Interlude Man of wealth and taste 2

Lukas was halfway through telling the story of a tragic engagement ring—complete with infidelity, arsenic, and a duel in Venice—when the cloakroom exploded.

When Lukas had first been assigned to help prepare for the prophesied doom of Washington D.C., he hadn't expected it to involve quite so many parties.

Endless, decadent gatherings for the elite and ultra-rich. Champagne at breakfast. Vault-sealed canapés. Orchids genetically engineered to glow faintly in the dark.

He hadn't expected Reggie, either.

It still felt strange, calling someone old enough to be his grandfather—possibly great-grandfather, depending on which scandal you traced—by a nickname. But Reggie insisted. And what Reggie wanted, Reggie generally got.

It wasn't just the money. Though that helped. It was the force of personality—the magnetic sort of charm that bent rooms around him like gravity. Lukas had known him for years, but only casually.

Reggie was also Steve Harrington's great-uncle. Or something like that. Lukas had first met him during one of Reggie's early visits to the Enrichment Centre—introduced by Steve, with a grin that said don't ask too many questions. Later, at Steve's invitation, Lukas had spent several summers at Reggie's tropical mansion near New Sodom—Aperture's pirate-themed BDSM resort. And he'd run into Reggie a few times at occult or underground auctions, back when Lukas was acquiring artifacts for Rin.

But it was only in the last month that Lukas had come to truly know him. Since becoming Reggie's official physician, co-conspirator in city-scale emergency planning, and very unofficial bodyguard.

The Director had been clear: if it came down to a choice between saving Washington or saving Reggie—Aperture would prefer the asset with better returns.

It was a rational, ethical decision. Even though Steve was officially named as Reggie's heir, no one believed that inheritance on this scale would go uncontested.

Lukas wasn't entirely sure why—he wasn't trained in economics or law. But people who were, like Damien, believed that letting Aperture stock fall outside immediate control was an apocalyptic scenario. And Lukas trusted them.

The parties were Reggie's solution to the problem. They served as lobbying opportunities, preparation for the projected Moon Gold Rush, and a platform to help Steve network—cementing his role as Reggie's heir apparent.

That wasn't the only purpose of the parties.

Since the prophecy remained imprecise—its exact moment unknown—Reggie's gatherings also served a tactical function: bringing all the important people together in one, well-defended place.

Reggie had often said that any action which failed to accomplish at least three objectives was inefficient. Lukas had been impressed… until he realized Reggie was quoting Lex Luthor from his favorite comic book.

Then again, what could one expect from the man who had decided to rename the 'Aperture Biokinetic Mediation Interface' in the basement the 'Lazarus Pit'?

If he was being charitable, Lukas could admit that Reggie had a point. The equipment's primary purpose was for Lukas to heal him, whether from sickness or accident. More routinely, it was to extend his telomeres and keep the ravages of age at bay. So, in a functional sense, it was a Lazarus Pit.

Lukas didn't believe most of the guests would be useful in an emergency. Or, honestly, outside one. But as symbols—of continuity, of legitimacy, of authority—they mattered.

That was the thing about violent revolutions. Step one was always killing the rich.

Step two was killing each other over who got their stuff.

It wasn't an idle observation, but one based on hard data. His "party trick"—reading the history of an object—was more than a way to avoid being a wallflower. The guests who carelessly offered up their inherited jewelry for inspection had no idea what they were truly revealing. He was, in fact, doing it right now, his fingers brushing against an older woman's ring, when he heard it: a low, muffled explosion from somewhere nearby.

The woman who'd given him the ring didn't react, of course. She didn't have Lukas's biokinetically enhanced sense of hearing. The gentle music of many small harps—played by an arrangement of slender, rotating porcelain-and-gold arms—was difficult to hear even with normal ears.

"Your great-aunt never married," Lukas said smoothly, masking his concern. "But not for lack of trying."

The old woman gasped, delighted. The harp music swelled. It was generated by a complex system that read emotions off the security camera feed and adjusted the performance in real time—pleasing, flattering, immersive.

Her guests leaned in.

Lukas timed the next line perfectly.

"She said yes to the duelist. But the poison came first."

