RECORDS AND FILES DEPARTMENT - DOA HQ - DREAM CITY – NIGHT
The department was silent, dim, and humming with digital memory. Rows of cold servers blinked in rhythmic pulses.
Plukett stood alone before one of the archive terminals. She inserted her clearance key and leaned closer.
"Requesting file: Steven Baflin – Incident Report, 011723-VR," she said quietly.
The terminal processed for a second, then granted access. She tapped her comm.
"Kk, I need you, girl!"
A soft shimmer lit her interface as KitKat, the AI assistant, activated.
"Online. File received."
The footage unfolded in front of her. Club VIE, late at night. Steven Baflin's car pulled up. He stepped out, alone, visibly unsteady. Media overlays appeared: "Witnesses say he was intoxicated." "No passengers."
She slowed down the footage, rewinding and zooming in. Another man had arrived minutes before Steven. He walked toward the club and, just before entering, something small dropped from his pocket—metallic, reflective. He didn't notice.
She paused. Enhanced the image. It looked like a keycard. Or a data drive.
Two hours later, the same man left the club, swaying. He climbed into his car and drove off.
The next clip was brief and brutal—a fireball. Steven's car in flames, recorded by a security drone hovering above the wreck. No rescue. No survivors.
KitKat processed the information, matching faces and files. Steven Baflin Burnt beyond recognition. Autopsy inconclusive. The cause marked accidental, though the full review was flagged for further analysis.
Plukett frowned. She searched deeper, tracing Steven's last months. Two other names surfaced—scientists. Collaborators. Friends.
Also dead within the month.
She tried to open more files. ACCESS DENIED. Over and over again. Most of what she needed had been locked behind Bineth-level clearance.
But a pattern was beginning to form.
She leaned back and opened an old photograph—Steven and his wife smiling on Moon Base Theta. Back before the accident. Something about the image felt... unfinished.
She jotted a few quick notes into her personal slate. Then turned to KitKat.
"Book a trip to the Moon in two hours."
The AI beeped in acknowledgment.
"Done, what will you be doing till then?"
"Go to a club, have fun!" She returned.
Plukett didn't know exactly what she'd find up there. But her hunch was growing stronger. And hunches, in her line of work, had a habit of uncovering very dangerous truths.
Meanwhile...
An hour later, outside the Exchange
The moment they stepped out, the air changed.
Rolo and Shakes had just reached the truck, arms full of supplies, when the rumble of heavy engines and screeching brakes tore through the quiet grit of the district. The ground trembled slightly. Heads turned.
Conversations stopped. Even the rusted bots paused mid-whirr.
A convoy of blacked-out trucks and patched-up bikes roared in, trailing dust and smoke. Logos had been spray-painted over with jagged red slashes. The lead vehicle—a brutal matte hovertruck—jerked to a halt, its rear hatch slamming open with a hiss of hydraulic rage.
They poured out like shadows made flesh.
Seven of them.
The Rifters.
Hard-eyed, leather-armored, each one marked with crude tech mods that pulsed with stolen energy. Bits of metal glinted under their skin. They moved like predators, confident and cold.
At the center walked a towering figure—taller than the rest, wrapped in a dark overcoat, his face obscured by a cracked chrome mask. Blue LED eyes pulsed like a heartbeat through the narrow slits.
Havery 0111.
A name that made every dealer, fixer, and drifter freeze.
"Who are those?" Rolo asked, tilting his head with innocent curiosity.
Shakes didn't answer right away. His grip on the crate tightened. "
Bad news," he finally said, voice stiff. "Let's go."
"But they seem important—"
"Rolo." Shakes' voice cut sharper this time. "We're leaving. Now."
He shoved the supplies into the truck bed and yanked the passenger door open for Rolo, casting one last long look at the group. Havery 0111 scanned the crowd like a scanner-bot on a hunt. He wasn't here for shopping.
If the Rifters were in town, someone was getting torn apart.
"Would they like tea?" Rolo asked, watching the gang silently as they stepped into the center of the Exchange courtyard, vendors stepping back instinctively.
Shakes slammed the truck door shut behind Rolo and slid into the driver's seat.
"Trust, me, those are the last people you want to offer a cup of tea" he said under his breath as he started the engine.
Rolo sat in silence, optics dimmed again. He watched as one of the Rifters tore a stall's awning off with a laugh and dragged out a whimpering scavenger. The crowd did nothing. Said nothing.
"Would Harry have stopped them?" Rolo asked softly.
Shakes didn't answer. He just drove.