The underworld was on edge.
DreamCorp troops marched through the dim-lit streets of Zenith-5's criminal sector, their presence a stark contrast to the lawless nature of the district. Their heavy boots echoed against the neon-drenched pavement, an oppressive reminder that they were here to assert dominance. The gangs that called this place home watched from the shadows, their fingers twitching over triggers, their eyes burning with barely restrained hostility.
Sol stood at a safe distance, his expression unreadable as he observed the escalating tension. He had set the stage for chaos, but it wasn't time yet. He needed more of the underworld's muscle to rally before he could truly let things spiral out of control. As he waited, he checked his planned escape routes, ensuring no unwanted eyes were tracking his movements. He wouldn't allow himself to make the same mistakes as before.
The minutes stretched into hours, and DreamCorp's search yielded nothing. Frustration simmered beneath their helmets. They had been lured into enemy territory with no results. The gangsters, emboldened by their growing numbers, began to scoff at them openly, throwing taunts and glares. It was only a matter of time before the situation snapped.
Sol decided it was time.
With a subtle wave of his hand, his illusions spread like ripples through a pond. Among the gathered gangsters, multiple versions of himself seamlessly blended in, each one standing at different angles, never too obvious. It didn't take long before one of the soldiers spotted him—or at least, the illusion of him.
"Target sighted," the soldier reported, voice sharp through the comms.
The captain's gaze locked onto the illusion of Sol. For a brief moment, their eyes met—just as Sol had planned. The illusion turned sharply and bolted into the mass of gangsters.
"He's making a run for it!" a soldier shouted.
DreamCorp troops instinctively moved to pursue, but the gangsters weren't having it. A wall of bodies stepped into their path, stopping them cold.
"Move," one of the soldiers barked, hands tightening around his weapon.
The gangster before him smirked, exhaling a trail of smoke. "Make us."
The tension was suffocating. Hands hovered over holsters, energy crackled between fingertips. The air itself felt electric, as if one wrong move would send the whole situation spiraling into madness.
Then it happened.
A sudden explosion erupted from the side alley, a controlled detonation—calculated, harmless in terms of casualties, but its effect was instant. The shockwave rattled the street, debris flying into the air. It was all the spark needed.
The fragile peace shattered.
Gunfire erupted like a thunderstorm, red and blue streaks of plasma cutting through the air. Some gangsters opened fire immediately, taking down the nearest soldiers, while others lunged forward, blades and fists tearing into the disciplined ranks of DreamCorp. The troops retaliated without hesitation, their training kicking in as they fired into the chaos.
Abilities flared to life. A gangster with a pyrokinetic affinity hurled waves of searing fire toward a line of DreamCorp enforcers, forcing them to scatter. One of the soldiers countered with an energy shield, redirecting the flames upward, only for a second explosion to send him crashing against a storefront. More gangsters rushed forward, their augmentations enhancing their speed, strength, and lethality.
A DreamCorp soldier was thrown backward as a telekinetic slammed him against a nearby wall, his rifle clattering to the ground. Another soldier retaliated, raising his pulse rifle and unloading into the telekinetic's chest, sending them sprawling lifelessly to the pavement.
Screams, curses, the hum of energy weapons—chaos engulfed the district in a warzone of neon and blood.
Sol remained unseen in the distance, watching as the fire he had set burned brightly. This was exactly what he wanted. But for the first time in a long while, a flicker of doubt crept into his mind. Was he pushing this too far? Was there another way? The thought gnawed at him, a whisper in the back of his mind, urging him to reconsider.
He clenched his fists. No. This universe wasn't built for softness. He had already learned that the hard way. Hesitation meant weakness, and weakness meant death. DreamCorp had already taken too much from him. If he wanted to survive—if he wanted to be free—then he had to be willing to get his hands dirty.
The doubt was discarded, cast into the abyss where softer thoughts went to die. His eyes hardened. Now, DreamCorp had no choice but to fight for survival, not just against him, but against an entire sector that wanted them gone.
And this was only the beginning.
The battle spread like wildfire. The underworld, once filled with tension, had now fully erupted into chaos. DreamCorp troops fought with military precision, but the sheer unpredictability of the gangsters made it nearly impossible to establish control. Each alleyway became a battlefield, each building a stronghold for whichever side took hold of it first.
A squad of DreamCorp enforcers attempted to push forward, their formations tight and disciplined. A hulking gang enforcer, his arms laced with cybernetic enhancements, bulldozed into them, smashing one soldier through a metal barricade as energy rounds sparked against his reinforced skin. Another soldier, trying to regroup, was met with a devastating kinetic blast that sent him sprawling.
Above the battlefield, high-tech drones hovered, scanning for hostiles and feeding tactical data to the DreamCorp command center. However, Sol had accounted for them. Several of his EMP charges detonated simultaneously, sending the drones crashing into the wreckage below, cutting off critical visual intel from the higher-ups.
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**DreamCorp War Room**
The headquarters aboard Zenith-5's upper levels was in an uproar. Holographic displays showed multiple districts descending into anarchy, red blips flashing on every screen as distress signals flooded in. Officers and strategists shouted over each other, scrambling to make sense of the disaster unfolding below.
The lead strategist slammed his fist onto the table. "What the hell happened?! Who authorized full combat engagement?! We were supposed to keep this contained!"
One of the security officers, his face pale with sweat, stammered, "We didn't fire first, sir! It was a setup. Someone lured our forces into the underworld and—"
"That 'someone' was Sol." The man who had previously spoken with Sol gritted his teeth, watching the chaos unfold on the screens. "He's been leading us into a no-win scenario since the moment we set foot down there. This isn't just random violence—it's a calculated play."
"Then why the hell are we still fighting?" Another executive snapped. "Pull our men out before this gets any worse."
"We can't," the strategist growled. "The gangs aren't just fighting us now. They think we came down here to wipe them out. If we pull back, they'll chase us up into the central levels and turn this into an all-out war with the upper districts. We either win this now, or we lose everything."
Meanwhile, Sol walked calmly toward the ship's docking area, his job in the underworld complete. The chaos he had orchestrated raged on behind him, but his face was devoid of satisfaction or anger—only cold calculation. He disappeared into the shadows as the battle behind him intensified.
By the time the night gave way to morning, DreamCorp's elite response team had arrived, swiftly turning the tide of battle. However, the reinforcements only pushed the gangs to rally their strongest fighters, creating a new deadlock. The underworld had transformed into an all-out warzone, and some of the fighting had even spilled into the central city.
Yet DreamCorp had completely lost track of Sol.
At the docking bay, DreamCorp troops stood guard, scanning every checkpoint, determined to catch him before the ship departed. But it was useless. With a simple illusion, Sol passed through the checkpoint undetected, fading into the crowd as the city burned behind him.