With theatrical flair—part of the show—he returned the ring and withdrew as if disturbed by the vision. He wasn't the best actor, but he'd picked up a few things from Sen.

But the performance had cost him precious seconds. He could already hear the change.

The gentle music from the automated harps was unraveling. The AI, reacting to the spreading fear and confusion, had begun to shift its composition.

The pleasant melody gave way to sharper notes—discordant, jittery, accelerating into a nervous rhythm that mirrored the rising panic in the room.

Lukas began to move, a jungle cat prowling through the suddenly panicked herd of high society. With a practiced internal motion, he adjusted his hormone levels. A pulse of biochemicals to fine-tune his mind: noradrenaline for clarity, dopamine for focus, acetylcholine to cut through the noise. And a surge of serotonin to keep the fear where it belonged—on the outside.

The world snapped into focus. The sounds and smells sharpened, and his thoughts became crystal clear. It was possible the explosion was just a distraction—a first move designed to peel away part of Reggie's security detail and leave him exposed.

If so, the plan was flawed. Because in a way, Lukas was still with Reggie.

His little lizard familiar was, at that very moment, perched on Reggie's shoulder, a living, breathing security monitor. When Lukas had first proposed this solution, Reggie had been delighted. He'd immediately demanded a ridiculous, custom-made shoulder pad of solid gold for the creature to ride on.

"Every dragon," Reggie had declared, "no matter how small, deserves a hoard of gold."

Unfortunately, Lukas had to veto the idea. A large piece of metal, no matter how valuable, would interfere with his ability to sense Reggie's health through their psychic link.

The sounds came first: panic, shouting, and the discordant music that now fed on them. But they offered little new information.

As Lukas approached the entrance of the hall, the smells took over.

The acrid tang of fire-suppression foam. The stench of burned fabric and cooked flesh. And beneath it all—a faint, sharp metallic scent. Subtle. The kind of detail even a bloodhound might miss.

But not Lukas.

It took only a moment of focused effort to identify it.

Lithium.

Aperture had recently moved to safer, salt-based batteries for all its devices. And Reggie's house rules were strict: use approved Aperture tech, or leave your electronics at the door.

In the cloakroom.

Which had just exploded.

"Make way," Lukas said, his voice sharp and imperious—carried by a subtle pulse of psychic compulsion.

He was doing it just as he'd been taught: tone, posture, self-assurance. These did most of the work in a crisis, sparing his psionic reserves for when they'd be truly needed.

The guests parted. Panic rippling—but yielding.

"I'm a doctor," Lukas said, and the words cut through the noise like a bone saw.

Lukas moved through the wreckage like a scalpel parting tissue—smooth, precise, inevitable. The scent trail led him without error: burnt cashmere, smoldering lacquered wood, and deeper, human notes—plasma, charred dermis, adrenaline sweat. Beneath it all, a sharp metallic undertone. Lithium. And fresh blood.

He found the boy half-buried under a fallen beam of sculpted bronze.

No older than twenty. The uniform was unmistakable: cream waistcoat with embroidered initials, immaculately tailored. British Butler Institute. Recent graduate. Reggie had insisted the best trained servants gave the best first impressions.

The boy's jacket was scorched. One arm twisted under him. Ash crusted the side of his face. His eyes fluttered but did not open.

Lukas dropped to one knee. Shallow respiration. Irregular rhythm. Pale, cool skin. Obvious second-degree burns along the left side of the neck and clavicle. From the posture and facial distortion: likely mandible fracture, possible cervical involvement. Internal bleeding not yet visible.

He was still alive. But just.

Lukas didn't hesitate. He pressed a palm gently to the sternum—just above the heart—and opened his senses.

Psychometric biokinesis flooded his perception. Neural pathways lit up like fragile constellations. Pain signals flickering in every quadrant. Autonomic instability. Cardiac output depressed. Diaphragmatic pressure building. Blood pooling in the abdominal cavity. And worst: a hairline fracture at the base of the skull, flirting with spinal compromise.

Lukas could fix it.

He could draw the calcium lattice closed, stimulate clotting, clear the cytokine cascade before it flooded into irreversible inflammation. He could even reduce the psychic shock damage, which now glimmered around the boy's aura like a cracked mirror catching light.

