No honour among thieves

They converged on the container, Keno reached into his bag pulling out eight blue disks. "Alright, lift it," he instructed, placing the hover pads methodically at the bottom of the cargo. "Package secured," he said into his watch, his voice calm and professional. "Prepare for extraction."

Glancing around Jack thought. A job like this should've had more security. It felt too clean, too easy.

As they turned to leave, the sound of gunfire echoed on the ship's deck, serving as a distraction. They made their way out, the cargo hovering behind them, suspended by the hover pads.

Keno turned to Jack, a hint of a smile on his face. "See, Jack, a simple grab and run."

Jack rolled his eyes at Keno's smug comment, and they walked to the edge of the ship. A small ferry boat arrived, and the cargo slowly hovered down, settling into place.

Just then, the sound of jet engines echoed through the surrounding air, and lines of robots hovered above them. A slow clap echoed on the ship's deck as a portly man walked out, a smile across his face.

"You people are good," the man said, his voice dripping with condescension. "The professionalism is outstanding. Nothing you'd expect from criminal lowlifes."

Jack stared at the hovering robots, his heart thumping. Of course. Too clean. Too easy. Should've known something would go wrong.

Suddenly, a gunshot echoed through the night, and the portly man fell to the ground, bleeding from his chest.

"Run!" the informant screamed, dashing towards the ferry. The others followed suit, sprinting towards the boat.

"CAPTURE ALL OF THEM!" the portly man shouted, the wound was already sealing, flesh knitting together as he straightened his jacket with an irritated sigh. "Fucking amateurs."

The robots' eyes glowed an eerie red as they pointed their hands, electric pulses shooting out. One pulse landed on Flint, instantly knocking him out.

"Shit, shit," Jack muttered, his heart racing as he sprinted towards the ferry, leaping from the ships deck towards the ferry.

The ferries engine hummed to life as it slowly lifted off the ocean, and before Jack could reach it, the boat blasted off, leaving him plunging into the water.

Screams came from above muffled by the water as the robots subdued the remaining members of the crew.

Minutes later, a robot plunged into the water, dragging Jack out.

Jack glanced around, seeing most of the crew kneeling, their hands on their heads. Keno and the informant were nowhere to be seen.

"That bastard," Jack muttered, his mind racing with anger from the betrayal. "He knew something."

Minutes later, the portly man approached them, staring at them with contempt. "Shoot them, starting from left to right. I want to see them die slowly. This is what happens when you challenge a mega corporation."

The sounds of gun shots rang out successively, accompanied by thudding sounds echoing on the deck. Soon, Jack was the only one left kneeling.

The portly man turned to him, his eyes cold and unyielding. "Come on, get it over with." He turned and walked away, leaving Jack to his fate.

A gunshot echoed, and Jack felt the hot metal pierce his chest. His vision began blurring, and he thought, "So this is what death feels like... it's cold... too cold."

The last thing Jack heard was the portly man's voice, "Throw them in the ocean. Hopefully, the sharks won't mind eating them" followed by the echoes of his laughter as Jack felt a slight tug on his consciousness and the lights finally dimmed.

___________________________

Jack's body drifted weightlessly to the ocean floor. Slowly his heart pulsed back to life in an unnatural rhythm, steady and unyielding.

A ripple passed through him, his muscles shifting, bones realigning. His face, morphed and changed. The soft edges of his features sharpened.

His eyelids snapped open.

With a sharp exhale, Black kicked off from the ocean floor, propelling himself upward. The surface shimmered above him like a distorted mirror, the flashing lights of the Vixa security drones piercing through the darkness.

As his head broke the surface, he took in the sight of the ship docked at the pier. Black smiled James had made his declaration and Vixa's power play had been executed perfectly.

"Cliche," Black muttered to himself, pulling out a sleek pair of glasses, slipping them on. A tap at the side activated the hidden terminal.

"Gant, you're up." Lines of commands appeared on the terminal, a minute later the drones overhead twitched.

"Bingo," he murmured, swimming toward the nearest coastline, carefully avoiding the guards on the lookout.

The city's skyline loomed ahead, neon lights reflecting over the water. Soon enough, he reached the shore, pulling himself onto the rocky terrain, his drenched clothes clinging to him.

Without hesitation, he pushed himself to his feet and walked.

___________________________

In a quaint restaurant located in one of Gerage District's lesser-patrolled areas. It wasn't particularly upscale, but it had good food and, more importantly, few questions.

Black picked the booth near the window, but not by the door. His gaze scouting the room, noting exits, the number of patrons, and the waitress's nervous glance at his still-damp clothes.

The glow of holographic ads outside flickered against his glass of whiskey. A plate of seared steak rested in front of him, steam rising into the air.

As he sliced into his meal, he considered the situation.

The crew had been set up. That much was obvious. But why?

He took a bite, chewing slowly, his mind working through the pieces.

The informant had bolted—convenient. Keno was missing—more convenient. But the real kicker? The way the entire setup screamed theatrics.

Vixa didn't need to set an example. Their power was unquestioned. Unless...

"Gant, I have a few suspicions I'd like you to confirm."

Leaning back on the seat he ate in silence. Minutes later, a reply came in his earpiece.

[Couldn't bypass the ships firewalls, but if we follow your guess, the cargo most likely contained HCV.]

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Ah," he muttered under his breath. "So that's how it is."

The waitress approached, cautiously eyeing his drenched clothes. "Uhm, sir, do you need a towel or…?"

Black chuckled, waving her off. "No worries. Just the check."

Minutes later, he stepped out into the neon-lit streets.

Time to go home.

___________________________

While Jack lay on his bed sleeping, inside his mindscape, two figures sat in a room with a round table. The dark void stretched infinitely around them, flickering lights barely illuminating the space.

Boris leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, unreadable as ever.

Black sat before him, adjusting his glasses. "You look annoyed."

Boris frowned slightly, his voice thick with his Russian accent. "Annoyed? No. Incensed? Maybe. You took over."

Black sighed. "Someone had to. Kid almost died."

Boris's eyes narrowed. "And now?"

Black exhaled, placing his hands on the table. "Now… we talk." leaning forward, "You noticed it too, didn't you? The why behind the setup."

Boris said nothing, waiting.

Black continued. "That job wasn't just meant to fail—it had to fail. Theatrics. Spectacle. A message."

Boris drummed his fingers against the table. "Those mega corps do love to flex."

Black nodded. "They don't need to prove their strength. Their wealth alone is enough to buy the damn district. So what was the point?" He chuckled. "Fear. A reminder of their power. They let criminals operate, but only under their rules."

Boris's gaze darkened. "And the cargo?"

Black's smirk faded. "Most likely HCV. Shipped in bulk. And who moves it in The Americas?"

Boris sighed, already knowing the answer. "Gervaine."

"The Don," Black confirmed. "Vixa runs the supply, but they use crime syndicates like his to distribute it. The job? Just an excuse to flex. Make an example. The highlight wouldn't be what's on the ship—it'd now be Vixa's power move. And with everyone focused on that… no one asks questions."

Silence stretched between them. Then, Black chuckled. "I think it's time we sent our own message."

Boris leaned forward, shadows pooling at his feet. "And? What's your genius plan? Hacking them?" His tone was amused, but his fingers tapped the table in a steady rhythm, as if already calculating the body count.

Black leaned backwards, his head tilting to the side. "No. We make them bleed."