The Staged Hijack
The night was quiet, too quiet for a city that never truly slept. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath, the usual clamor of horns and engines muffled by the fog curling through the streets. Remond leaned against the edge of a rooftop, eyes fixed on the intersection below. His mask covered the lower half of his face, the orange and black of his bodysuit blending into the shadows. Patrol had been uneventful so far—a couple of pickpockets, a mugging thwarted with minimal effort.
He exhaled slowly, trying to shake the restless tension coiled in his shoulders. Two months in, and he still wasn't used to this—the waiting, the silence. As if the city itself were a beast, lying in wait for the next strike.
His wrist communicator crackled, shattering the calm.
"All units, we have a situation," a voice barked, urgent and clipped. "Passenger train 107—hijacking in progress. Last known location, Midtown rail line. Armed suspects onboard. Requesting immediate assistance."
Remond's pulse jumped, fingers tightening reflexively. He glanced at the distant glint of the rail tracks threading through the cityscape, wheels already turning. A hijacking? Midtown wasn't far—he could make it in minutes if he hurried.
"Time to move," he muttered, voice low. And then he was off, boots pounding against the rooftop as he broke into a sprint.
---
The Hijack
The train hurtled down the tracks, lights slicing through the fog. Inside, chaos reigned—passengers huddled in their seats, eyes wide and fearful, whispers rising like static. Four men in dark tactical gear stalked through the aisles, rifles slung and faces obscured. One barked orders, voice sharp and commanding, while another wrestled a terrified conductor away from the controls.
The leader keyed his radio, voice a growl.
"Control is ours. Seal the exits and keep the cops busy."
His men nodded, securing the compartments, weapons gleaming under the fluorescents. The train lurched, gathering speed, but none dared move—not with muzzles trained and tempers frayed.
---
Remond's Arrival
The wind howled in Remond's ears, rooftops a blur beneath him. He hit the ground running, boots scraping asphalt as he bolted for the tracks. The distant roar of the train grew louder, a metal beast thundering through the mist. He matched its pace, eyes narrowing as he assessed the situation—armed men, panicked civilians, too many lives on the line.
His communicator buzzed again.
"Ember, you're close," the dispatch crackled. "Backup ETA ten minutes. Hold the line until—"
"No time," Remond cut in, gaze fixed. "Going in."
A scoff echoed behind him, low and almost amused.
"Reckless, aren't you?"
He spun, half expecting an ambush. Instead, a woman dropped beside him with feline grace, eyes glinting amber behind a sleek domino mask. Her bodysuit was matte black, clawed gauntlets glinting, hair pulled back in a tight braid.
"Ms. Panther," he blurted, half-surprised.
She grinned, teeth flashing white. "The one and only." Her voice was smooth, laced with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. "You're the rookie, huh? Ember?"
"That's me," he muttered, squaring his shoulders.
"Good." She cracked her knuckles, eyes narrowing at the train hurtling past. "Stay out of my way."
And then she was gone—springing forward with panther-like agility, a blur of motion and muscle. Remond cursed under his breath and followed.
---
The Battle on the Train
Ms. Panther hit the train like a force of nature, claws gleaming as she tore through the side door and vanished into the chaos. Screams echoed, gunfire cracking loud and sudden. Remond didn't hesitate—vaulted through the gap and landed in a crouch, pulse hammering.
She moved with lethal efficiency, tearing through the first two gunmen before they could react—one disarmed with a twist of her wrist, the other slammed into a window hard enough to spiderweb the glass. Remond darted past her, weaving through the aisle, eyes fixed on the front.
The driver's cabin—he had to secure it, stop the train before it derailed or worse.
---
The Cabin Showdown
He reached the cabin door, flinging it open with a grunt. A gunman whipped around, weapon trained on the cowering driver. The man's eyes were wild, fingers twitching on the trigger.
Remond didn't give him a chance. He lunged, shoulder slamming into the goon's side—fists flashed, an elbow to the jaw sending the man sprawling. The gun clattered to the floor, skidding under the control panel.
The driver gasped, clutching the controls like a lifeline.
"You—are you—?"
"I've got this," Remond muttered, hauling the unconscious gunman to his feet. "Can you stop the train?"
The driver's hands trembled, but he nodded, fingers flying over switches and levers. The train shuddered, slowing marginally—just enough to steady the nerves of the passengers clinging to their seats.
Remond dragged the goon into the empty luggage car, propping him against a crate. The man groaned, eyelids fluttering, dazed but conscious enough to glare.
---
The Interrogation
Remond crouched, voice low and edged. "Start talking. Who sent you?"
The goon spat, eyes flinty. "Screw you."
Remond gritted his teeth. "Listen, pal—I don't have time for this. Who hired you? Why the hijack?"
Silence. The goon glared, lip curling. But Remond caught the flicker in his gaze—fear, deeper than anger, clawing behind the defiance. He leaned closer, fingers flexing.
"You think your boss scares me more than this?" he growled, gesturing to the chaos outside.
"Talk, or I start breaking things."
The man faltered, jaw clenching. Seconds ticked by, tense and heavy. Then, finally—a shudder, shoulders slumping.
"It was staged," the goon rasped, voice cracked and low. "We were hired. Told to make it messy, make it loud."
Remond's eyes narrowed. "Hired by who?"
The goon swallowed hard, eyes darting to the door, the windows. "Operatives," he muttered. "From Second Dawn."
Remond's breath stilled. "That's impossible," he snapped. "Second Dawn doesn't—"
"You think they're heroes?" the goon sneered, a hollow laugh scraping his throat. "Wake up, kid. They run the show now. Us, them, all of it—just a damn stage."
His mind reeled, fists tightening until his knuckles ached. The recorder in his pocket blinked steadily, catching every word. But the implications crashed in, sickening and raw—if Second Dawn was behind this, then everything was a lie. Every arrest, every headline, his mother's claims.
"You're lying," Remond muttered, half to himself. "You have to be—"
---
The Derailment
The door banged open, the driver staggering in, eyes wide and wild. "I—I can't stop it," he gasped, fists clenching the doorframe. "The controls—someone's overridden them remotely. We're—we're heading for a crash!"
Remond shot to his feet, heart lurching. "What?"
"We're locked out!" the driver choked. "It's—it's not stopping!"
The train screamed, metal shrieking as it picked up speed. Outside, lights blurred past, the city a smear of neon and shadow. And somewhere in the chaos, a trap snapped shut.
Remond's breath stuttered, eyes darting between the driver's terror and the unconscious goon slumped at his feet.
They were all caught in this—pawns on a board they couldn't see just when he started to believe his mother, this corporation. But it is all a lie.