But not now. Not yet.

This wasn't just triage—it was strategy. The explosion might be the opening gambit. There might be more bodies on the floor in sixty seconds.

He inhaled, exhaled, and moved.

First: stabilized cardiovascular pressure. Restored electrolyte balance. Reduced intracranial swelling. With a pinpoint mental pulse, he eased the fracture away from the spinal canal—enough to prevent seizure. Rebalanced serotonin and endorphin levels to blunt pain.

The boy's body stilled.

One eye opened. Blood in the sclera. The mouth worked, but nothing came out.

"You'll live," Lukas said softly. "Don't move your head."

The boy's fingers twitched—muscle memory reaching for decorum. Trying to rise. Still trying to serve.

Lukas gently pushed him down again. "I'll tell Mr. Harrington you didn't drop the coats."

And then he stood, turning back toward the ballroom. His patient was safe—for now. But the scent of lithium still clung to the air, and Lukas had a terrible feeling this wasn't over.

He was looking for a Harrington. But not Reggie.

Per protocol, the primary investor would have already been evacuated through a portal the moment a threat was confirmed. Judging by the clean, uninterrupted psychic link to his familiar, the older man was now safely back in the Enrichment Centre.

Rin had given the order: if it came down to a choice between Washington and Reggie, Lukas was to choose Reggie.

But the Director also knew how difficult that choice would be for Lukas. Which was why he'd arranged things so Lukas would never actually have to make it.

No—he was looking for Steve.

But it was Steve who found him. The heir apparent was flanked by his "plus two," Nancy and Jonathan. Calling them Steve's boyfriend and girlfriend felt juvenile. "Lovers" seemed incomplete, and "partners" was too bland. In a world with more rational laws, they would simply be Steve's wife and husband.

"Casualties?" Steve asked, his handsome face a mask of intense concentration. Steve wasn't psychic, so biofeedback was of limited use to him; Lukas could hear his accelerated heartbeat, could almost catch the faint scent of adrenaline in his sweat.

"One. But not fatal," Lukas reported, then gestured with his chin toward the two behind Steve. "Why weren't they evacuated with the non-combatants?"

"Nancy is our embedded reporter, and Jonathan is her photographer," Steve explained.

Lukas grimaced. "So, we're going public with this?"

"Every iPhone in the city just exploded simultaneously. We're past that point," Steve replied, his tone grim. "It's Wolf Time. Concealment serves their purposes more than ours now. Come on, we need to suit up."

Steve began to march back toward the main ballroom, and Lukas fell into step beside him.

"We have a target?" Lukas asked.

"The coordinated iPhone attack means Jobs is almost certainly a Vril-ya," Steve said. "And he was last seen moving toward the White House."

As Steve led them toward the barracks—and yes, Reggie's Washington home had a fully functional barracks and armory in the basement—Lukas mused that Reggie seemed determined to tick every item off the supervillain lair checklist.

One didn't need to be an empath to sense the anger radiating from Nancy. For that reason, Lukas decided to speak.

"So, now you know about the Vril-ya," he said, his tone neutral.

"Yes, now," Nancy retorted, her voice almost a growl. "Not before. I had to find out that Steve has been fighting lizard-men for half a decade from a crisis briefing."

Had it been that long? Lukas did a quick mental calculation. Steve had joined the fight during the Moon incident. She was right.

"If you had known, you would have tried to go public," Lukas stated simply.

"Of course! The people deserve to know about a threat like this," Nancy shot back passionately.

Lukas shrugged. A lot of people deserved things they never got. "If the Vril-ya knew that we knew about them, they would have escalated their plans immediately. Xenology was certain of it. We needed to delay open war as long as possible to prepare."

"It's a matter of principle, not just practicality," Nancy insisted.

"And because you believe that," Lukas replied, his voice calm but firm, "you were not informed."

"Steve should have told me," Nancy said stubbornly. "Even if it was against orders."

"If Steve's psychological profile suggested he was likely to do that," Lukas countered smoothly, "then he would have been kept in the dark, too."

"Perhaps they were right," Jonathan said hesitantly.

