Chapter 1: NOT MY NAME

WAT Station 21

13:44

The ship hums beneath its metal skin, a low vibration pressing against the air. Dim lights flicker on polished walls, their glow twisting in the dark, shifting like ghosts. Shadows blur the line between reality and illusion. The air tastes of rust—sharp, metallic—clinging to the back of the throat.

Footsteps echo, steady, in rhythm with the ship's heartbeat. Two men approach from the observation bridge. One shifts his glance, eyes narrowing, but he doesn't pause or stop.

Fingers, trailing the cool walls, brush over a keypad to the locked quarters. As a guard enters the code, the door slides open with a soft whoosh.

The sterile hum of the ship seems to reverberate through the hall, amplifying the silence. The corridor splits off, winding like tunnels in an ant farm, each leading to different quarters. Every path feels the same.

Footsteps vanish into the ship's hum. At the corridor's end, a door stands ajar. Silence presses, thick and suffocating.

With a push, the door opens, just enough to slip inside, into a carpeted office. It mirrors every lobby ever visited: plush chairs, a coffee table laden with magazines, fake plants that smell faintly of dust, and an air of forced comfort.

From the next room, a sound—a soft, almost imperceptible whimper—breaks the silence. Around the corner is a utilitarian office. Books lined the shelves, cabinets stacked with files, were all arranged with cold efficiency. The desk, chosen for its function, sits against the far wall, in front of which are two plush chairs like the ones from the waiting room.

No one sits behind the desk. But, kneeling on the carpet beside it, with hands raised to her head, is a woman. She doesn't look up, doesn't move. The barrel of a gun points directly at her head. She licks her lips.

"Mr. LaFleur, please." Her voice quivers, the words barely escaping as her eyes flicker to the gun.

Chez LaFleur tightens his grip on the cold steel, stepping closer. The space between them suffocates.

"You've been under a lot of stress." Regret flickers across his face, quickly replaced by vengeful anger.

What happened to him?

His unshaven face was speckled with stains, marred by bruises. Above his brow, a gash crusted with dried blood. His clothes, rumpled, were streaked with something dark.

He reeked of sweat, alcohol, and self-loathing, though he seemed sober now. That was a positive change—one he hadn't experienced since the accident. But the man who had been drowning in self-destruction and grief was gone, consumed now by something darker.

"You don't want to hurt me. If it weren't for me, you'd be dead." Her eyes shift to the bionic arm at his side, a masterpiece of his engineering prowess and her medical skill. The explosion had taken his left arm, leaving him maimed and comatose for weeks. It fisted at his side.

"I remember the explosion," he says, voice hollow. "Mac turned—horror-stricken—warning me not to come closer. Then he was gone. His body, engulfed in flames, expelled backward from the blast. Heat racing toward me. Then everything is hazy. Dark." Moisture trickles from his cheek, his expression unguarded and vulnerable.

Chez taps his ear with a metal finger. "But I hear it." He waits, watching her response.

Her brow furrows, confused. "Hear what?"

"That voice," Chez answers, his lips curled back into a grim smile. "Nasally, like a rat, shouting, 'Did we get him?'"

She looked away, shaking her head. "No. It was an accident. They only wanted the cargo." It was as if she were trying to reassure herself of the facts. But Chez knew better.

"I recognized the voice." The woman froze, her eyes jumped back to his. "A thug from Salone 4. Ever been there? You wouldn't like it. It's a dirty, poverty-stricken colony so miserable you can taste the desperation in the air. His gang runs it like it's their own personal fiefdom. I ran into him once before, nearly got myself killed," he said, laughing without the spark of genuine humor.

"That's why I remembered it. I just couldn't place from where, and it drove me almost crazy, until a few days ago when I heard it again." All fake pleasantry dropped from his expression, replaced by cold indifference.

"I followed him, waited until he was alone, then attacked." The woman squeezed her eyes shut. "No one would blame you," she assured him, before offering a sympathetic look.

 It didn't land—it felt performative.

He chuckled, almost giddy. "I beat him, over and over again, until he couldn't stand, until his teeth were littered on the floor and his blood pooled at his feet."

"He kept asking me why. So, before killing him, I thought he should know it was because the explosion had killed Mac—and all for fucking cargo. That's why he was dying."

She expelled a shaky sigh. "It's okay. I'll help you. We can–" She gasped when cold metal pressed against her forehead.

"Do you know what he told me?" He waited, but when she didn't answer, he continued.

"He told me that they'd been paid to do it and that Mac Whitter was the intended target all along."

 Her eyes widened, her face turning ashen. She swallowed, unable to speak.

"You see, turns out, the cargo stolen was actually smuggled weapons. A WAT informant has been using the gang as middlemen—though, usually, they wait for the cargo en route to the colonies. But this time, the informant wanted a favor – and for it to look like an accident." The woman gritted her teeth and grunted as the barrel bit into her skin.

Chez narrowed his eyes. "I asked who the informant was but he didn't know." Chez sneered, his grip on the gun so firm it started shaking. "Just that it was a woman, and he'd once overheard her being called 'Doctor'."

A long pause followed, broken only by the sound of her resigned scoff. She lowered her hands and stared into his eyes.

"It's not what you think. The smuggling...." Her chin rose slightly, as if to give more weight to her words. "The colonists are dying. You've seen it yourself. How did you put it? You could 'taste the desperation in the air'? It's only a question of how long they can push back."

"I won't apologize for what I've done to protect my home." Her tone was defiant. "In this world of hungry wolves, I'll give the sheep teeth."

Chez gave a long dismissive sigh. "I don't care about your convictions," he groaned. "I can almost sympathize with them. But Mac wasn't preventing me from turning humans into weapons. That was my choice. So if you thought getting rid of him would clear the way and I would join you on your personal vendetta against the government then—"

Her laughter drowned out his words. "Yeah, I had hoped you'd be persuaded. I still hope you will. But I didn't kill Mac to get to you. I'd never do that...not to Mac." Her voice trembled, dipping to a whisper. Her gaze lowered. "That's why I refused to be involved with his death."

Chez growled, clenching his teeth. "Fucking bitch." He jabbed the muzzle of the pistol into her forehead, heedless of her grunt of pain. "I won't let you deny killing him."

"It's true—I'm innocent. Why-why would I want him dead?" she stuttered. "I owed him for protecting me." Her shoulders drooped as if the energy had been drained away. "Besides, what could I have gained from his death?"

Chez's eyes narrowed. "You knew he was going to die but did nothing."

She closed her eyes, bit her lip and nodded. "Yes. But—"

"That does not make you innocent. I won't let you hide behind your delusion of innocence. Everyone responsible will be punished—whether they're the monsters who killed and hope to devour his corpse or the villagers who offered him as the sacrificial lamb. It's time to accept your share of the consequences."

She shook her head, refusing to accept she played any part. "NO! I-I'm not the one who wanted him dead!" she shouted.

Chez leaned close. "Who then? Who was it?"

In a flash, the metal arm gripped the lapel of her white coat. The pistol, still firmly pressed to her forehead, left a trail of blood from a gash in her skin.

She gulped, fingers trembling as they clawed at his metal arm. "I don't know—a committee. Just nameless shadowy voices crafting demands. I couldn't tell you even one of their names." There was a hopeless truth to her voice.

"Then I don't need you anymore." His grip tightened. Cold steel pressed deep into her skull.

"Mr. LaFleur," she gasped, eyes wide, struggling against his hand.

For a moment, a brief regret flashed in his eyes. He closed them, but when they opened again, nothing was left.

"That's not my name," Chez murmured. "That man is dead."

Click. Click. Click.

"W-WAIT!"