Inside the station, everyone was rushing to board the STGV—a futuristic Super High-Speed Train whose cars frequently alternated colors. While some hurried frantically so they wouldn't miss it, others stepped off with a leisurely, unhurried stride.
In a corner of the station, Horace was monitoring the flow of passengers. His eyes scanned the crowd for the woman who had messaged him, completely unaware that she was already sitting right next to him. Intently staring at his phone screen to check if he had missed a notification, he didn't see his bench neighbor pull out her own device to type a message.
Ding!
A text flashed across Horace's screen.
Unknown:
{ Is that me you're looking for? }
He snapped his head up, scanning the surroundings to spot anyone watching him from afar, but the platform was too packed.
Horace:
{ Where are you? }
Unknown:
{ Wow, you seriously didn't notice me? That borders on ridiculous. I'm on your left, on the exact same bench as you. }
Horace shifted his eyes to the left and finally discovered her. He made a move to slide closer to talk, but the girl immediately fired back a brief message:
Unknown:
{ No, don't move closer. Act like we don't know each other, I don't want to draw attention. }
Horace sized her up for a split second, then leaned away slightly to respect her boundaries.
Horace:
{ You set up this meeting to tell me something important, I assume. But first, I want to ask you a few questions. }
Unknown:
{ That's not a problem, but you're capped at three questions. Past three, I get up and leave without looking back. }
Horace glanced at her from the corner of his eye, visibly surprised.
"She's trying to take control of the exchange right out of the gate. You can tell she's no amateur."
Horace:
{ Okay, I get it. Here's my first question: why do you care so much about helping us? }
Unknown:
{ Good question. It has two answers. First, your leader saved my life once, and you did twice. So, I owe you guys a debt. }
Horace:
{ Fair enough. What's your name? }
Unknown:
{ Sorry, I can't give you that piece of information; it would partially compromise my identity. So, just call me 'E'. }
Horace thought to himself:
"E? Why E? It must be the first letter of her name."
Horace:
{ Here is my last question: who do you work for? }
E:
{ I don't work for anybody. You see, I am my own boss, I am my own allies, and I am my own handler. I don't need anyone to be who I am. Now, no more questions. }
E:
{ I'm going to give you the real reason I called you out here. In exactly four minutes, a man will step off the train carrying a rather massive black briefcase. He will be followed by two men. Those two men will look like ordinary civilians, but in reality, they are two Armored Corporals. Inside the briefcase is a blue stone called ELIONICE. It is officially meant to be transported to the Armored Units' main headquarters. }
E:
{ Originally, a squad of Armored soldiers was supposed to serve as their escort by staging a fake arrest. But they are going to run late because of four highly wanted super-terrorists they are engaging at this very moment. When the targets arrive on the platform, they will be ambushed within minutes. }
Horace locked his eyes onto the crowd, scrutinizing every passenger, but he failed to detect any suspicious behavior. The woman suddenly stood up, sending him one final message.
E:
{ You have less than five minutes before they arrive. Our paths separate here. So, I'll say goodbye, and good luck with what's next. }
Immediately after, she walked away at a brisk pace toward the stairs leading to the exit. Horace bolted up to try and catch her:
« No, wait… »
What cut the words clean out of his mouth was the sudden appearance of several men rapidly descending the stairs. Some wore button-down shirts, others leather jackets, and some Lacoste polo shirts. They all shared two distinct traits: the collars of their clothes were popped up to the maximum, and they were all wearing face coverings.
Horace stopped dead in his tracks. Recognizing the threat, he pivoted and walked quickly toward the station restrooms. He slipped into one of the stalls and locked the door. He pulled out an octagonal badge that read "Sylfhera Rvs Fanclub." He slammed it against his chest, then pressed his left thumb onto it. The fake logo instantly transmuted to display the DHA crest.
He tapped it twice. A metallic armor began to deploy, wrapping around his body in a matter of fractions of a second. Horace was now entirely encased in the Techno Rider suit, with the sole exception of his head. He then drew a small, compact device from his palm and tossed it into the air: the module quintupled in size, locking perfectly around his head as a helmet.
Outside, the men with the popped collars took up positions at every exit, while others settled onto the benches to keep watch. A thick protective glass partition separated the train tracks from the platform. All of the intruders discreetly monitored this area, feigning indifference.
Techno Rider cracked open the restroom door slightly to observe their routine.
