Year 2092 — District 4
The Gutterline Bar
The Gutterline Bar was the sort of place where the lights buzzed more than they shone and the air smelled of spilled synth-whiskey and old machinery.
People drank with their heads low, like they were trying not to be noticed. And they were.
District 4 was the world's slum almost everyone with a criminal background came here to lay low.
No one wanted to get noticed by an old enemy and get gutted in stone random alleyway.
The bartender slammed a hand on the counter. "Oi! Coat-boy. You planning to pay for that drink?"
He was used to this by now. Some new hotshot feeling he is too big to pay for his drinks because he's killed a few people.
The solution was to beat them till they were an inch from death then empty their account. If he was being frank that paid much more money than the bar itself.
The man in the long black coat didn't look up at first. His black hair—tied neatly at the back with one loose strand falling down across his face—masked his features. But when he finally lifted his eyes, the bartender froze.
Luke Shaw.
His beauty was disarming in a way people rarely admitted. Too striking. Too perfect.
Luke's British accent slid out smooth and cold.
"My good man, your tone suggests you're under the impression I'm someone you can scold."
The bartender jumped over the counter and grabbed his sleeve. "Pay. Up."
Luke struck him once, cleanly and efficiently.
"That," he said, brushing off his coat, "is for laying your hands on me."
The bartender toppled over a stack of empty crates with a grunt.
Three men stood from a booth in the corner. Tough-looking, scarred, and each gripping a short knife.
They worked for the bartender. They were like enforcers in the bar.
They circled Luke like wolves growing confident.
One muttered, "Pretty boy needs a lesson."
Luke sighed. "Gentlemen… you truly don't wish to do this."
The first lunged.
Luke stepped aside, caught him by the arm, and redirected his momentum straight into a table. The table collapsed under the impact, and the man stayed down, groaning.
The second slashed. Luke grabbed a barstool, swung it sharply into the man's wrist, and sent him stumbling backward into a row of chairs.
He followed up closely with a combo to the face and the solar plexus. Knocking the air out of the man.
The third came from behind. Luke reached for a bottle on the counter and struck it against the man's forearm—not to injure deeply, but enough to knock the knife free.
A quick push sent him tumbling into the wall, dazed.
The bar fell silent.
Luke adjusted his cuffs, walked behind the counter, and poured himself a glass of whiskey.
He raised the glass, but felt a sharp sting hit his back.
Luke reached behind him and pulled out a small silver dart.
His expression didn't change, only flattened into resigned irritation.
"Oh, for heaven's sake… not again."
The glass slid from his fingers.
The world blurred.
His body gave out.
Darkness closed in.
***
Voices first, echoing, indistinct.
Machines humming.
Footsteps clicking on metal flooring.
Luke tried to move. But his body didn't responsd. Clearly the effect of the tranquilizer still hadn't weared off.
Slowly, his eyes opened.
He sat confined inside a reinforced restraint chair, a metallic straightjacket locking his arms in place.
The room was a vast industrial facility—dim lights, wires overhead, scientists hurrying between monitors and consoles.
I wonder what Father would say about this. He thought.
An elevator chimed.
A woman stepped out. Bright red hair braided tightly against her head, her combat suit sleek and fitted like polished armor. Accentuating all her curves.
Behind her walked a giant of a man—easily seven feet tall, masked, his presence alone enough to silence a room.
They approached Luke.
The woman opened her mouth, but Luke spoke first.
"Excuse me, luv… might I trouble you for a glass of water? My throat feels like sandpaper." He said chuckling at the last bit.
She blinked, caught off guard, then motioned to a nervous scientist.
The poor man approached, cup trembling in his hands.
By the time Luke managed a sip, half the water had spilled onto his chin and jacket.
The scientist fled the moment Luke swallowed.
The red-haired woman dabbed the excess water off his face with a towel, surprisingly gentle, then stepped back.
"You must be wondering who we are," she said.
"Not in the slightest," Luke replied.
Her smile tightened, but she continued. "We are the Resistance. We will free the world from the Pentagon's tyrannical rule."
Luke raised an eyebrow. "The Resistance? Lovely. Which version? Five groups claimed that name last week alone. Honestly, whoever keeps producing Resistances, that's the true supervillain."
The giant behind her tensed, fists clenching, but she raised a hand and he froze.
Her expression sharpened. She pressed the watch on her wrist, out came an interface. She began to read it.
"Luke Shaw. Son of Adrian Shaw and Rebecca Voss, grandson of Julian Voss, holds the military rank of Elite captain, pilot of a fifth generation Jaegar, the first and last trueborn Pulser. The so-called perfect human."
She looked him over, unimpressed.
"I've waited years to see you. And now that you're here… you're far less impressive than I imagined."
Luke shrugged.
"You forgot to add 'billionaire playboy.' A painful omission, I assure you."
The woman exhaled—slowly, controlled, but clearly irritated.
"This conversation is a waste of time,"she said. Her voice was smooth, clipped, authoritative.
"Orpheus—finish it."
The giant stepped forward. His footsteps were heavy enough that Luke could feel the vibration through the metal restraints.
Luke only smiled.
Orpheus lifted the massive blade overhead, his muscles bunching beneath his sleeves. The weapon descended in a clean vertical arc, fast and precise.
The edge stopped a breath from Luke's head, close enough for him to see his reflection in the mirrored metal.
Luke didn't even blink.
When he turned back toward the red-haired woman, his tone had shifted—still light, but edged with a rare seriousness.
"Well," he said, tilting his head as far as the restraints allowed, "judging from the red rose engraved on that rather dramatic weapon, I'd say you belong to the resistance known as Homer. And judging from the hair—quite the shade, by the way you must be Antigone."
He paused, eyes half-lidded in boredom.
"Now, would you mind telling me why I'm here? I was in the middle of a drink."
A twitch passed across Antigone's expression she was without a doubt surprised that he knew so much about them.
Which could only mean the Pentagon had eyes on them. She shivered in fear at the thought but masked it quickly.
With a flick of her hand, one of the trembling scientists hurried forward and began rolling Luke's reinforced chair across the warehouse floor.
The room expanded around them: steel walkways, flickering holographic readouts, racks of experimental machinery humming with low, electrical resonance.
The air smelled faintly of ozone—technology so advanced it practically steamed.
They stopped before a towering black screen embedded into the wall.
Antigone placed her palm onto a sleek, glass panel. At once the machine whirred to life. A needle-fine probe extended, pricking her finger, not enough to wound, just enough to sample. A thin red drop slipped into the scanner.
The entire verification took five seconds.
A blank, human-shaped silhouette appeared on the massive screen, featureless, sexless, expressionless.
Its voice was calm, synthetic, and impossibly deep.
"Identity verified. Access granted. Welcome, Deputy Antigone."
Luke looked unimpressed.
She folded her arms behind her back.
"Homer," she said, "give me a full rundown of all major events following the creation of the Core Stabilizer by Adrian Shaw."
Luke groaned softly and attempted to lift a hand to his forehead, forgetting once again that the metallic straightjacket made such gestures impossible.
"This," he muttered under his breath, "is going to be absolute torture."
The screen pulsed once.
And then the room dimmed as Homer began to speak.