05-07-2355 | 21:35
Port Helix, Southline Medical Tower - Containment Annex, Level 32.
—
Skiff Nine bumps the quay and locks. The night sits hot over the canal. Freight towers stack in clean rows, skyrails cross at quiet heights, and glow ads lean over the water like they own it. Across the channel, the research facility throws cold blue across glass and metal. Street side, a neon hard-light police line hums and holds the crowd. Phones are up. Faces are lit. No rain, just heat, wires, and noise.
The hatch drops. Dax Mercer steps out first and the team files after him. Tall, close-cut hair, nose that healed crooked, Bureau of Critical Response plates under a field jacket that moves when he moves. He clocks exits, sightlines, triage tents, and a scatter of broken visor plastic on the curb. He is already sorted.
"Mercer," a HARBOR enforcer calls from the cordon. Blood crosses one strap. Badge tag reads JULES MANALO. "We went in. We got hit. We pulled back."
Dax's voice is low and sharp. "Status report, Agent. Casualties?"
"Seven in," Jules answers, pulling a breath. "Four out. Two walking. One on a stretcher. We still have three to five inside. Staff and my rookie, Soraya. She refused to leave a tech who couldn't stand. Comms died above Thirty-Two. West stair is open. North shutters keep false-cycling. The rendling in there ate sleeves, then turned into glue. It crawled."
Pike raises his hand dramatically, like he is in class. "Excuse me, I need to file an emergency requisition for a candy bar." He gets a quick glance from Dax, a tired one from Jules, and an audible sigh from Tamsin. "What? If I'm dying in that building, it's not going to be because my blood sugar is low, it's going to be for lack of proper planning."
Tamsin just shakes her head. "Just ignore him, Sergeant. He runs on anxiety and sugar, and right now he's low on both." She turns back to Jules.
Dax cuts in, his voice level. "Agent Manalo, what exactly are we up against in there? Be precise."
Jules grits his teeth, nodding tightly. "Right. Sorry. It's... Look, it's not a standard contact. Have you ever seen films about, well, vampires?" Tamsin pauses, the cage emitter half-loaded.
Pike tilts his head, putting a hand to his neck. "So this thing, this rendling, drinks... blood?" Tamsin asks.
Tamsin confirms, her voice tight with focus. "A drainer type. That explains the speed and the wound targeting."
"Wait, 'vampire movies'?" Pike dramatically lowers his voice. "Did anyone pack the holy water? Because I only have a multi-tool and a burning need for a churro. Honorable discharge is sounding pretty great right now."
"Pike," Dax warns, the sound flat and final.
Tamsin elbows him hard. "Hush. Focus."
"Are you certain of that profile, Agent?" Dax asks Jules, ignoring Pike.
Jules gives a tight nod. "We bandaged a cut. It looked fine. Then it got wet, went dark, and the thing latched on and pulled. We cut her loose. It wanted whatever it could get out of the wound."
"Dumb question. Asked and answered," Dax says. He addresses the team. "You heard the profile. We're going up against a rendling that can drain you dry. Keep your heads together and your... necks covered."
Pike groans, adjusting his plates. "Great. I can deal with the kind that smashes you into a human pancake, but now we have to be Buffy. Fantastic career choice, everyone."
"Save the monologue," Tamsin says, hefting the emitter. "Cage is at ninety-four. Anchors clean."
Rook jogs up with fresh mags and a portable clamp. His tone is technical. "Power steal kit ready. If the lights get cute, I make us a box."
Hanu flicks a micro-drone off his wrist. Teal blink. Silent lift. "Loading bay door is your best entry," he reports, eyes fixed on the feed. "Corridor clear to the first bend. After that, heat pops and drops like the building is messing with the grid."
"Copy, Hanu," Dax says. Then to Jules, "Keep the line tight. Anyone tries to cross, bounce them and log the name."
"You got it," Jules says, looking relieved they're finally moving. "Bring my rookie home."
Dax nods once and moves. They slide under the neon cordon. The crowd presses. The doors take them and the street noise dies.
Inside is concrete, stacked containers, a freight drone asleep on chargers, and a red floor stripe pulsing toward the west stair. The building whispers on loop: evacuate west, maintain the line, do not stop for personal items. Lights roll in sections.
"Two at the bend," Hanu updates. "One hopping, one bleeding, both hauling a third."
"Move," Dax says. The exo gives his joints a clean, quick pace. They hit the corner. Two lab coats, wide eyes, a third body on the tile that isn't moving.
Dax raises his left hand and throws a soft grid from his forearm. "West stair. Now. HARBOR is outside. Tell them Mercer sent you."
"Who is Mercer?" the woman blurts, then shakes her head in self-correction. "Right. Stairs. Going."
"Pike, lift," Dax commands.
Pike scoops the third and his boot slides on something clear and tacky. "Oh, hell no."
"Do not kneel in that," Rook says, crouched short of the shine. His voice is measured. "It is attempting to be everything."
Pike struggles to stand with the body. "Evil Jell-O! Seriously? I trained for killer robots, not sentient, sticky floor wax. This is definitely going into the complaint box."
A ceiling panel forty feet ahead swings down and hangs crooked. Dust floats. Dax lifts a fist and everyone freezes.
Something silver-black pours through, drops, and stands like it learned from the wrong manual. Too many hinges, wet shine, a dull blue pulse in the chest that does not care about human rhythm.
"Rendling," Dax says. "Mark Three. Contact."
The head tips. The surface stutters, then smoothes.
"Alright, boss," Pike says, quickly sliding right and shouldering the shotgun. "This thing looks like a bad art project. I'm calling arms."
"Give me space," Tamsin snaps, dropping the emitter and snapping anchors wide.
The rendling glides. One arm splits into two needles and darts for Dax.
"Hold," Dax says. He steps left, takes the hit on the wrists, redirects the impact, letting the exo give him the extra he needs. Metal rings off the wall. A bright smear dries fast.
Pike fires. The lower needle shears off at a joint. Silver-black freckles crawl quickly toward each other.
"Cage!" Dax shouts.
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