The homeless man at the far end of the platform twitched again, and Jack Harper’s forefinger jerked in response. A shiver ran down from his nape, over his neck and across his shoulders. Jack let the tension out with his next breath, or tried to, as if he could see it dance in the condensation—and told himself it was just the cold.

  It wasn’t like there was much else to look at. Geneva was still waking up and Cornavin station was no different to the rest of the city. At 7AM, with the sun just peeking over the horizon, the scattering of morning commuters felt the first trickle of a dam about to break. Old notches in Jack’s brain left him feeling exposed. Somewhere along the way, some part of him murmured, you fucked up.

  He’d been someone once. Not a good man and certainly not a superhero, but someone who had been fighting the good fight all the same. He’d parlayed with Golden Age warlords, spat in the face of the Genevan new world order, and walked through the ashes of the Collapse where so many supposed heroes feared to tread. Six months ago, he would’ve entered Geneva only as a liberator, or a prisoner, or a corpse.

  Then again, for a few hours, he had been a prisoner. Saving the world had kept him from any black site, sure, but it was more to do with some deal Sabra made with the IESA than anything else. That she’d saved his life after everything he’d done to her was wickedly ironic, and maybe that was the point. Or maybe it was just as she always said: I am because you are.

  So, here he was, freezing his ass off atop a train platform in the heart of the safest city in the world, the most fortified place on the planet, the seat of power for the IESA and the whole Functioning World, because he was because she was and some coworker of his had called in sick, and he was now casing some homeless guy like he expected him to pull a sawn-off out from under his ratty coat.

  He still didn’t.

  The man wavered from side to side, muttering something about having to wake up, that it was just a bad dream. He was on something, or in the throes or something. Drugs or delirium or both. Jack watched him for another second.

  “That guy owe you money or something, kid?” Sam asked, as she approached.

  “No.”

  “You sure?”

  “Just gimme my coffee.”

  She did. Like him, she’d traded her suit of armorweave for something more conventional. The handgun beneath her jacket might’ve been standard-issue, but her aviators sure as hell weren’t. It’d take a braver man than Jack to remind her of that. Some part of him felt he should say something, and another part couldn’t believe he cared.

  It was funny. Six months ago, he’d been worried that she’d kill him if she had to—now, he was worrying about her fucking clothes.

  No, he thought. It isn’t funny. It’s pathetic.

  “Hey, Jack,” Sam asked. “You okay? I know you’re up early but, Christ, you’ve gotta lighten up. Preferably before our guy steps off his train.”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “See, you say that,” Sam continued. “But you never do.”

  “Haven’t been sleeping well.” It was the truth.

  “Wanna talk about it?”

  He shrugged. “Not really.”

  Sam lit up a cigarette, shielding it with her hand. “Well, now you can’t say I didn’t ask.”

  Footsteps from the staircase leading up the platform—two sets, heavy and armored. A pair of police drones stepped onto the platform proper, with rounded armor plating and an angular visage. The sensor arrays on either side of the cranial casing tilted and shifted like they were orchestrating music only they could hear. Maybe they were. Either way, their resplendent cobalt plating wasn’t dented, much less scratched. Geneva’s mechanical servitors were just one of the many things he’d had to get used to.

  But, for a split-second, he was back in his armorweave and the machines were oncoming threats, and he had one chance to fire before they did. His finger twitched, and he was putting a full magazine into an unarmed man. The smell of charred flesh as Sam went down, cigarette dropping from her lips, her expression oddly bemused. And Elias, deep in the stirring ruins, his face a bloody mess as his finger twitches again and again as someone is saying ma’am, ma’am—

  “Ma’am,” one of the robots buzzed, “this platform is a non-smoking area. Please, extinguish your cigarette, or you will be fined.”

  “Sure thing, boss,” Sam replied, and ground her cigarette out against the robot’s shoulder armor, an ashy smear against the bright blue paint.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” the robot replied, and moved on. They marched to the end of the platform, the homeless man flinching away from them as they passed, then turned about and went back the way they came.

  “Fuck,” Sam said. “Talk about timing. Look, are you good to handle everything here, Jack? Figure I’ll go get the car warmed up. Yang’ll be here in five minutes.”

  “Sure.”

  “If I don’t see you in ten, I’ll assume you’ll have taken him for ransom.”