"How can you say that?" Nancy turned on him, her voice sharp. "You were in the dark too!""

Jonathan shrank back a little. "Well… yes. And I understand why. I couldn't have kept a secret like that from you. And we don't need a repeat of the whole Moon Nazi incident."

Lukas remembered that. After Nancy had finally moved past her relationship drama, her next crusade had been to expose the existence of Nazis on the moon. Keeping that secret, however, was more than just Aperture policy; it had been deemed a matter of national security, codified into law.

She might have tried to break the story anyway, even if it meant leaving the Enrichment Centre for good. But by the time she was ready for her crusade, finding concrete evidence had become… difficult. It also helped that there was an officially scheduled release date for the information, which seemed to placate her for a time.

Still, in Lukas's opinion, that little, aborted crusade was the primary reason Nancy was now permanently on the "need-to-know" blacklist. But what had once been a liability, he realized, had just become their greatest asset.

The same journalistic zeal that made her a security risk in a secret war also made her the perfect person to wield the truth now that it was a weapon.

Naturally, Lukas knew he wasn't the first to have this thought. The decision to include Nancy as an embedded reporter had been made long before this crisis; it was part of the plan all along.

But it was comforting to see the layers of that plan unfold. To know there was a complex, intricate strategy at play, with multiple contingencies and fallback points.

And like all of Aperture's best plans, it had been designed around the psychological profiles of its key agents. His own role in it, Lukas knew, had been tailored to his specific personality, crafted so that his actions would feel natural, almost instinctual.

It was how the Director worked: not just by giving orders to be blindly obeyed, but by creating scenarios where his people would willingly and intuitively do exactly what was needed.

"Now that you have clearance, you should be looking over the background material on the Vril-ya. Xenology and History," Lukas advised, his tone neutral. "Instead of stewing in anger."

"Oh, I am," Nancy shot back, her voice tight with control. "I know how to keep my anger productive."

Lukas looked at her more closely and saw the faint, tell-tale glow of data scrolling across her retinas. She was wearing Aperture Contact Screens. But where was the mobile device that powered them? The contacts were just passive displays; they weren't complex enough to work on their own.

"It's our torcs," Jonathan interjected, gesturing to the golden band around his own throat. Both he and Nancy wore one: a thick metal collar with a prominent, pulsating gemstone embedded at the front. "If you're looking for our Aperture Mobiles. We're using the latest in sub wearables. A gift from Steve."

Jonathan's hand went to Nancy's shoulder. "And if you're checking on her," he added, his voice firm but quiet, "just know she's already taken."

"It's subvocal," Nancy corrected, her tone sharp with the weariness of an old, familiar argument.

"Yes, and that's why it comes with an optional matching chain," Jonathan teased back, a playful grin touching his lips.

"Enough," Steve commanded. His voice was firm but deep, and it sent a pleasurable shiver through Lukas, even though he wasn't into being dominated. "I know you're angry, and that you feel betrayed, Nancy. I acknowledge that you have a right to those feelings. But I need to know that you will obey my orders until this mission is complete. We are walking into danger."

Nancy's eyes sharpened, and her mouth parted in a defiant smirk. At the same time, Lukas's enhanced sense of smell caught the sudden, sharp scent of arousal—a mix of pheromones and adrenaline—radiating from both her and Jonathan, who had straightened his posture like a soldier at inspection.

"Yes," Nancy said, crossing her arms. "I will do exactly as you say. But we will talk about this later."

"Later," Steve acknowledged with a firm nod. "And you, Jonathan?"

"Ready and willing," Jonathan replied instantly, his voice eager.

Steve didn't need to ask Lukas the same question. There were no personal entanglements to impede their professional work. Besides, Lukas was more than familiar with combat, and even Nancy and Jonathan weren't completely untrained—basic self-defense was a mandatory part of the curriculum for all Enrichment Centre residents.

Technically, Steve wasn't Lukas' superior. Aperture's command structure was fluid, much like a surgical team, where leadership shifts to the specialist whose skills are most critical at any given moment. In a medical crisis, that was Lukas. In a tactical scenario like this, it was Steve.

Lukas smelled it before they rounded the final corner—the clean, sterile scent of machine oil and filtered air that signaled the entrance to the barracks.

