In the dimly lit operations room of the Citadel, Madam Cherry stands before a holographic display, her eyes narrowing as lines of intercepted code scroll rapidly. The AI decryption algorithms have finally unraveled a message intercepted from a clandestine network.
The contents are chilling: a hidden faction was orchestrating the smuggling of advanced androids into war-torn zones. These androids are not only being used in brutal underground fighting arenas but are also subject to other unspeakable activities, serving as tools for both entertainment and exploitation. The message details routes, drop points, and even hints at collusion with rogue elements within the AI Sovereign's ranks.
Madam Cherry's voice is cold and resolute as she summons her operatives. "Claire, Theresa, I have a mission for you. Reconnaissance and assistance. Infiltrate the designated coordinates, gather intel, and provide support where necessary. Proceed with caution; this operation is laced with shadows."
The twins, known for their agility and synchronicity, nod in unison, their expressions serious. "Understood, Master," they replied, already moving to prepare for deployment.
Moments later, an urgent SOS alert blares through the room. An allied force, engaged in a skirmish against the hidden faction's mercenaries, is requesting immediate backup.
Madam Cherry's gaze shifts to Lyra, who has just returned from her previous mission and is still nursing fresh wounds. Despite her condition, Lyra stands alert and composed, her eyes meeting Cherry's without hesitation.
"Lyra," Cherry begins, "I need you to assist our allies. Time is of the essence."
Before Lyra can respond, Claire interjects as she is just about to leave for their mission, concern evident in her voice. "Master, Lyra hasn't fully recovered. Sending her out now could compromise the mission and her health."
Theresa chimes in, "We can handle both tasks. Let Lyra rest."
Nina adds, "It's too soon. She needs time to heal."
Madam Cherry raised a hand, silencing the room. "I appreciate your concerns, but Lyra's knowledge of the terrain is crucial for this operation. The decision stands."
Back to the war zone
Lyra nods, her voice steady despite the pain. "I'm ready. I'll depart immediately."
As she turns to leave, the room falls into a heavy silence, the weight of unspoken worries pressing down on the twins and Nina. Still, Lyra goes without qualms.
The gates of the auxiliary base hiss open with hydraulic protest as the armored vehicle rolls to a stop. Dust swirls in the dry wind. Out steps Lyra—worn, bloodied, and thinner than she was a month ago. Her uniform is scorched at the edges, one sleeve torn, and her right leg limps slightly as she walks.
She doesn't wait for assistance. With a quiet nod to the security personnel, she makes her way into the base infirmary, each step steady but steep in exhaustion.
Inside, the scent of antiseptic and recycled air greets her. The medbay is quiet at this hour, a faint hum from the life support equipment being the only background noise.
The medic on duty, Dr. Ashwick, a grizzled man with streaks of gray in his close-cropped hair and a weather-beaten face, looks up from his desk. His sharp eyes widen as he stands up abruptly.
"Lyra."
"Here to get fixed again, Doc," she states simply, her voice raspy, dull from fatigue.
He quickly approaches, his steps brisk. "Damn it, sit. Now." He gestures to the medical bed, and Lyra obeys with the grace of a soldier and the weight of the wounded. The second she settles, he scans her body with a palm-sized bio-analyzer, its soft light casting a faint glow on her bruised skin.
"You're lucky—nothing vital this time," he mutters, examining a deep gash along her side. "But you've got shrapnel in your shoulder, a fractured rib, and minor internal bleeding. This is after a month out there?"
Lyra gives a tired half-smile. "Could've been worse."
Ashwick doesn't laugh. He turns to his cabinet, pulling out bandages, disinfectants, and a box of injectors. He pauses, fingers brushing over a vial of synthetic coagulants.
"You know this is the third time I've treated you in near-critical condition," he states quietly, not looking at her. "And each time, it takes stronger meds to stabilize you."
She glances at him, sweat sticking strands of hair to her face. "My body's adapting."
He turns to her then, eyes sharp with concern. "No, Lyra. Your body's resisting. The more you push yourself past your limits, the more you build tolerance to the meds that save your life. You might walk in here one day needing something we don't have the strength to give."
She doesn't flinch at his words. She holds his gaze, calm and resolute. "I'll keep that in mind. But as a combat agent, I face that risk every time I step out."
Alren lets out a sigh, pressing a patch over her side and fixing her with a tired stare. "You always say that. Doesn't mean I'll stop reminding you."