  “Ha ha.”

  It was supposed to be a joke, but it didn’t feel like one. Six months before, they never would’ve been close enough to someone like their client—one Doctor Edward Yang, some high-level executive for Dynamic Horizons—unless it involved extortion, or worse. But it was a stupid idea, because targeting someone like that would’ve brought too much heat. Elias had always picked smarter targets.

  Until he hadn’t.

  What was bothering him? Jack watched Sam disappear down the steps, and knew that was it. That bothered him, how she’d settled into everything so easily. Tiger and Leopard, Sam and Jack. But if Sam, of all people, could be happy doing this, then why couldn’t he?

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  It wasn’t as if it didn’t make sense—Jack could trace the path between mercenary wetwork to corporate security without issue. Working for Fiveaces was a simple job, and it paid well, and granted him a Swiss security license. He had to be content with that. He didn’t know why Dynazon thought Yang needed security, and he didn’t much care. He wasn’t paid to care. He wasn’t paid to drink or make small talk. He was paid to do a job, to take Yang from the station to a location in the Alps. Elias had always said that jobs went better when one didn’t ask too many questions, anyway.

  Elias had said a lot of things.

  Jack ran his tongue against the inside of his teeth—first lower, then upper, and it didn’t help. Six months. Six months of this. Six months of living in a city that he had once thought he’d overturn. Six months ago, the world had made sense. Six months ago, he’d been able to think.

  The platform PA chimed. A pleasantly ambiguous voice announced something in French and then, again, almost apologetically, in English: “Attention, travelers, the 725 train from Zurich will now be arriving on platform eight. We apologize for any inconvenience caused.”

  Sighing, Jack turned and made for the steps. Platform eight was on the other side of the station. Even in Geneva, there were snags. He reached for his lapel mic. “Sam, Yang’s coming in at platform eight.”

  Her raspy voice crackled through his earpiece: “Got it. You want some close air support, maybe a fire mission or two?”

  “I’m just keeping you updated.”

  Sam laughed. “Kid, it’s fucking Geneva, out.”

  Yeah. It was. And it was hard to believe Geneva was leaving him bored.

  Inside, Cornavin station was all polished stone. Sandstone and granite, if Jack could recognize his stone. Six floors, with eight platforms in the open air, and about that many more underground. Sandwiched between them were offices, shops, and a police precinct. This early, this quiet, the stonework made it feel closer to an ancient temple. Jack was halfway to platform eight when someone called, “Help me.”

  Jack turned. There, the homeless man from the platform stood in the corridor like a pilgrim who’d lost his way. His eyes were glassy, but he was looking at Jack, and his gaunt, haggard face twisted up, like he had to force his own muscles to obey him.

  “Help me,” he said, again, “please.”

  “I’m busy,” Jack said. “I don’t have any money.”

  “Not money,” he replied. “Police.”

  “I’m not police.”

  “Please!” The man staggered another step. “No,” he continued, crying out, “No, no, no!”

  The man had an American accent. His behavior was odd, but the accent more so. Jack kept his hands low and open, and fought down the instincts to reach for his handgun as the man reached into his coat.

  And produced a detonator.

  Jack’s vision shuttered to a killing gap, and he found his hand on his handgun—but didn’t draw, didn’t dare fucking draw. Teeth grit and throat dry, and not from fear, Jack said, slowly, “Drop it.”

  “I can’t,” the man said, “I can’t! I can’t, I can’t, I can't! Don’t you understand, I can’t!” He yanked his coat open and halfway off, and part of Jack noted that he wasn’t stashing a sawn-off shotgun, but a full explosive vest. Behind Jack, someone screamed.

  Jack reached for his lapel. “Sam. We’ve got a problem. Sam!”

  “What, you have to walk back across the station?”

  “I’m looking at a bomber.”

  “What?”

  “The man from the platform. He’s got a detonator and— Sam, there’s enough phasmite on him to blow this place to pieces. Behavior is very erratic. Get the police to evac—”

  “I’m already on it.”

  The man reached for his temple, groaning, almost screaming. He was beginning to hyperventilate, the detonator held out before him. “I can’t! It’s so fucking loud! I can’t anymore!”