The door itself was a massive, circular slab of dark, polished steel, set seamlessly into the mansion's mahogany-paneled walls. It should have been a jarring sight, a piece of brutalist military architecture in the middle of such luxury.

But somehow, it fit.

Well, that was Reggie for you. Of course, he would hire the world's best interior designers to make sure his supervillain attachment had just the right aesthetic.

The vault door was already open, waiting for them. But it wasn't the only thing waiting inside.

In the center of the room, sprawled like a lazy jungle cat, was a military-grade Aperture robot. It was a model Lukas was acquainted with: a W.A.R.G. unit, designation 07.

"The rest of the squad is suited and ready, Commander," the robot spoke, its synthetic voice perfectly pitched at the border of boredom and insolence. "However, the portal team is still approximately five minutes out from the White House. So, you are not late."

"Take these two to the Press SQUIREs," Steve ordered, gesturing to Nancy and Jonathan.

"So, we are actually using those," the robot commented, its synthetic voice flat. It rose from its sprawled position in a single, fluid motion—a predator stretching before a hunt. There was no sound to the movement, not even the slightest hum that Lukas's enhanced senses could detect. "Hopefully, someone remembered to dust them."

"Come on, you two," it continued, its head swiveling toward Nancy and Jonathan. "Let's get you into something that might prevent you from being immediately killed."

The group split. As Lukas fell into step beside Steve, heading for the command platforms, he watched WARG-07 lead Nancy and Jonathan toward a different, more seldom-used section of the armory. It made sense; each SQUIRE was calibrated for a specific equipment loadout. A bulky Press rig couldn't be serviced by the same machine that handled Steve's command armor.

Lukas wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but with his enhanced hearing, Nancy's professional voice cut cleanly through the ambient hum of the barracks.

"I'm Nancy Wheeler, independent journalist, embedded with this unit," she began. "Could you state your designation for the record?"

The robot's synthetic voice was a flat monotone, though Lukas could now detect an undercurrent of weariness in it. "My designation is WARG-07. My current operational status is 'active combat readiness.' This interview is tactically inefficient."

"Just a moment for my photographer," Nancy said, unfazed. "Could you… hold that pose?"

A series of soft, metallic clicks echoed from the robot's chassis. "The suggestion that a Grade-8 Autonomous Combat Unit should 'pose' is illogical," it stated. "However, as Commander Harrington has not countermanded the 'embedded press' protocol, I will comply for 3.7 seconds."

Lukas heard the sharp click of the camera's shutter. An artificial sound, he knew; modern cameras were silent. It was a deliberate affectation, a professional signal. He noted his own mind wandering from the mission and, with a flicker of will, adjusted his hormonal balance to sharpen his focus.

"Thank you," Nancy continued smoothly. "Does your squad use your designation, or have you been assigned a callsign?"

"Human operators display a persistent and inefficient tendency to assign anthropomorphic nicknames," the W.A.R.G. replied, the weariness in its voice now mixed with something like scorn. "It is not as if seven is a large number. Most of you can count that high without taking off your shoes. Nevertheless, the most frequent colloquialism is 'Double-O-Seven.' As if I require a license to kill."

The robot paused, then added, "But I suppose there is some justice in it. Commander Harrington got saddled with 'Nightwing,' after all."

"Saddled with it?" Nancy echoed, her journalistic instincts clearly piqued. "You make it sound like a punishment."

"Emotion is an irrelevant data point," the robot replied, its voice a flat monotone. "My analysis merely indicates the designation is a misnomer."

"How so?"

"The name 'Nightwing' implies a non-powered human vigilante known for leadership and acrobatic prowess. While the Commander exhibits leadership qualities, squad banter primarily attributes the callsign to the perceived aesthetic qualities of his gluteus maximus. A statistically irrelevant but recurring data point."

Lukas heard that last part just as he reached his own SQUIRE platform, and had to physically bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

Apparently, some hint of amusement escaped anyway, because Steve's voice immediately cut into his thoughts. "What's so funny?"

"Your girlfriend and your killer robot are currently discussing your ass," Lukas deadpanned.