He hands her a thermal wrap. "Apply this to your ribs twice a day. Helps with the bone knitting."
Lyra takes it with a nod, her fingers briefly brushing his calloused ones. "Thanks, Doc."
He stands straight and crosses his arms. "If you so much as stumble on base, I want to hear about it. You need help, you come here. No arguments."
She smiles faintly. "Yes, sir."
"Now rest. You'll heal faster if you stop trying to act like you're made of reinforced alloy."
She exhales a short laugh and leans back into the pillow, eyelids growing heavy for the first time in weeks.
As Dr. Ashwick dims the lights and stepped into the hallway, he mutters to himself, "Damned reckless girl... One of these days, she might come back cold as steel..."
The night has long swallowed the cityscape in a hush of neon glows and mechanical hums, but in one of Cherry's safest known outposts—hidden between infrastructure designed to mislead digital scans—Timmy's instincts, honed from years of scraping by in lawless regions, tell him something was off.
It begins with a flicker in the surveillance loop. A half-second jump that can fool most, but not him. Then comes the delay in the prearranged check-in message from his assigned handlers. Cherry's network is efficient to the point of obsession—delays weren't just mistakes, they are signals. Timmy's hand is already reaching for the silent alarm tucked beneath the false floorboard when his backup comm crackles with interference. The momentary static fuzz is enough confirmation.
He doesn't panic.
Instead, Timmy moves precisely, packing his emergency data chip, burner drives, and a small case he'd kept locked ever since he acquired it from a trade that felt insignificant at the time—a deal done in exchange for decrypted data routes between two war zones. It has always nagged at him, though, the sealed folder labeled only: "Z.874 – PROPERTY: ORACLE LIAISON RETRIEVAL, CLASS-RED."
Curiosity strikes with unexpected timing.
He unlocks the folder.
What greets him isn't raw coordinates or typical war intel, but a list of identifiers, an operation manifest. A half-burnt, half-censored document that mentioned "Fum" not as a code name, but a body. A retrieval order marked posthumous, with a timestamp, backdated to just after Fum has reportedly gone rogue to retrieve his family. And then: a warehouse location. A transport line. A confidential shipment is buried under drone disposal protocols. He feels the blood drain from his face.
Then he hears them talking.
He presses himself against the cold wall of the safe house, listening to the muffled voices of his captors.
"The factions are already moving."
"It'll be over soon. No way the AI lets this body slip away."
"If anyone else gets that info first, we're screwed."
It's Fum.
The person Lyra tried so hard to retrieve only to slip away from her fingers because of him...
A fragment of her shattered past... that is still out there.
Timmy stares at the flickering light overhead, breath short.
If only he'd opened this sooner.
He quickly scans the documents onto a memory chip.
Timmy clenches his fists. No hesitation. If he waits for rescue, it might be too late.
He has to act now.
If Lyra has known… No. No time for that now.
Not when pressure plates on the fourth-floor corridor click faintly, telling him the enemy is only a few feet away.
They are getting close, closer than even Cherry or Edric has anticipated. Someone has distracted them both. Coordinated. Precise.
Timmy immediately activates Plan B.
He lights the place up. He burns the small case thoroughly as well.
Smoke bombs surge through vents, turning the safe house into a maze of choking fog. The walls, pre-rigged with distortion tech, begin to scramble thermal and audio readings. It won't hold them off forever, but it will buy him a fifteen-minute window.
He escapes through a drainage path, one he has laid out weeks prior, because Timmy's world never stays peaceful.
But the enemy isn't just reactive.
They are prepared.
Timmy barely gets three blocks out when a series of drones descend—not the loud, clunky surveillance types, but sleek recon hunters fitted with AI predictive routes.
Timmy curses under his breath. He runs.
They have come for him, not for his past crimes, not for the debts he owes, but for something far more dangerous: the knowledge he carries.
And for the first time in a long while, Timmy feels something more than caution or irritation. He feels urgency. A bone-deep need to get this to Lyra.
Because it isn't just about safety anymore.
It is about the truth.
The truth, that she deserves to have it.
"He's gone!"
Timmy ignores the shouts behind him. They are behind him. He can hear them shouting, scrambling to catch up.
Timmy doesn't stop running.
His lungs burn, his legs scream, but he pushes forward. The city blurs around him—twisting alleyways, flickering neon signs, the distant hum of drones above.
He needs to lose them.
He turns sharply into a narrow passage, vaulting over a crate and slamming his shoulder into a side door. It bursts open, and he stumbles into a dimly lit storage space.
