[BARON VARN -- POV]
Fear has a taste—copper mixed with stomach acid and the overwhelming certainty that everything you've built is ash.
I'd been sitting in this goddamn cell for seventy-two hours, shackled like livestock, watching my own flesh dissolve in slow motion. The plague I'd cultivated, perfected, weaponized against countless enemies—it was devouring me now. Poetic justice, some might say. I called it cosmic mockery.
Every nerve ending screamed. Every breath felt like inhaling broken glass dipped in acid. The suppression cuffs around my wrists prevented me from using my traits to accelerate the decay, to end this misery quickly. Scourge's people knew their craft—keep the prisoner alive, conscious, suffering.
The cell was silent except for my ragged breathing and the distant hum of the fortress generators. The overhead light buzzed faintly, casting shadows that danced like ghosts on the acid-scarred floor. I'd given up on counting the cracks in the opposite wall; there were too many, and they seemed to shift when I wasn't looking directly at them. Or maybe that was the delirium setting in, the rot eating away at my synapses as much as my skin.
That's when I felt it.
Not a sound. Not a footstep. Just the air thickening, shadows coiling in the corners where the light couldn't quite chase them away. My remaining eye—milky now, half-blind from the plague's advance—darted to the door. Locked, as it should be. But the feeling persisted, that prickling certainty that something had slipped in with the darkness itself.
I shifted against the chains, the metal biting into raw flesh. "Who's there?" The words came out wet, broken, less like a demand and more like a plea. No answer came. Just that weight, pressing in from all sides, watching, waiting.
My chains rattled as I tried to sit straighter, the sound too loud in the sudden silence. The light flickered once, twice, and in that stutter, I saw the shadow stretch. Not from me, not from the door—something else, coiling low and patient, like a panther that had been stalking me for hours, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
My heart hammered. This wasn't right. Containment cells didn't have shadows that moved on their own. Or did they? The undercity had taught me that some things defied reason, but this... this was personal. This was the him, Kaiser.
The realization hit like a fresh wave of infection, crawling up my spine. I strained against the cuffs, my rotted stump of an arm aching as if the void was laughing at my futility. "Show yourself!" I rasped, but the darkness swallowed it, turning my defiance into a whisper.
Nothing.
Then the voice, from the deepest shadow where the light bulb's edge barely touched: "You know, I've been sitting here for like ten minutes, and you didn't even notice. That's either really impressive stealth on my part, or you're way more oblivious than a kingpin should be. I'm leaning toward option B."
The shadow didn't just step out—it unfolded, Kaiser emerging from the gloom as if the darkness had been holding its breath and decided to exhale him into existence. Coat billowing like wings of night, eyes glinting with something between amusement and hunger, he moved with the lazy confidence of a predator who knew the kill was already won. His boots didn't make a sound on the concrete, as if the floor itself feared disturbing his entry.
He was already there before I could process it—chair manifesting in his hand like it had always been, positioned across from me with the ease of someone rearranging furniture in their own home. He sat backward on it, arms draped over the backrest, head cocked like I was the punchline to a joke I hadn't heard yet.
"Baron," he said, voice light and casual, as if we'd been interrupted mid-conversation. "You look like hell. Love what you've done with the whole 'living corpse' aesthetic. Real on-trend for a guy in your position."
My chains jerked as I strained, the cuffs burning against raw skin. "Kaiser... how?" The word tasted like defeat.
"How? Oh, come on, Baron. Doors are for amateurs. I prefer the classic shadow-stalk entry. Plus, watching you squirm in silence is better than any door hiss. Mood lighting's on point down here, too."
He grinned, that infuriatingly boyish smile that didn't match the void in his eyes. The light caught the edge of his coat, shadows clinging to it like they recognized their own. I felt it building, that pressure behind my eyes—the plague reacting to the anomaly standing five feet from my cell's heart.
"So," he continued, all easy charm, "let's chat. No rush. You've got nowhere to be, and I've got all the time in the world. Well, your world anyway."
[KAISER -- POV]
Varn was already cracking. Good. I'd waited in the shadows long enough to let the anticipation do the work—let him feel the unknown before giving him the nightmare with a face. The cell reeked of decay and despair, the kind of stench that stuck to your soul more than your shoes. But I wasn't here for the ambiance. I was here for answers. The kind that would light the fuse on the pyramid's downfall.
I leaned forward, letting the chair creak under me, keeping the grin light to keep him off-balance. "Question one," I said, holding up a finger like we were discussing lunch. "And this is important, so really think about your answer: if you could be any type of sandwich, what would you be and why?"
He blinked, the chains rattling with a mix of confusion and fear. "What the hell are you on about?"
"Kidding! Jesus, Baron, lighten up." I waved it off with a laugh, the sound too loud in the confined space. "Real question: the kingpin network. The summit. When's the next one? And don't give me the tourist version—I want the VIP details, because I'm RSVP-ing."
