Chapter 4: The Unseen Current
The air in the Dockside district had a different weight to it. It was heavier, tinged with the smell of salt, rust, and the faint, oily scent of the freighters moored in the bay. The vibrant, polished gleam of the city's center was gone, replaced by the hulking, silent shapes of warehouses and the long, dark corridors of alleys between them. The streetlights here were fewer, their light a sickly orange that seemed to push the shadows deeper rather than dispel them.
This was a part of the city the Singularity had forgotten to fix. A Baseline zone, through and through.
My data-slate buzzed in my pocket. Another message from Elara.
Elara: 47B Wharf Street. The big blue warehouse with the busted clock tower. You don't have to come in. Just... let me know when you're close.
The message was stripped of her usual bravado. The subtext was clear: Hurry.
I quickened my pace, my boots echoing on the damp cobblestones. My mind, ever analytical, was running threat assessments. Poor visibility. Limited escape routes. High probability of ambush points. And the primary variable: Kragg. The MRA advisory was a blanket warning, but the statistical likelihood of my path intersecting with a single individual in a city of millions was infinitesimally small. It was an irrational fear. But fear, I was learning, was rarely rational.
I could hear the party long before I saw the warehouse. A dull, thumping bassline that vibrated through the soles of my feet, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the sharp, crystalline shatter of what I guessed was Elara's sound constructs. As I approached the large, rusted roll-up door of warehouse 47B, a side door opened, spilling a wedge of pulsing light and loud music into the night. A couple stumbled out, wrapped around each other, oblivious to my presence.
I slipped inside before the door swung shut.
The scene inside was a study in controlled chaos. The warehouse was a vast, open space, strung with cheap colored lights that did little to illuminate the cavernous ceiling. A hundred or so teenagers moved in the semi-darkness, their silhouettes distorted by the strobes. I saw the tell-tale signs of minor Metagene use everywhere—a boy generating a soft, localized fog, a girl with hair that floated as if underwater, another tracing glowing patterns in the air with his fingertips.
It was a display of power, casual and unthinking. A world of wonders I could only observe.
I scanned the crowd, my gaze methodical. It didn't take long to find her. Elara was holding court near a makeshift bar, a shimmering, complex sculpture of solidified sound rotating slowly in the air above her head. She was laughing, a bright, artificial sound, but her eyes were constantly darting towards the main entrance. She was performing. The queen of her domain, waiting for her rescue.
Our eyes met across the crowded room. The performance faltered for a split second. Relief, sharp and undeniable, flashed in her grey eyes before it was buried under a layer of practiced nonchalance. She said something to her friends and began weaving her way through the dancers toward me.
"You actually came," she said as she reached me, having to raise her voice over the music. She crossed her arms, a defensive posture. "I figured you'd just send me a map of the bus routes."
"The bus service in this district is unreliable after 10 PM," I replied flatly. "Walking was the most efficient option. Are you ready to go?"
She glanced back at her friends, a flicker of hesitation. Leaving was a social admission of weakness. "Yeah, just… let me get my bag."
As she turned away, a new presence made itself known. A tall, broad-shouldered boy with a confident swagger stepped into our space. Kaelen. His Metagene, Kinetic Impulse, wasn't obvious to look at, but you could feel it—a subtle pressure in the air around him, like the calm before a storm.
"Leaving so soon, Elara?" he asked, his voice a smooth baritone that cut through the music. His eyes, a cool, assessing blue, slid over to me. They held no recognition, only a mild curiosity, as if I were a piece of furniture that had suddenly appeared. "And who's this? Your Baseline bodyguard?"
A few of his friends snickered. The air grew thick.
Elara's smile was tight. "This is Arthur. He's… an old friend. He's walking me home."
"Arthur," Kaelen repeated, as if tasting the word and finding it bland. He took a step closer, invading my personal space. I could feel the latent energy radiating from him, a stored potential for violence. "That's brave. Didn't you hear the news? There's a Rogue on the loose. It's not safe for… civilians." He said the last word with deliberate condescension.
I met his gaze, keeping my own utterly neutral. My heart was beating a steady, rapid rhythm against my ribs, but I refused to let it show. Showing fear to a predator was an invitation.
"I'm aware of the advisory," I said, my tone conversational. "Statistically, the risk is marginally higher than any other night, but still negligible. The primary threat in this environment remains poor decision-making and impaired motor functions, both of which are significantly more prevalent."
Kaelen's smirk froze. He was used to intimidation, to posturing. He wasn't used to being analyzed like a data point. A flicker of annoyance crossed his features.
"You talk a lot for someone who can't back it up," he said, his voice dropping lower.
"Back what up?" I asked, genuinely curious. "A statistical fact? I don't require a Metagene to understand probability."
For a moment, I thought he might actually swing. The energy around him intensified, coiling. Elara looked panicked, her eyes wide. "Kaelen, don't—"
But then he laughed, a short, harsh sound. He clapped a hand on my shoulder. It was a gesture meant to be friendly, but the impact was jarring, filled with kinetic force that wasn't quite released. It was a warning shot. "You've got nerve, Baseline. I'll give you that. Fine. Take the princess home. Just watch your step out there." He leaned in closer, his breath warm against my ear. "The world isn't as safe as your textbooks."
He turned and walked back into the crowd, his friends following. The tension broke, leaving a cold emptiness in its wake.
Elara let out a shaky breath. "God, Arthur. Do you have a death wish? You can't talk to people like that."
"I stated a fact," I said, rubbing my shoulder where he'd hit me. It ached. "His emotional response to it is not my responsibility. Do you have your bag?"
She stared at me for a long moment, a complex storm of emotions in her eyes—frustration, residual fear, and something else I couldn't name. Finally, she just shook her head. "Yeah. I have it."
We left the warehouse, stepping out into the cool, silent night. The sudden quiet was jarring. The thumping music was replaced by the distant lap of water against the docks and the hum of the city far away.
We walked in silence for a few minutes, the space between us filled with ninety years of history and the ghost of Kaelen's threat. The nervous heat in my stomach had returned, coiling tighter with every step we took away from the lights and into the deeper shadows of the Millcross underpass.
It was a shortcut. The most efficient route. I'd calculated it before I'd even left home.
But as we stepped into the concrete canyon, the orange glow of the streetlights fading behind us, a new calculation began to form in my mind. One with a variable I had tragically underestimated.
The variable was standing at the other end of the underpass, a hulking silhouette that blocked our way out. A silhouette whose skin caught the scant light not as flesh, but as rough, unyielding stone.
The statistical likelihood had just skyrocketed.
The heat in my stomach wasn't nerves anymore. It was a premonition.