The storm had been building all day.
From his apartment window, Mitya watched the sky over Golden Horn Bay turn the color of old bruises. The cranes swayed against the horizon, their long arms creaking in the wind. Down at the docks, the water was already restless, slapping against the pilings with a sound like impatient applause.
The System's overlay painted the harbor in shifting lines of risk:Weather hazard: severe.Port operations: suspended.Contract status: delayed.
He could almost hear the city holding its breath.
Sable's Call
The phone rang just after dusk."Mitya," Sable said, his voice carrying the faint crackle of wind through the line. "We've got a problem."
"You mean you have a problem," Mitya replied.
"Not for long. You're going to fix it."
Mitya leaned back in his chair. "The port's closed. Nothing's moving until the storm passes."
"That's the problem," Sable said. "I've got a shipment sitting in a container on Pier 4. If it's still there in the morning, it's mine no longer. You get it out tonight."
Mitya glanced at the window. Rain was already needling the glass. "You're asking me to run cargo in a storm that's shutting down the fleet."
"I'm not asking," Sable said. "I'm calling in a favor."
The System's Assessment
Operator: Contract parameters — high risk. Environmental hazard: extreme. Operative deployment recommended.
"How many?" Mitya asked.
Two minimum. Four optimal.
He authorized four. Vega materialized in the Cleanroom shimmer, flanked by three faceless operatives in dark maritime gear. None of them spoke. They didn't need to.
The Pier
Pier 4 was a skeleton in the storm. The wind howled through the rigging of moored ships, and the rain came in sheets that blurred the world into shifting shadows. The container sat near the edge, its metal skin slick and cold under Mitya's hand.
The System overlaid the fastest extraction route: load onto a small trawler moored two piers over, then cut across the bay to a private slip on the far side. Simple in theory. In practice, the sea was already trying to tear the pier apart.
The Lift
The operatives moved with mechanical precision, securing the container to a flatbed loader. The engine roared against the wind, tires slipping on the wet boards. Mitya kept one hand on the weapon under his jacket, the other on the loader's railing.
Halfway to the trawler, a wave slammed into the pier, sending a spray of saltwater over them. The loader skidded, metal groaning. One operative went down hard, his leg caught between the loader and the pier's railing.
"Hold!" Mitya shouted.
Vega was already there, prying the railing apart with a crowbar. The injured operative's face was pale, but he nodded once — alive, conscious.
Operator: Injury sustained. Extraction priority: high.
The Crossing
They got the container onto the trawler, lashing it down as the deck pitched under their feet. The injured operative was secured in the cabin, his leg splinted with whatever they could find.
The captain — a wiry man with eyes like polished coal — gunned the engine. The trawler surged into the bay, the storm swallowing them whole.
Rain hammered the deck. Waves rose like walls, slamming against the hull. Mitya gripped the railing until his knuckles ached, the salt spray stinging his eyes. Vega stood beside him, unmoving, as if the storm were just another variable to be calculated.
The Slip
By the time they reached the private slip, the wind had shifted, driving the rain sideways. The container was offloaded in minutes, disappearing into the Cleanroom shimmer as soon as it touched the dock.
Ledger: 21,200.00Reputation: +7 (Intermediate Tier)Note: Operative injury recorded. Efficiency: acceptable.
The Cost
Back at his apartment, Mitya sat in the dark, listening to the storm batter the city. The injured operative was stable, the System assured him, but the image of that pale face in the rain wouldn't leave him.
He'd given the order. He'd put them on that pier. And while the System might call the mission "acceptable," he knew the cost was more than numbers.
Sable's Gratitude
The next day, the storm had passed, leaving the city washed clean and brittle in the cold sunlight. Sable met him at a café near the harbor.
"You did good," Sable said, sliding a small envelope across the table. "Fast, clean, no heat."
Mitya didn't touch it. "One of my people got hurt."
Sable shrugged. "It happens."
Mitya pushed the envelope back. "Keep it. You still owe me."
Sable's smile was thin. "Careful, Mitya. Debts go both ways."
The System's Reflection
Operator: Emotional load detected. Recommend compartmentalization.
Mitya closed his eyes. The Cleanroom shimmered into being, its white emptiness waiting. He built a new compartment — one that could carry the weight of injured operatives, of storms, of debts unpaid. He sealed it tight.
When he opened his eyes, the city was still there, the bay still restless. But the part of him that had flinched at the cost was locked away, where it couldn't slow him down.