"Mhh, I don't know how that woman knew, but these guys look way too suspicious for this to be a coincidence. I should warn HQ… No, I can't alert them without proof; it could just be a false alarm. I'd better verify this myself."
On the tracks, the train pulled into the station exactly at the time E had specified. The thick security glass began to slowly retract into the floor. The moment it leveled with the ground, a massive wave of civilians poured onto the platform.
Rider, lying in ambush, zoomed in through his visor to locate the man with the briefcase. A minute passed as the crowd continued to crisscross in every direction.
Then, amidst all the commotion, an older Caucasian man dressed in an elegant suit stepped off the car, a heavy briefcase in hand. He wore thin wire-rimmed glasses on his nose. Behind him, his two bodyguards followed closely in his tracks: a muscular Black man in a tank top, and on the other side, a young white man wearing a green shirt and trousers.
The old man threw a circular glance around him, looking perplexed.
« Mhh, where are they? » he muttered before resuming his walk.
Horace immediately saw three of the men with popped collars tense up at the sight of the trio. The other accomplices began converging covertly toward the old man. Charly noticed this suspicious movement as well.
"Ah, that must be them," he thought, expecting his escort.
But as the attackers closed the perimeter, the platform's security glass began to slowly slide back up. Just before it met the ceiling, Charly's phone vibrated, displaying a text from a certain "Chronos."
{ Sorry Charly, we're running late. Stay alert just in case. }
He looked down at the screen, instantly grasping the reality of the situation, and swung the briefcase straps over his shoulders to lock it firmly against his back. When he raised his eyes, he realized that not a single civilian remained on the underground platform.
"Oh, they're using our own containment protocol against us. Interesting."
He slipped his right hand inside his jacket, then warned his men in a low voice:
« Hotk, Saul… it's an ambush. »
At that precise microsecond, time seemed to slow down. One of the aggressors ignited his right arm using his power. Another struck a structural partition violently: instantly, a stone wall erupted to seal off the stairway exit.
The first terrorist raised his hand to hurl his fireball. In response, Charly drew a heavy plasma pistol. The moment the thermal attack was unleashed, the rhythm of the battle accelerated dramatically.
Charly, demonstrating incredible agility, dodged the trajectory of the flames. He bounded nimbly toward a concrete pillar, planted his foot against it to rebound, and opened a heavy barrage of fire toward his opponents. Meanwhile, Hotk and Saul rushed into close-quarters combat against the other attackers to form a shield around the civilian.
Charly threw his empty pistol toward the enemy's front ranks. The moment the weapon impacted the floor, a powerful, blinding flash detonated from it.
Dazed, his pursuer closed his eyes. Charly descended upon him, delivered a sharp elbow strike to the back of his neck, seized his right arm, and slammed him roughly to the concrete. Grounded, the man re-ignited his limb and vaulted back up with a leap, unleashing a flaming uppercut. Charly arched his torso backward in a reflex dodge, but the strike caught him dead-on in the face.
Three more attackers surged forward to surround him. One of them possessed a razor-sharp blade in place of a right hand, another had hands made entirely of solid metal, and the last one didn't seem to manifest any particular power.
The first lunged forward, extending his blade to impale him. Charly parried the assault with his left arm, grabbed the man by the back of the head to yank it violently downward, and shattered his nose with a devastating knee strike. At the exact same time, the brute with the metal hands threw a heavy left hook, while the third thug attempted to snatch the briefcase.
Charly trapped the metallic arm under his armpit, violently struck his opponent's chest with an open palm, lifted him off the ground, and hurled him crashing against the glass partition. Feeling a hand grab the briefcase behind his back, he pivoted rapidly to prevent the theft. He slipped behind the man, inverted him into a German suplex, and smashed him headfirst against the floor, shattering the concrete tile under the impact.
Charly was preparing to raise his guard again, but a freezing voice with a distinct Italian accent brought the action to a grinding halt.
« Nobody move, or I blow her head off. »
Lifting his eyes, Charly discovered a man with a half-unbuttoned shirt collar, sporting a heavy gold chain. He was holding a woman hostage, the barrel of a pistol pressed firmly against her temple, ready to pull the trigger.
Hotk and Saul immediately interrupted their fight, locking their eyes onto the newcomer. The Italian added, drilling his gaze straight into Charly's:
« Put your hands up, right now. »
Charly complied slowly, raising his palms while staring down his interlocutor.
"That voice..." he repeated internally, analyzing the intonation. "I know that voice."