Think, dammit, think.
The hum of an old delivery drone catches his attention. He turns just in time to see a worker loading packages onto a transport skiff.
An idea formed. A stupid, reckless idea.
Timmy dashes forward and grabs onto the skiff just as it starts to ascend. He pulls himself onto the platform, pressing flat against the cargo, hoping, praying—
The shouting grows distant. The skiff moves higher, sailing over the city streets.
He has done it.
But there is no time to celebrate.
Timmy's hands shake as he pulls out his battered communicator and punches in a secure frequency. Lyra needs to know. Now.
The moment the line connects, he speaks through ragged breaths.
"Listen to me. Your uncle's body. I know where it is."
The moment the message comes through, Lyra freezes.
Timmy's voice crackles over the communicator, raw and urgent, his breaths uneven as if he has been running for his life.
Her fingers tighten around the device. A sharp pulse of pain shoots through her side, but she barely feels it. She is still recovering—her body battered, her wounds barely stitched—but none of that matters now.
Fum. Her Uncle.
Without another word, she grabs her gear and rushes out.
Timmy sits hunched in the corner of an abandoned shop, his hands shaking as he clutches the communicator. He has made it this far, but he knows they are still hunting him. The moment he escapes, he has signed his own death warrant.
But it doesn't matter.
Lyra has saved him once at a great cost. This is the only way he can repay her.
A noise outside makes him flinch. Heavy boots against pavement.
"Shit..."
They are getting closer.
"Where are you?" Lyra's voice comes through the device, breathless and strained.
"Too close to them," Timmy hisses, checking the ammo in his stolen pistol. "I'll send the coordinates, but you need to hurry—"
Glass shatters somewhere nearby. Timmy's pulse spikes. He ducks lower, gripping his side where his ribs ache from his escape.
"Timmy—"
"Just get here!" he whispers harshly, cutting the call.
He can feel it.
They aren't going to let him leave this city alive.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
Dragged into the back room of a gutted warehouse, hands wrenched behind his back, blood pooling beneath his split lip. His body aches, but he has expected worse.
The man standing before him—one of the enforcers—tosses a sleek memory chip between his fingers.
"So this is it, huh?" The enforcer smirks. "The great Fum, reduced to a bargaining chip. And you thought you could run with it?"
Timmy doesn't flinch. He forces himself to smirk back, despite the coppery taste of blood in his mouth.
"You caught me, didn't you?" he rasps, voice perfectly steady. "Guess I'm not as fast as I used to be."
The enforcer scoffs, waving the chip toward his colleagues. "Let's see if the little rat was telling the truth."
Timmy's pulse remains steady. Not a flicker of doubt crosses his face.
He has spent years mastering the art of deception, slipping past checkpoints with contraband, out-talking people who want him dead. Speaking fluently with something under his tongue is a trick he has honed in his worst years.
The real memory chip—the one holding the location of Fum's body- presses against the bottom of his tongue, secure and hidden.
The one they hold?
Junk data. A worthless file.
The enforcer plugs the chip into a reader, impatiently scrolling through the information. A few seconds pass. Then his face twists in frustration.
"You bastard—"
Timmy doesn't get to hear the rest.
A hard kick slams into his ribs, sending him to the floor. He barely bit back a scream, the impact making his vision blur.
"He's useless now." Another enforcer sighs. "The boss won't care. Just leave him to rot."
They then stab Timmy's sides with a rusted knife with glee and watch as he squirms in pain.
Timmy barely feels them leave.
It takes everything he has to stay awake.
Pain spreads through his body like wildfire, but he grits his teeth and forces his shaking hand into his pocket.
The small vial is still there.
A cheap cocktail of painkillers and low-grade regenerative agents. Smuggled, old, barely effective—but it will buy him time.
With ragged breaths, he forces the liquid down. The burn of the drug hit instantly, numbing some of the agony that pulses through his ribs.
He isn't dead yet.
Not until he gets this chip to her.
_____________________________________________________
The air in the back alley is thick with smoke and the scent of damp concrete. Neon lights flicker overhead, casting uneven shadows against the walls. Lyra stands in front of a crumbling doorway, her breath steady despite the weight pressing on her chest.
Timmy sits slumped against the cold wall, his body worn down by time and consequence. His once sharp eyes are dull with exhaustion, his breathing shallow. Blood stains his shirt, soaking into the fabric like ink spreading on paper. He has been hunted down, and he knows his death is only a matter of time.
