Chapter 94: Recovery and Consequences

His hands wouldn't stop shaking.

Kasper stared at the shirt buttons, such a simple task turned monumental since they'd carved out his enhancements. Each attempt sent tremors through fingers too long dependent on neural assistance. The mirror showed the price of failure – twelve hollow ports where precision hardware used to be, each scar a memory of surgical agony.

"Some badass hunter you are, jefe." Circuit's voice echoed in his head, that teasing tone she'd use while tapping her neural patches. But Circuit wasn't laughing anymore. Not since they'd dissected her enhancement cores while she—

The button slipped again. His knuckles went white.

***

"Elevated cortisol, tachycardia, classic post-enhancement rejection cascade." Dr. Mendez's rapid-fire medical terminology cut through his dark thoughts. Her movements stayed deliberately measured – the way she approached all traumatized hunters. "Though these tremors suggest deeper neuro-behavioral impacts."

She reached for the buttons with the practiced efficiency of someone used to putting broken hunters back together. Her own enhancement ports hummed at precise medical frequencies – Mark IV Trauma Response configuration, if Kasper remembered his training.

"In layman's terms," she added, seeing his expression, "your body's throwing one hell of a tantrum without its toys."

"Spare me the bedside manner, doc." His laugh felt like shattered glass. "Just tell me when I can hold a weapon again."

"When you can dress yourself without shaking apart." Her tone carried the sharp edge she reserved for stubborn patients. "When you can sleep through the night without screaming your team's names."

The medical bay's brass fixtures caught morning light, casting art deco shadows across worn tiles. Through the window, dawn painted Costa del Sol's towers in shades of blood and brass. Three weeks since Elena and Miguel had pulled him from the harbor. Three weeks of learning to live with the spaces where his team used to be.

***

"Madre de Dios."

Santos's curse echoed through Chen's private office. He spread photos across her desk like dealing cards in a game nobody could win. "Fourth hunter this week working with the gangs. Selling patrol routes. Getting civilians killed."

Chen's hand stilled its war rhythm against her thigh. Twenty years of command experience settled deeper into the lines around her eyes. "Show me everything."

The evidence told its story in brutal simplicity: dead families, burning homes, children caught in gang crossfire. All because a hunter had chosen profit over loyalty.

"Pinche traidor was smart about it too." Santos's enhancement ports pulsed with barely controlled rage. "Used cut-outs, dead drops, old school tradecraft."

"Not smart enough." Chen's expression didn't change as she signed the execution order, but her fingers drummed double-time against her leg. "Make it public. Let them see what happens to—"

An explosion rattled the windows. Too close.

"Third precinct," Santos confirmed, already moving. "Gangs are getting bold, jefa."

"No." Chen's voice carried cold certainty. "They're getting desperate."

***

Alone in her office, Chen allowed herself thirty seconds of doubt. Just thirty. Her hand found the old scar on her neck – a souvenir from her own team's betrayal during the civil war. The same war that had taught her the true cost of misplaced trust.

She'd lost three good hunters to similar betrayals back then. Had watched friends choose profit over loyalty, ideology over honor. Each execution had carved its own scar, visible or not.

The thirty seconds ended. Back to war.

***

"One more set."

Kasper's arms trembled as he forced himself through another repetition. Simple movements that had once been enhancement-assisted now required total concentration. Each motion sent fire through healing nerves.

"Your form's improving." Dr. Mendez made notes on brass-fitted displays, her augmented vision tracking micro-adjustments. "Though that left side compensation pattern's concerning. Classic post-trauma adaptation, usually indicates underlying—"

"Skip the medical dissertation, doc." The practice blade clattered to the floor. Again. "Just tell me if I'm combat ready."

"For hand-to-hand?" She snorted. "You can barely hold your cafecito steady. But that's not what's really eating you, is it?"

The question hit like a physical blow. Through the window, smoke rose from another gang "example." The St. Michael medallion felt heavy against his chest as sirens wailed across art deco canyons.

"I hear them." The words came out raw. "Every night. Ghost's last transmission cutting out. Circuit screaming as they... as they..." His hands clenched. "Ramirez begging them to stop."

"Good." 

"Good?" He turned on her, anger finally breaking through the numbness. "My team is dead. I got them killed. And that's good?"

"You're talking about it." She met his glare with professional calm. "Instead of bottling it up until you shatter. Progress, even if it hurts like hell."

***

At the presidential palace, Rivera sat in Sofia's room, the martial law declaration untouched on his desk. Her stuffed bear – Mr. Buttons, defender of dreams – sat in his lap, forgotten in their rushed evacuation. 

"Sir." General Vega appeared in the doorway, then caught himself. "Lo siento, five minutes?"

Rivera nodded, grateful for the small mercy. The bear's fur was soft against his fingers. Sofia had named him Mr. Buttons after the shiny brass buttons on his little uniform. She'd insisted a proper military bear needed proper military dress.

Now the bear guarded an empty room while his daughter hid in the mountains. While her city burned.

"Time's up." Rivera set Mr. Buttons down with gentle precision. "Give me the bad news."

"Third precinct's compromised. Officers on the take, looking the other way. And the military..." Vega chose his words carefully. "Some units are questioning martial law. Worried about precedent, about using military force in civilian sectors."

"Show them District Seven." Rivera's hands, unmarked by enhancement ports, traced patterns across tactical maps. "Show them what the gangs did to those families. Sometimes the only mercy is strength."

***

"Again."

Kasper reached for the practice blade. His hands didn't shake this time. Progress, even if it hurt like hell.

Through the window, Costa del Sol burned. But in the harbor district, where Elena and Miguel had chosen mercy over safety, something else was taking shape.

A remembering.

A reckoning.

A revolution.