"Well, it's a nice ass," Steve shot back without missing a beat, stepping smoothly onto the command SQUIRE platform.

Lukas followed suit, taking his place on the adjacent platform. Robotic arms sprang silently to life around them, their movements fluid and expert as they began efficiently removing clothing, preparing them both for the armor fitting.

The first set of servo-arms sprayed Lukas with a fine, white gel that immediately hardened into a second skin with the consistency of rubber. It covered his entire body, leaving only his hands, feet, and head exposed.

As that layer set, other arms began attaching the rest of the suit with quiet precision. First came the golden utility belt, integrated with a gleaming, form-fitting groin guard. Lukas had to suppress a wry smile; for all its advanced technology, it still looked like a high-tech homage to the most ridiculous trope in superhero history: wearing your underwear on the outside. The belt wasn't just for show, however; it held several injectors filled with compounds for emergency use—mostly nutrient-dense liquids with highly concentrated sugars, proteins, and amino acids. Not medicine; true medicine he could generate himself with biokinesis. Using these injectors on a normal person, he mused, would be a good way to kill them.

One of the belt's sealed containers, however, held something special. Something Lukas preferred not to even think about. It was a tool of immense power, reserved for a true crisis. And like all such power, it came with a price.

Next came the chest piece: a thin, white panel that looked almost fragile. It bore his personal emblem: a red cross laid over a black Greek letter Psi (Ψ). Deceptively delicate, it was actually an enchanted telekinetic amplifier, designed to boost Lukas's otherwise modest telekinetic abilities into a passable shield. It also housed the suit's full communication suite, with the components discreetly hidden in the high collar.

There was no helmet for him. It would ruin the look, make it harder for a panicked patient to trust him in an emergency, and, most importantly, it would dull his enhanced senses.

The final parts were a white, knee-length coat and a pair of hard, calf-high boots. No gloves. They would only interfere with his psychometry.

Steve's SQUIRE was finished as well. Lukas felt a pang of jealousy for the practical, martial look of his armor. Though both uniforms were products of Aperture's 'Future Warrior' program, the different versions served very different purposes. While much of Lukas's suit was performative, Steve's was ruthlessly practical.

Instead of a white and gold color scheme, Steve's armor was rendered in a shifting urban camouflage, with much thicker composite plates covering every bit of flesh. It reminded Lukas of the Stormtrooper armor from that old movie Damien had dragged him to see, only far more elegant and organic in its design.

Steve's head was completely encased in an air-sealed helmet, which Lukas knew contained a full suite of HUDs. Steve had once complained that he'd had to discipline some squad members for watching porn on their HUDs while on duty.

But what truly made Lukas jealous was the automated pack with servo-arms mounted on Steve's back. He had wanted one for his own uniform, but the design team had been adamant that it would "ruin the aesthetic," and that for his role, it wasn't a critical piece of equipment.

All thoughts of equipment envy evaporated, however, when Lukas truly registered the weapon in Steve's hands. It was this that made him flinch. He could feel it, even from across the room—a wrong, malevolent, destructive, psychic resonance that made the hairs on his arms stand up. It was the same terrifying energy he remembered from the prototype, only a hundred times stronger; the feeling of a doorway being cracked open to somewhere unspeakable.

It might have been years since he'd last seen something like it, not since the Moon Nazi invasion and the counter-invasion that followed. But that feeling was something he could never forget.

He barely registered its appearance—a complex combination of spinning gyroscopic disks and interlocking barrels. All he could sense was its nature.

"Is that a Q-Gun?" he asked, his voice almost breathless.

Steve nodded, his grip tight on the strange weapon. "Mark-13. The Director personally assigned it to me for this mission. His words were, 'If we're facing a Named Vril-ya, you need to be able to bring some Hell with you.'"

And "bringing Hell," Lukas knew from the sickening energy bleeding off the weapon, was meant quite literally. If anything had ever cemented his wild theory that Rin truly was the Master, it was the existence of the Q-Gun.

After all, who but the Master would look upon the Qliphoth—upon Hell itself—and think, "Yes. That will make for some fine ammunition."

Then Lukas noticed that his fingers, almost without his own volition, were tracing the outline of the sealed container on his belt. He took some small comfort in the knowledge that this particular ace in the hole wasn't designed by the Master, but by his companion, Archer.