The chains clinked as Varn shifted, the rot on his cheek bubbling slightly. "Two... two months. The Manhattan Accord. The top five attend in person. It's the one time we all meet face-to-face. No proxies, no holo-projections. Just the strongest, discussing territory, resources, maintaining balance."
"Manhattan Accord," I repeated, committing it to memory. The name evoked those old-world holovids—cities of steel and ambition reduced to rubble, but names like that stuck, ghosts of the old before turning to dust. "Cute. Sounds like a treaty from the vids—back when wars had names worth remembering. And where's this little gathering happening? Some fancy underground casino, or back to the usual suspects' clubhouse?"
Varn's breath came in ragged bursts, but he answered. "The Manhattan Vault. No Man's Land, beneath the old Empire State Building ruins. Neutral ground—the ancient financial vaults buried under fifty meters of collapsed megatowers. Reinforced concrete, anti-trait wards etched into every surface. No weapons, no amplifiers. Just power plays and veiled threats. The accord has rules. Even the strongest follow them. Or so they think."
"Manhattan Vault," I repeated, the name settling like a loaded gun in my mind. Names from the old wars, buried under the new ones, making the undercity a graveyard of history's what-ifs. "No Man's Land. No trait amplification. Top five kingpins in one spot, and two months to get ready. Sounds like the perfect stage for someone looking to crash it properly."
Varn's remaining eye narrowed, the green pus leaking from a crack in his forehead as his chains rattled louder. "You're bluffing. You think the accord is your invitation? You're nothing but an anomaly to them. Walk into the vault and you're a target for the top five—and whatever hell they brought with them."
I chuckled, the sound low and genuine, echoing in the sterile cell. "Target? Baron, I am the target practice they're all avoiding. But let's get practical. Those four empty kingpin zones floating around the ruins? Consider them claimed. By the time that accord rolls around, those banners will fly mine. And when I stride into that vault with four new territories under my rule, those five kings will look at me and know—their precious balance just found its fulcrum."
Varn's laugh was a wet hack, his chains rattling with the effort. "Four? In two months? You can't even comprehend what you're up against. The wards won't let you—"
"The wards," I said, leaning in close enough that my shadow merged with his. "The wards that don't know what Convergence can do. Two months is a long time in the undercity. Long enough for me to claim what's empty and make it mine."
His chains rattled louder, his voice rising in pitch. "You're bluffing."
"Am I?" I straightened, letting a sliver of Convergence flicker around my fingers—a whisper of black energy, shadows coiling like living smoke. "Your empire was a long time in building. Took me six hours to turn it to dust. What do you think two months looks like for a man with nothing to lose and four territories to claim?"
The chair creaked as I shifted, my smile gone now, replaced by something sharper. "Imagine the look on their faces when I arrive. Four regions under my banner. Four new kingpins born from their dead brothers' graves. The table won't just seat five—I'll drag up a sixth chair and make it fit."
Varn's remaining eye widened. "The Vault has wards. Security. They—"
"They'll have the best seats in the house," I finished. "And when they see what I've built, what I've become, they won't be laughing. They'll be wondering how they ever missed me coming."
I let the silence stretch, let the words hang like the blade before it falls. Varn's face was a mask of horror, the rot on his cheek bubbling slightly as if even his body knew the end was near.
But he wasn't breaking. Not yet. The defiance was still there, that stubborn core that all kingpins had, forged in the fires that birthed them. Fine. Time to pry it open.
"Before you go," Varn rasped, his voice a mix of defiance and desperation, "you should know who you're talking to. You're not the only one who's seen the bottom of the pyramid. You think you're the monster here? You think this is just about breaking me?"
I paused, the grin fading into something more curious. He wanted to talk? Good. Sometimes the most useful answers came when the prisoner thought they had the upper hand.
"Talk, Baron," I said, settling back into the chair. "Enlighten me. What's the great Baron Varn's origin story? Because I know the version where you're the big bad plague king, but you? You don't strike me as the type born with a silver spoon in your mouth. What's the truth? The real one? Tell me about Patrick."
Varn's eye widened, the name hitting him like a fresh cut. His chains went slack, then taut, as if the word had unlocked something long buried. "How... how do you know that name?"
I leaned in, keeping the tone light, but my eyes locked on his. "I've got my sources. And right now, Patrick, you're going to tell me the rest. All of it. The good, the bad, and the ugly. Because I'm starting to think this conversation needs context."
The man's breath hitched, his rotted fingers twitching as if to deny it, but the name had done its work. The defiance cracked, and something else spilled out—resignation, memory, the ghost of who he'd been.