  Shoot him, buddy, some part of Jack said. Now, before you don’t get another chance to do it. Old advice—in a stand-off, shoot before you get shot, first one to pull the trigger wins. But it’d been six months since Jack had drawn a pistol, and never from under a jacket, and all his opposite number had to do was move his thumb an inch and the stand-off would be over for them. For him, for Jack, and however many others—dozens, hundreds?

  So why hadn’t he?

  Jack nodded to him, and drew his hand away from his handgun. “You don’t have to do this,” he said. An alarm began to sound, the PA system began to order people out of the station with the same cordial tones as any other announcement. Jack remained right where he was. He didn’t know what to do. He thought of Elias, of Pavel, of Sabra.

  “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

  Only one option, as stupid as it seemed.

  “You don’t have to apologize,” Jack said, and took one step forward. “You haven’t done anything yet.” He took another. “I heard you before, talking about bad dreams.” Another. “I’ve had them, too. I know what it’s like.” Every step felt more difficult than the last. “You’ve come a long way from home, just like me, which is why I know you don’t want to do this.”

  “Bots are incoming,” Sam reported.

  Shit.

  “Call them off, please,” Jack said, voice edging into sick levity.

  “Kid, get outta there.”

  “Fuck,” Jack muttered, and took another step forward. “I’m not going to hurt you. My name is Jack. What’s your name?”

  “I don’t know! I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know!”

  “Okay,” Jack replied, and took another. “That’s okay. We can figure that out later. I’m going to come over there, and I’m going to take the detonator off you. Okay? I’m not going to hurt you.”

  The man spasmed again, a full-body tremor that ran down his entire spine, and sounded like he was choking on his tongue. Perhaps, by some sheer miracle, he didn’t hit the trigger. It was like there was a fight going on for control of his limbs, and Jack didn’t have a clue who was winning. Behind him, came the heavy, mechanical stride of a whole goddamn squad of machines. And he was still too far away.

  “Mary had a little lamb,” the man sang, halting and unsteady. “Little lamb, little lamb. Mary had a little lamb—” He choked, his expression collapsing, eyes flicking past Jack, and then back. “Little lamb, little lamb. Mary had a little lamb, and its fleece was as white... was as white—”

  His hand clenched around the detonator, and his thumb shifted, and the robots stormed past Jack, and he shouted, “No, don’t!” and everything erupted in a single awesome moment of heat, sound, and unfathomable force.

  Somewhere, someone groaned, and Jack thought it was him—and then it was. His heartbeat was there, breaking through the shock, and every thump sent pain flooding through his whole body. Everything felt far away, as if he was hearing it from within a deep cavern. But he could smell dust and smoke and burnt hair.

  And then Jack coughed and took a breath, and lurched upright—or as best as he could, with the smoking wreck of a police drone atop him. The world resolved into smoke and sirens and people screaming and crying. The ceiling was blue and white, which wasn’t how he remembered it, and then it occurred to Jack that he could see the sky. He tried to reach for his mic, but the robot had his arms pinned, and even the thought of trying to lift them seemed like an idea better suited for someone else. He was pretty sure he could feel his toes, wriggle them, but also wasn’t sure about that.

  But he wasn’t dead, and that was miracle enough.

  “There’s someone over here!”

  Here, Jack wanted to say, but it came out as more of a groan. He coughed again. Spat to the side, saw no blood. Good, he thought. It was a good fight when you kept your teeth. Then someone was there, and between the haze and the smoke he thought he saw someone with copper-red hair and bright blue eyes, and he was saying hey, buddy, I’ve got you, but he blinked, and it was a woman with sandy blonde hair and brown eyes, and she was saying something about him surely being out of his nine lives by now.

  “Sam?”

  “Easy, kid—you’re probably concussed. Focus on my voice, don’t go to sleep. Hey, Doc, gimme a hand with the dead ‘bot. On three. One, two, three.”

  It only occurred to Jack that he’d been pinned when Sam and Doc hauled the broken robot off him, smoking and sparking. Jack went to push himself up, but Doc laid a hand on his chest. “Don’t move,” he said, and he sounded like a samurai from one of Elias’ old films.

  Jack stared up at him. Looked like one, too.

  “Doctor Yang, I presume?” Jack said, and, through the vertigo, thought to offer him his hand, “I’m— I’ll be—”

  Unconscious, Jack thought, and someone turned out the lights.