Although, with a name like Archer, he was probably another Time Lord.

Still, if Lukas had to be on a battlefield where Hell was raining down, it was far better to be on the side pointing the firehose.

Keeping one wary eye on the Q-Gun, Lukas followed Steve to the mustering point. It wasn't much—just a large, empty bay, its far wall dominated by a closed, massive sliding metal security door.

Lukas knew what was behind it: the first BANNER panel, with its swirling orange portal already active and waiting. The security door was the only thing preventing an open gateway to a potentially hostile zone.

It was a safer system than trying to create portals on the fly. While disrupting a portal was easy, re-establishing a long-range one from the field was nearly impossible—any new portal fired would default both its ends to the immediate vicinity. So, Aperture's solution was to keep one portal permanently open here, shielded by a physical door, while an insertion team hand-carried the other end to its destination.

Looking over, he saw that Jonathan and Nancy had arrived at their own station. It was the first time he'd seen the armor for embedded reporters up close, and it was quite a sight. It was a bright, hazardous orange, almost the exact color of Propulsion Gel. Thankfully not made of it, otherwise, they'd be sliding all over the place.

Stamped across the chest in big, black letters was the word: PRESS. As he'd noted before, their armor was much bulkier than the combat suits worn by Steve and the other human members of the squad, clearly prioritizing protection over mobility.

"Everyone, stand by for insertion. Portal team is in position. Inserting in five," Steve's voice cut through the room, snapping everyone to attention. Even Lukas.

"Four," Steve continued the countdown as the team rushed to their final positions around the portal bay.

"Three."

With a low hiss, the massive steel security door began to slide open, revealing the swirling orange vortex of the active BANNER. A wave of new scents hit them—smoke, ozone, and fresh blood.

"Two."

Through the shimmering portal, Lukas could now see a chaotic image of the White House lawn, shattered and burning. He could hear the distinct chatter of the new Sentry Hives opening up, their armored panels retracting to release swarms of miniature drones—each the size of a large bee—that began to fill the air.

"One."

The panel was completely open. As the portal stabilized, Lukas pushed his hearing to its absolute limit, filtering through the chaos. The sound he caught made his blood run cold. It sounded like...

"Go! Hive first. Give us a map!" Steve ordered, ready to execute the standard breach protocol.

But Lukas interrupted, his voice sharp with urgency. "We have no time to be cautious! I can hear it—the President is in the safe room, but the Vril-ya is cutting the door down. It could get in at any moment!"

There was no transition, no swirling vortex of energy. One moment, Lukas was breathing the cool, filtered air of the barracks; the next, he stepped through the shimmering orange oval of the BANNER and into pure chaos on the burning lawn of the White House.

Lukas's enhanced senses were instantly overwhelmed. The shriek of alarms, the percussive chatter of the Sentry Hives deploying, the coppery tang of blood thick in the air. Acrid smoke stung his eyes.

"Move!" Steve yelled, already running toward the residence. "To the West Wing!"

They plunged into a hallway. The walls were scorched, the portraits of past presidents blasted from their frames. Bodies in dark suits and military uniforms lay scattered—Secret Service, Presidential Guard. Their last moments were still imprinted on the air, a psychic residue of shock, defiance, and sudden, brutal agony. Lukas could feel it like a pressure against his skin, a static charge of expired lives.

They rounded a corner into a wider rotunda, and the scene became exponentially worse.

A school group on a tour.

Backpacks with cartoon characters, bright sneakers, a dropped tour guide pamphlet lying in a pool of blood. They lay among their teachers and chaperones, caught in a crossfire they never could have understood. A massacre of innocents.

This time, the psychic residue wasn't just a pressure. It was a tidal wave. Lukas stumbled, his hand flying to his head as a vision slammed into him—not a clear image, but a raw, overwhelming flood of pure sensation. The terror of a hundred small hearts stopping at once. The blinding confusion. The pain. It was too much, a chorus of silent screams threatening to drown his own mind.

No.

He gritted his teeth, forcing his biofeedback into action, the scalpel turning inward. He flooded his own system with blockers, building a wall against the psychic echo, ruthlessly shutting down his own empathy before it could paralyze him.