"Patrick," Varn whispered, the name tasting like dust on his tongue. "That was me. Before. Before the war turned everything to shit. I ran an orphanage in the outer districts—nothing fancy, just a place for the kids the bombs left behind. We had rules. Three squares, no beatings unless you had it coming from the world outside, and we protected our own. The real ones. The ones who didn't have anyone else."
I nodded, keeping the grin casual, but inside, the pieces were falling into place. "An orphanage. Cute. Very Robin Hood of you. So what happened? Bad neighborhood?"
Varn's laugh was a wet, hollow thing. "The war happened. The Valmont purges. Raiders came through the outer districts like wolves after a lamb. My kids... they didn't stand a chance. I tried to hold them off, but it was me against twenty, armed to the teeth. They didn't just kill them. They butchered them. Dragged the bodies into the courtyard and fed them to their mutant hounds right there, in front of me. The screams... God, the screams. I was the last one left, chained in the corner while they laughed about how even orphans weren't worth the bullets. They left me for dead in the aftermath—in an acid chamber, one of those old-world interrogations turned execution. Poured in the chemicals, watched me melt. That's when it happened."
The man's voice broke, the rot in his throat bubbling as he relived it. "The pain... it woke something. Or maybe it broke something and something else filled the gap. The acid didn't just burn—it changed me. I felt the plague birth inside, twisting with the pain, turning their weapon against them. I dissolved the locks, the walls, the raiders themselves. Infected them. Watched them twist and scream and turn on each other. By the time the chamber was quiet, there were no raiders left. Just me, standing in a pool of what used to be people, the plague singing in my blood like it had always been waiting for its cue."
I let the silence settle, letting him see me see him—the man who started with good intentions and ended up rotting in the cell he deserved. "So the Nameless King found you like that. What did he see? A useful tool? Or a mirror?"
Varn's eye was distant, lost in the memory. "A tool. He was there at the ruins when I stumbled out. Offered me power. A place at the table. Said I had a gift for survival. The accord, the network, the labs—they were his gift. But the nightmares? The experiments? That was me. He gave me the canvas, I painted the picture. The kids... they reminded me of mine. The power. The potential. But mine were gone, and these... these were replacements. Resources. I told myself it was for the greater good. For order. But it was revenge. Always revenge."
The words hung, the confession spilling out like the rot from his skin. I stood, the chair creak echoing, and paced a slow circle around him. The power play was done. The information was mine. But the rage? That was just waking up.
"Almost admirable," I said, voice casual but the tone turning. "From orphanage guardian to child-butcher. The war took everything from you, so you took everything from them. Balanced, in a twisted way. But let's get to the end of the story. The part where you didn't just let the labs happen—you chose them. You chose to feed kids to your plague to see what stuck. You chose to watch."
Varn's head snapped up, the confession turning to panic. "I didn't have a choice! The council—"
"You chose," I said, stopping behind him, my voice dropping the last shred of humor. "And now I choose for you."
The void came then—Convergence opening like a black maw, the shadows coiling into a storm. But before it hit, as Varn's defiance broke into whimpering, I paused.
"One more thing, Baron," I said, the words as cold as the darkness leaking from my skin. "That kid? Tara? The one who fought you three days ago in the ruins? She was supposed to be one of your cargo. When I found her, she was half-dead from your first hunt. Seeing her reminded me why I started all of this. Why i need to go against the system."
Varn's scream started low, a wail that climbed into the unknown, and I left him to it, the door sealing behind me with the finality of a tomb.
[SCOURGE -- POV]
The scream ripped through the fortress like a chainsaw through silk. It started low, built to a shriek that made the walls hum in sympathy, and then it stayed, echoing through vents and corridors like it had been waiting for this moment.
I was mid-sentence, briefing the war council, when it hit. The holo-map glitched, the whiskey in my glass rippled, and for a second, the room went still. The lieutenants exchanged glances, their hardened faces paling as the sound clawed up from the depths.
"What the fuck?" one of them muttered, hand on his weapon like that would help against whatever was down there.
"Kaiser," I said simply, swirling my drink.
The scream twisted, climbing octaves, becoming something that rattled the tactical feeds and made the air pressure shift. It wasn't just noise; it was a force, carrying the weight of broken memories and unspoken horrors.
Karin's screens lit up, algorithms failing to parse it. "Neural feedback through the vents. Extreme trauma signature. Varn's bio-signs are... gone. Kaiser triggered this. No physical damage, just—"
"Justice," I finished, raising my glass to the ceiling. "The kind that lingers."
The scream peaked, then broke into sobs that echoed like ghosts.
The room breathed again, but the silence was worse.
[JERRY -- POV]
The workshop was a sanctuary of controlled chaos—tools organized in neat rows, plasma coils humming on low power, the comforting smell of solder mixing with the faint ozone of high-tech maintenance. Kane was across the room, methodically cleaning a set of vibro-blades that had seen better days, his massive form a steady anchor in the chaos of Scourge's fortress.