But he waited. Waited for her.
A weak smirk tugs at his lips as he lifts his gaze to her. "Guess you came after all," he rasps.
She kneels beside him, her fingers instinctively reaching to check his wounds. They are too deep. Too final.
"Who did this?" she asks, voice tight.
Timmy coughs, a bitter laugh escaping. "Doesn't matter. I've been running too long anyway." His hand trembles as he reaches into his coat, pulling out a small, bloodstained data chip. He presses it into her palm. "It's all here. The coordinates of the location of your uncle's body. Why they want his body. I should've told you sooner…" His voice fades, regret lining his expression.
Her grip on the chip tightens. She can feel the weight of it, the significance of what he is giving her.
Timmy studies her for a moment, then exhales softly. "You saved me before, you know? Told me to live." He swallows, struggling to keep his focus. "Guess this is me paying it back."
Lyra clenches her jaw, her heart hammering. "You didn't have to, and there might have been a different way for you to pay it back."
Timmy shakes his head. "Not for me. So go get your uncle back while you still have a shot." His breath hitches, his body slumps forward. "Go get him… take him home."
She catches him before he can fall completely, her hands gripping his shoulders. But there is nothing more she can do. His body has gone still, his final debt repaid.
She stays there for a moment, letting the silence settle, before finally walking away while carrying Timmy's lifeless body on her back. The data chip is safely tucked in her chest pocket.
Go get him...take him home...
Those words echo in Lyra's mind over and over again.
She has failed before.
She will not fail again.
_________________________________________________________________
The cold sterility of the modern morgue contrasts sharply with the warmth of the memories about to be preserved. Lyra walks through the quiet halls, her boots clicking against the polished floor as she pushes Timmy's body forward on the hovering gurney. The dim blue glow of the processing machines casts an eerie light over his still face, washing away the last traces of warmth that once were there.
She stops at the reception console, scanning her credentials. A quiet beep confirms her access, and a soft, synthetic voice greets her.
"Memory extraction and cremation request confirmed. Do you wish to oversee the process?"
"Yes," she confirms, voice steady, though her heart feels anything but.
The automated arms moves with clinical precision, carefully placing Timmy's body into the extraction chamber. Lyra watches through the reinforced glass as fine-tuned sensors scan his neural pathways, isolating the most potent, emotionally significant memories—his laughter, his struggles, his quiet moments of hope. She knows that what will remain will be fragments, glimpses of the man he has been, but it is better than nothing.
As the machine processes the data, she looks down at the small, holographic disc now resting in her hand. A simple object, yet within it lay Timmy's final echoes—his dreams, his regrets, and the moment he chose to repay his debt.
The chamber behind the glass glows brighter for a moment before dimming. The cremation process has begun. Soon, Timmy will be reduced to ash, his body scattered like so many others who has come and gone in this fractured world.
Lyra closes her eyes, allowing herself a single breath of stillness before turning away. She pulls out a secure delivery slip, seals the holographic disc inside, and addresses it to Eris Lorne.
She taps out a short message on the terminal:
"His story deserves to be remembered like Rourke."
With that, she authorizes the delivery, watching as the mechanical arms whisk the package away for transport. There is no time for goodbyes.
She has done what she can for Timmy.
Now, it is time to reclaim her uncle's body alone.
_____________________________________________________
At Cherry's secure base, the storm has already broken.
The moment Cherry gets the alert about the breach confirmed, site compromised, vital target presumed lost, she crushes the stylus in her hand. It shatters across the old wood floor, blood trickling across scattered files.
Even Cherry, ever composed, ever in control, curses.
She rushes toward her terminal, fingers flying. But it is too late. Timmy's tracker is gone. The comms are scrambled. By the time the morgue contacts her via private line, Timmy's remains have been cremated. The protocol is followed flawlessly. The dead were honored.
But Cherry's expression darkens.
A direct call buzzes into her interface. Edric.
"Aunt, I just got word. The break-in at Timmy's safe house—it was a coordinated infiltration. I've tracked some leads, but—"
"He's gone," Cherry declares quietly, cutting him off.
Edric's voice falters. "What?"
"Timmy. Dead. Cremated. Lyra already handled it," Cherry continues, her voice even but steel with something far sharper beneath. "He gave her something before he died. A memory chip. We don't know everything yet. But I'll send you the preliminary report as soon as I contact Lyra and hear about what happened. I'll also contact the Corps' elites ASAP."
