edit made by Archandriel. April 27th 2025
Location: Downtown Vancouver — Above a SkyTrain station. 2052
The city was still licking its wounds from the chaos of the night before—a protest against Variant oppression and the U.S. annexation of Canadian territories that had exploded into violent riots. Downtown Vancouver bore fresh scars: blackened scorch marks stained the sidewalks where fires had raged and sputtered out, snuffed by autonomous fire rescue units. The air still held the faint, bitter tang of chemical suppressant and scorched concrete. Stray remnants of the clash—shredded protest signs, discarded riot gear, splintered barricades—clung stubbornly to alleyways and gutters, waiting for the overworked maintenance drones to sweep them away. A torn banner hung from a shattered lamppost, its message still legible beneath the grime: "No Annexation. No Chains. Variants Are Not Your Property."
Despite the mayor’s newly enforced curfews, the city hummed with a restless, uneasy energy. Empty streets reflected the neon glow of hollow storefronts, and distant sirens sang through the mist-heavy air like the city's lingering heartbeat.
Above it all, standing atop the arched frame of a SkyTrain station, Spectre waited. The train rumbled beneath him, the vibrations thrumming through steel and concrete, a steady pulse that kept him tethered to the present reality. The movement was a comfort — a metronome to anchor his fractured mind — as his eyes remained fixed on the entrance of a hotel below.
His target: Evan Baxter. A known Variant mercenary who had made a career of slipping beneath the radar of the United States Variant Authority. Baxter specialized in delivering sensitive transactions — cleanly, quietly, and without loyalty to anyone.
Spectre didn’t care about Evan Baxter's past crimes. His interest lay with the man’s employer—the real prize.
He was after whoever had hired him.
A glass bottle shattered against the street below, snapping his attention sideways. Across the road, four men loitered beneath a broken streetlight. Their outfits screamed agitator — faces hidden behind scarves and masks, metal pipes swinging lazily in their hands. One of them hefted a brick and hurled it through the window of a boarded-up business.
Spectre tightened his jaw.
Locals. Regulars. Non-Variants.
The city was always full of tough guys when the real threats weren’t around.
Normally, he would’ve ignored them. Petty violence wasn’t his business. Vancouver could clean up its own trash.
Until he heard the startled cry.
A woman, passing by with her head down, jumped at the sound of the breaking glass. The thugs immediately locked onto her, their movements sharpening with sudden purpose. The woman, sensing the attention, quickened her pace toward the SkyTrain station.
She wore a jacket, and Spectre caught the glint of a government ID badge clipped beneath it. A quick flick through his internal holo feed confirmed it — authorized personnel, cleared for public transit during curfew. An admin worker, trying to get to her shift unnoticed.
The men laughed, pipes tapping against their palms.
Spectre exhaled slowly through his nose.
You’re supposed to stay focused.
You’re supposed to stay invisible.
But some habits died harder than others.
He shifted his stance atop the structure, muscles coiling.
If they made a move, he’d make sure they regretted it.
"Sir, sensors indicate your heart rate is rising," a voice echoed calmly in his mind.
Spectre ignored it, forcing himself back to the task at hand.
He scanned the station entrance. Still no sign of Evan Baxter.
But the unease scratching at the back of his mind refused to quiet.
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The woman had made it onto the station platform. The next train was only minutes away, but the platform’s open design offered little cover, and even less safety. She hurried toward the designated security zone—a small emergency kiosk where one could call for help.
Broken, of course.
Like most of this part of the city.
"I have contacted emergency services for her," the voice reported. "Assistance will arrive in nine minutes."
Nine minutes.
Too long.
The men reached the top of the station stairs, fanning out in a loose line, closing in on the woman like hyenas. Their catcalls rang out over the quiet platform, mocking offers of help, laughter sliding into something darker.
For a heartbeat, his reality shifted..
Spectre exhaled slowly, but the breath never ended. For a fleeting second, the faces of the men twisted and blurred. One of the thugs wore his father's scowl, the same sneering contempt that haunted Spectre's nightmares. His fists tightened, body coiling to strike at a ghost he thought long buried.
His fists clenched against this memory. The wet feeling on his hands made his see blood dripping down onto the platform.
"Sir, I believe you need a readjustment. Acknowledge."
"Focus," he growled to himself, voice low, throat dry. Ignoring Agent 31's requests.
The present snapped back into place.
Clean tactical gloves.
The woman was still cornered.
The thugs were still laughing.
And he was still standing there, watching.
"Sir, I advise against this."
"Noted, keep your eyes for The Courier."
Spectre jumped.
The impact of his fall echoed through the station, a heavy boom that snapped the thugs' attention away from their prey. Their posture shifted instantly—confused, aggressive.
Someone had dared interrupt their fun.
"Who's this clown?" one of them barked, stepping forward.