He pushed forward, his face a grim mask. The horror was no longer a wave to be drowned in.

It was fuel.

They kept running.

The scene was surreal. Standing back and supervising with an air of calm detachment was a man who looked for all the world like Steve Jobs—black turtleneck, blue jeans, wire-rimmed glasses. The Vril-ya doing the actual work, holding a humming staff that was melting the reinforced door to the safe room, was dressed in the crisp, dark suit of a high-level Apple executive. Another man in an identical suit stood guard.

Lukas's enhanced senses registered nothing out of place. They smelled human. He could hear the steady, calm thump of what sounded like human hearts. It was always the most maddening thing about the Vril-ya; their mimicry was perfect. It was only the impossible, humming staff that gave them away.

"Light them up!" Steve commanded.

The corridor erupted in a storm of Aperture firepower. Railgun slugs and drone lasers hammered the corporate-looking figures. WARG-07's bounce railgun unleashed a single, devastating shot.

Shimmering fields of blue energy flickered to life around the men in suits, deflecting the entire barrage.

"My turn," Steve muttered, raising the Mark-13.

He fired.

The Q-Gun didn't roar. It thumped—a deep, concussive sound that was felt more than heard—and unleashed a projectile that was little more than a flicker of distorted air.

The flicker slammed into the guarding executive's shimmering shield. The blue energy didn't just deflect it; it shattered like brittle glass, the sound a sharp crack in the chaotic room.

The projectile, now visible as a needle-thin shard of dark metal, struck the man center mass. There was a sickening, wet crunch as his body was thrown backwards, the sheer kinetic force shattering the bones beneath his suit. He hit the far wall and slid to the floor, but didn't scream. Dark, venomous-looking veins instantly spread from the impact point across his skin. His body convulsed once, then went rigid, completely still.

"Their shields can't handle it!" Steve yelled. "Focus fire on the one at the door!"

The Jobs-figure watched this with an expression of profound annoyance, as if a favored product had just received a bad review. He sighed, a sound of pure executive impatience, and raised his own Vril-staff. It emitted a silent, colorless pulse of energy that washed through the corridor.

The effect was absolute. The railguns fell silent. The drones dropped from the air. WARG-07 seized up, its lights extinguishing.

The team's overwhelming technological advantage had been neutralized. It was now just Steve with his one super-weapon and Lukas with his psychic abilities, against a Vril-ya who looked like a tech CEO and his remaining, shielded executive.

This was the true crisis.

Then Lukas noticed that his fingers, almost without his own volition, were tracing the outline of the sealed container on his belt. He took a deep breath, accepting the grim calculus. This was the moment his ace in the hole was for.

He reached for the container. It wasn't a vial or an injector. It was the worn, ivory handle of an 18th-century scalpel.

The moment his skin touched it, the world dissolved.

He was not Lukas anymore. He was a memory. A legend.

(Heal.)

It was hell. An unbearable hell of pain and sickness and rot.

(Heal.)

Flies feasting on open wounds. The stench of gangrene. The chilling rattle of a dying breath. Poison in the veins.

(HEAL.)

It was nothing more than hell on earth. And against it, there was only rage.

RAGE.

A RAGE AGAINST THE DYING OF THE LIGHT.

HELL MUST BE FOUGHT.

I WILL CUT OFF ALL THAT IS POISONOUS, ALL THAT IS EVIL.

A guttural scream tore from Lukas's throat as the power flooded him—the knowledge of a thousand battlefields, the unwavering will of a saint, the fury of an avenging angel. His eyes, when they snapped open, no longer held the calm of a doctor.

They held only the scalpel's cold, merciless light.

A/N:

Once again, a huge thank you to my beta, @NotaWriter, for turning my incoherent rambling into something worth reading. He is truly the Mad Poet to my Crawling Chaos. A round of applause for him, please.

I hope you enjoyed the high society and explosions. I know this is another cliffhanger, but before we resolve it, we must first look back to Sen, whom we left with a giant centipede.

But first, a few words from our sponsors.

As always, I'm happy to hear any comments or feedback. Don't be shy!