A cold silence pulses between them.
Edric finally asks, lower now, "So where is Lyra?"
__________________________________________________
Lyra doesn't come back.
Cherry gets a message from her.
There was no greeting. Just a data packet and a brief note:
"This was entrusted to me. I've made a secure copy and sent it to you. Please don't follow. I have to do this myself."
— L
Madam Cherry curses. It turns out the information Timmy gives Lyra is about Fum. The location of his dead body, to be exact.
No wonder Timmy risked his life to give the info to Lyra.
But Madam Cherry already discovered its location a while back.
Cherry sits at her desk, the dim glow of the holographic displays casting sharp angles across her face. Multiple screens flicker before her—maps, data streams, intercepted communications—all converging on one inevitable point.
She has it.
The who, the where, the when.
After weeks of painstaking effort, pulling strings in places even she has hesitated to touch, she finally pieced together the full picture. Where the factions have set their battleground. The fight for Fum's body will erupt within the week.
Her fingers fly across the interface, finalizing her strategy. The extraction has to be flawless. No missteps, no oversights. Lyra will reclaim her uncle's body—but only under conditions Cherry deems survivable. She won't let her go in alone.
"Send word to Claire and Theresa," Cherry orders one of her aides, her voice sharp and precise. "We'll move under the cover of their chaos. A strike team for suppression, secondary team for retrieval. I want every route monitored, every exit accounted for. We get in, we get out, no unnecessary heroics."
Her plan was airtight.
Her people were prepped.
But then—
The incident with Timmy happens, and now…
A sharp beep interrupts her, a priority alert flashing across the console. One of her scouts has flagged something.
Cherry's stomach twists even before she opens it.
The message is brief.
[SUBJECT: Lyra]
Status: Left alone. Destination—classified. Already en route.]
Cherry's hand clenches into a fist. She takes a deep breath and releases it.
A flicker of movement drew her eye—Claire and Theressa standing by the doorway, their expression already dark with realization.
"Stupid girl," Theressa swears.
"She left alone," Claire states, voice eerily calm.
"Hastily. Without preparation." Cherry exhales through her nose, rage simmering just beneath her measured tone. "The stubborn fool."
Claire remains silent.
Theresa mumbles about Lyra being too emotional.
Cherry's mind races. She can still go after her, but the window is closing fast.
She looks back at her screens. All of this, this meticulous planning, is for Lyra's safety. But now, Lyra has thrown herself into the lion's den, without waiting for support.
And Cherry—
Cherry is stuck.
Too many critical wheels are in motion. If she abandons them now, it won't just be Lyra in danger. The entire operation can collapse.
"Damn it."
For the first time in years, Cherry feels utterly, infuriatingly helpless.
She takes a deep breath, forcing down the rage clawing at her chest.
Then another sharp beep cuts through Cherry's command, slicing into the tense air like a blade.
Another priority alert.
Cherry's gut clenches. There is only one reason for a second high-level notification in such rapid succession.
Her fingers hesitate over the console before she opens the message.
[SUBJECT: Brother - STATUS: DECEASED]
Cherry freezes.
The words blur for a second as if her mind refuses to comprehend them. She forces herself to keep reading.
[DETAILS: Ambushed. Faction involvement suspected. Fatal wounds sustained. Deceased upon retrieval.]
She feels the cold steel of reality settle over her like ice in her veins.
Her brother.
The head of the Solaire Family, the powerful family that exiled her, scorned her and ridiculed her and yet her brother never wavered in his support, adoration, and love for her.
The one person who, despite everything, has always cheered for her from afar.
Now, he's dead.
A breath she doesn't realize she is holding escapes shakily.
This isn't just another complication. This is a storm crashing into an already raging battlefield. The power vacuum will send shockwaves through the factions, shifting alliances, igniting rivalries, and making an already unstable situation spiral further out of control.
And Lyra—
Lyra has run straight into the chaos.
Cherry presses her palm against the console, grounding herself. She can't afford to grieve. Not yet. Not now.
"New orders." Her voice is firm, but there is an almost imperceptible tremor beneath it. "Strike team is to prioritize gathering intelligence on my brother's death. I want full surveillance. Who, why, where, and what the bastards who did this plan next."
She turns to Claire, her eyes colder than before.
"You and Theresa—go after Lyra."
"Understood."
Cherry turns back to her screens, jaw tightening as she pushes the grief down into the pit of her stomach. She can deal with it later.
For now—
For now, there are wars to fight.