The scream cut through it like a vibro-blade through cheap synth-leather.
It started low, a rumble that made the tools rattle on the shelves. Then it climbed, building into a wail that made my cybernetic eyes flicker with interference, the flask in my hand vibrate against my palm. Kane paused, his blade still mid-motion, his eyes narrowing as the sound snaked up through the ventilation shafts.
"Jesus, Jerry," Kane said, voice low and rough. "What, they plug Varn into a bad voltage line or something?"
I leaned against the workbench, flask steady despite the vibration in the air. "Nah. That's Kaiser. Doing that thing he does where he breaks minds instead of bones. Cleaner, he calls it. Cleaner my ass."
The scream warped again, hitting frequencies that made the AI voices in the walls hesitate. Clara's voice chimed in from the central system, synthetic calm overlaying the chaos. "Audio analysis exceeding normal parameters. Estimated damage to subject: severe psychological trauma. Duration: approximately forty-five seconds and counting."
"Understatement of the century," I muttered, raising my flask. "To mind-breaking Tuesdays."
Kane grunted, setting down his blade with deliberate care. "To the anomaly."
We knocked flask against fist, the impact solid as it was. "To the anomaly," I agreed.
The scream finally petered out into broken whimpering, but the echoes lingered in the walls, in the floor, in the very air.
"So," I asked, setting the flask down and wiping my hand on my rag. "What's his deal? He goes down for intel, comes back with Varn screaming like he's in a horror vid. What's he after?"
Kane's expression was unreadable as ever—stone carved from mountain, with eyes that had seen the same void Kaiser had. "Information. Always information. But this? This sounds personal."
"Personal, huh? Like, 'hurt my kid and die screaming' personal?"
"Like that."
We went back to work, the hum of the generators covering Varn's distant sobs. But the tools kept shaking, just a little.
[TARA -- POV]
The scream came through the vents like a monster under the bed, but bigger. Louder. The kind that made Clara's voice in my head go quiet for a second, like even she was surprised.
I was in the med bay, practicing with the training dummy Dr. Molloy had set up—basic strikes, nothing big, just to keep my muscles remembering what to do. My flames flickered in my hands, small and controlled, but the scream made them jump, like they heard it too.
Clara's voice chimed in my ear, calm but quick. "Auditory anomaly detected. Source: containment level. High distress vocalization from subject Varn. Subject Kaiser is stable."
"Is Kaiser okay?" I asked, my new eye whirring as I looked toward the wall like I could see through it.
"Kaiser's vital signs indicate normal activity levels. He is not in danger," Clara said. "The distress vocalization is from the detained individual. This appears to be an interrogation process."
Dr. Molloy paused her work on the med-scanner, her face tight. "Tara, why don't you take a break? That sound... it's not for kids."
I hugged my knees, the flames dying down. "But it's Kaiser. He's always okay."
"He's fine," Dr. Molloy said, but her voice was a little shaky. "Come on, let's get you some juice. Clara, keep monitoring the kid."
Clara's voice stayed with me. "Monitoring active. Kaiser is approaching upper levels. Estimated arrival: three minutes."
I waited, listening for more screams. But all I heard was the hum of the fortress, and all I felt was that tight feeling in my chest.
Kaiser was coming back. And he needed to know I could be strong too.
[HAWK -- POV]
The scream hit the command deck like a psychic hammer, but I was already waiting. I'd been leaning against the wall, Oracle-Eye scanning the vents and corridors, picking up the faint tremors in the structure long before the sound reached the upper levels. My implant fed me data—vibration patterns, acoustic analysis, the slow rise of Kaiser's own bio-signature staying steady as the echo.
The door hissed open from the lower lifts. Kaiser emerged, hands in pockets, that casual stride that said the world hadn't just tried to end and been denied. But his eyes—those told the story. Focused. Sharp. The kind of calm that comes after something breaks inside you.
He looked at me, and I looked back. No words needed yet. Just the two of us, the anomaly and the oracle, in the quiet before the next storm.
"You got what you wanted?" I asked, voice steady as his.
Kaiser's grin was small, real—reserved for eyes that had seen it all. "Well duh obviously, now I'm gonna recruit our new specialist 'MORGANA'."
The words hung between us, the promise of more chaos, more power, more everything.
[KAISER -- POV]
The scream's echoes faded as I walked the corridors, but the weight of Varn's story clung like damp rot. Two months. Four territories. Five Apexes. The world was tilting toward chaos, and I was the bastard pushing it.
But Tara's face in Varn's mind—her defiance, her power, her scars—reminded me why I started. Why the pyramid needed toppling. Not for power. For the kids like her. For the ones who fought back.
Everything could wait. For now, family. For now, vengeance.
End of chapter