly, as if making sure no one had witnessed his glorious fail, then picked up the pace, his gaze locked on some unseen target.

Kelly narrowed her eyes. He looked like someone who knew where he was going. Or maybe he just had a really strong bladder and was on a mission. She decided to take the risk. She didn’t have a better plan anyway.

Keeping her distance, she followed him from rooftop to rooftop, gracefully leaping over two-meter gaps between buildings. The guy never noticed her—just kept power-walking ahead like he had somewhere very specific to be. After weaving through a maze of alleys, he finally stopped in a dead-end street. A couple of crates and trash bins littered the area.

He paused. Hesitated. That confidence? Gone. Kelly stood at the rooftop’s edge, watching him freeze. So much for thinking he knew something. Looks like she’d bet on the wrong idiot.

Just as she was about to give up and head in a different direction, the man looked around nervously and pulled a small box from under his jacket. Then he bent down and picked up a pistol tied with a red string—the symbol Urs had told them to watch for.

Kelly felt a jolt of adrenaline hit her brain. Short Legs had found one of the items!

Her mind kicked into overdrive. She had no idea how many items were still up for grabs—it might’ve been the last one. She couldn’t afford to assume otherwise and just keep looking. This was her shot. The item was right there—within reach. Now all she had to do was... steal it.

She started thinking through a strategy, but at that exact moment, the man looked up—as if sensing her—and their eyes locked. They stared at each other for a second. Then he bolted.

“Goddammit!” she hissed and launched herself after him.

The guy zigzagged through the alleyways, clearly trying to shake her off. From the rooftops, Kelly had a perfect view of his route, but to catch him, she’d have to get down to ground level. She found a fire escape and slid down, landing just two meters behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder—and nearly crashed into yet another trash bin. Seriously, the guy had a thing for those. He kicked one over behind him, but Kelly leapt over it with ease.

He’d started with a head start, but his stubby legs and total lack of stamina betrayed him fast. Kelly, well-trained in the fine art of chasing idiots, closed the gap with little effort. When she was within arm’s reach, she grabbed his jacket and yanked him backward.

The man went flying, hit the ground hard, and rolled across the dirty pavement. The box slipped from his hand and landed between them.

They stared each other down, tension thick in the air—then both lunged at the same time.

He got to the box first. But before he could even get a good grip, Kelly smacked it out of his hands and landed a solid kick to his chest, sending him sprawling. Without hesitation, she snatched up the item and turned—just in time to dodge a punch flying at her face.

“Seriously? Hitting a woman?” she snapped, genuinely offended.

He didn’t answer. He just lunged at her in fury, tackled her around the waist, and slammed her to the ground. The metal box skidded away, landing in a pile of trash.

He pinned her down and pulled back for another punch—then hesitated, the realization flickering across his face. He was about to hit a girl.

And that split-second of doubt was all she needed. With no hesitation, Kelly drove her knee into his groin, then followed up with a punch straight to the stomach. He groaned in pain, and she shoved him off with all her strength. She scrambled toward the pile of trash where the box had landed. She dug it out, turning it over to check if it was the right item. She didn’t even get the chance to breathe.

Pain exploded across her back as something heavy slammed into her. She curled up with a cry, arms clutching her torso. An iron bar clattered beside her—it was what he’d hit her with. Through the blur of pain, she saw the guy hobble over, grab the box without even checking it, and start limping away.

“Asshole…” she groaned, dragging herself into a half-sitting position. The impact had lit her entire spine on fire, and any attempt to stand ended in failure. She slumped back to the pavement, breathing hard.

“I am so screwed.”

*straight up - a bet placed directly on one number, full risk