Spectre’s internal HUD flickered to life, tagging each hostile.
"Subject near the victim is armed," Agent 31 reported coolly. "Nex reserves critically low. Nanite regenerative protocols compromised. Sustaining severe trauma at this stage will jeopardize mission integrity. Recommend minimizing exposure."
Spectre barely registered the warning.
He wasn’t thinking about survival.
Violence sang through his blood louder than any voice in his head.
He didn’t care what it cost.
He moved without a word.
The first thug threw a wild punch, aiming for Spectre’s face.
Spectre sidestepped easily, grabbing the man’s wrist mid-swing. He drove his other fist deep into the thug’s kidney—a brutal, crunching impact that folded the man over with a strangled grunt. Before the thug could fall, Spectre stomped down on his ankle with the full weight of his military boots, bones cracking wetly.
The man collapsed, howling, clutching his ruined leg.
The three remaining thugs exchanged a single glance—then charged.
Spectre welcomed them.
The first came in swinging a pipe. Spectre caught the swing with his forearm, gritting his teeth as a sharp bloom of pain flared up his arm. He ignored it and retaliated with a savage elbow to the attacker's throat, knowing the bruise would come later. Cartilage crushed under the blow, and the thug dropped, gasping soundlessly like a fish out of water.
The second thug hesitated, too slow. Spectre grabbed him by the jacket, yanked him forward, and drove his forehead into the man's nose with a sickening crack. Blood spattered across the pavement. The thug crumpled without a sound. The pipe falling from his hand into Spectre's grasp.
Only one remained—wide-eyed now, weapon in one hand, woman in the other.
He shoved the frightened woman in front of him, aiming his weapon at Spectre.
"Stay back!" the man barked, voice cracking.
Spectre moved without hesitation. He hurled the pipe at the man’s hand, knocking the weapon free.
In the same motion, he grabbed the woman by her jacket and yanked her out of the man's grasp, shoving her behind him.
"Run," he growled under his breath.
She didn’t hesitate. She bolted toward the end of the platform, stumbling after a few steps and sprawling onto the concrete floor.
Spectre turned his head, checking that she was clear. The thug seized the opening.
The punch slammed into Spectre's jaw, snapping his head back and sending his HUD flickering red.
He staggered onto his back foot, the metallic tang of blood blooming in his mouth.
For a heartbeat, the world twisted.
The station blurred and peeled away, replaced by the stale, smoke-choked kitchen of his childhood. A belt cracked through the air. Pain bloomed red behind his eyes.
For an instant, he wasn't in Vancouver.
He was back in that dim kitchen, wallpaper yellowed and peeling, his father's shadow looming large as the belt lashed down.
"You're nothing. You hear me? Nothing!"
Spectre’s body reacted before thought could intervene.
He seized the thug by the throat and lifted him clean off the ground. The man's face wavered—morphing into the memory of his father.
Spectre's grip tightened. Cartilage crushed. Blood bubbled at the man’s mouth.
"Spectre, stabilize," Agent 31’s voice snapped through the haze. A sharp jolt of biofeedback pulsed through Spectre’s neural link, anchoring him.
The memory peeled away like dead paint.
The man's face returning.
His hand released.
Spectre blinked hard, breathing heavy, fists still clenched around a memory that wasn't real anymore.
Below him, the woman bolted for the arriving SkyTrain, her footsteps frantic against the concrete. The train hissed open its doors, an empty metal savior. She stumbled inside, glancing once, terrified, at the carnage behind her. The doors closed just as the first emergency sirens began to wail in the distance.
Spectre stood over the broken men, unmoving, the neon lights flashing over blood and broken glass.
He stood there a moment longer than necessary, chest heaving, eyes unfocused. Part of him still lingered in that broken kitchen, fists clenched against ghosts. Finally, he forced himself to turn back toward the station entrance, back to the real hunt, but a tremor of rage still hummed under his skin, waiting for another excuse to break free.
"New activity detected," Agent 31 reported, his tone crisp. "Target has exited the building. Black SUV confirmed. I am patching into the city's surveillance network to track its movement."
A black unmarked SUV rolled to a stop. Evan Baxter entered the vehicle.
Reviews and Critiques:
I'm open to feedback, suggestions, and constructive criticism. I do some of my own editing before posting each chapter, I'm not a professional editor, so your input is appreciated! I do have some beta readers, but I would be open to have a working partner. We could exchange chapters or something like this.
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Developmental Editing – Story structure, pacing, and overall flow.
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Logic and Inconsistencies – Plot holes, character actions, or worldbuilding details that don’t make sense.
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Confusion – Areas that feel unclear or need more work to better connect.
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Immersion, not Realism – If something breaks your engagement with the story, even if it’s technically “realistic,” I want to know.
Spectre!