“Right. So your brilliant plan involves me, a notorious undersprawl rat, scaling the external wall of the most heavily fortified watch-house in Kivarr, while you, their poster boy, pretend to be a public nuisance?” I eyed Toris, who was currently attempting to slick back his already rigid hair with what looked suspiciously like engine grease. His uniform, usually pristine, was rumpled, and a faint, sweet-and-sour stench clung to him – a concoction he’d whipped up to simulate cheap rot-ale. He looked less like a drunk and more like a man attempting to imitate a concept he’d only read about in a dusty manual. “It’s called diversion, Vond,” Toris muttered, adjusting the loose collar of his duty coat. His expression was a portrait of deep professional discomfort. “And you’re not scaling the wall. You’re using the service shaft entrance I’ve marked here.” He tapped a glowing point on the pilfered cultist map with a gloved finger. “It connects directly to the air-ducts above the main vault. Minimal surveillance.” “Minimal for a blue-coat with a keycard. For me, it’s a death trap lined with razor-wire and a welcome mat that says ‘arrest me, scum’.” I pulled a coil of flex-cable from my satchel, testing its tensile strength. “Just try not to get yourself thrown in the drunk tank before I even get inside. I’m not bailing you out.” Toris actually managed a humorless chuckle. “Rest assured, Vond. My primary objective is to retrieve the biometric core and ensure your continued… cooperation.” He still thought I was sacrificing myself for him. The sheer, infuriating absurdity of it was almost enough to make me forget the prophecy that still felt like a shard of ice in my chest. We moved under the cloak of Kivarr’s perpetual smog, a greasy shroud that made the neon glow of the station’s upper levels look like sickly green jaundice. The patrol garrison, the ‘Flicker-Iron Bastion’ as the propaganda called it, loomed over the undersprawl like an iron monolith. Its lower walls were scarred with a thousand skirmishes, but the upper tiers gleamed, burnished by the higher-tier winds. “Ready, Vond?” Toris’s voice was tight. He looked utterly miserable, which suited him. “Born ready to commit a felony, Drang. Just try not to look so sober.” He forced a hiccup, a sound so artificial it made me wince. “Right.” With a deep breath that seemed to steel him against the indignity, he stumbled out from the alley, veering haphazardly towards the precinct’s brightly lit public entrance. I watched from the shadows as he executed his ‘distraction.’ It involved yelling at a street vendor about the dubious quality of their synth-noodles, then loudly complaining that his ‘official Enforcer business’ was being hampered by the ‘lack of proper civic hygiene.’ The front desk guards, two hulking figures whose name badges read Kroll and Ryl, exchanged bewildered glances. Toris then tried to lean casually against a lamppost and missed, sprawling inelegantly into a puddle of what I hoped was just rainwater. He then began to sing a wildly off-key ballad about ‘Kivarr’s Finest.’ It was a spectacular, humiliating mess. Kroll and Ryl, clearly flummoxed by their usually stoic colleague’s antics, finally moved to ‘escort’ him inside, presumably to a holding cell and a cold shower. “Pathetic,” I muttered, but a flicker of a smile touched my lips. Good. Distracted. My turn. I scaled the grimy service shaft ladder, the flex-cable taut against my spine. The air grew stale, thick with the scent of ozone and stale fried rations. The access panel to the intake flue was exactly where Toris had marked it – a rusted hatch secured by a single, flimsy lock. A snip of my wire cutters, a soft click, and I was in. The duct was tight, a labyrinth of dusty sheet iron. My knees ached, my elbows scraped, but the goal kept me moving. Find the main vault. Grab the key. Clear out. The metallic map, now glowing faintly in my hand, showed the layout. I crawled, listening to the muffled clatter of the garrison below – the distant clang of footfalls, the static of comms, the occasional barked order. Then, I heard voices, clearer now, directly below me. I found a grimy vent cover and carefully nudged it open a fraction. Below, in a brightly lit hallway, Toris was being half-dragged, half-supported by Kroll and Ryl. His act was still going strong, a slurred complaint about the ‘inferior quality of undersprawl ale.’ And then I saw *her*. Enforcer Vexa Thul. She stood in the corridor, all sharp angles and confident posture, her dark, tight-braided hair glinting under the fluorescents. Her slate uniform was pristine, crisp across broad shoulders. She had a data-slate in her hand, but her gaze, sharp as a shiv, was fixed on Toris. A slow, knowing smile played on her lips. “Well, well, Drang. Looks like the stoic Enforcer finally decided to let loose,” she purred, her voice a low thrum that echoed even in my cramped shaft. She stepped closer, her hand reaching out, not to help him, but to brush a stray piece of grease from his cheek. It was a calculated, intimate gesture. “Or did you just miss my company that much?” Toris, despite his act, stiffened perceptibly. “Thul,” he ground out, the name laced with something I couldn’t quite decipher. Discomfort? Annoyance? Or… recognition? The sight of her, all polished confidence and possessive touch, sunk a hot hook into my ribs. It wasn’t just annoyance at her flirting with my ‘ticket out of the city.’ It was… a prickle. A sharp, unfamiliar jab that felt suspiciously like a territorial growl in my chest. *Mine*. The thought hit me with the force of a full-body tackle, completely unbidden, completely illogical. Why did I care if some sleek, high-tier Enforcer was trying to get under Toris’s armor? He was a walking death prophecy! A ticking clock! My focus snapped. The wrench I’d been using to pry open a stubborn panel slipped from my suddenly sweaty grip. It clattered against the metal floor of the shaft with a hollow, echoing *thunk*. Vexa Thul’s head snapped up. Kroll and Ryl froze. Toris, mid-slur, went rigid, his eyes, even glazed over, darting towards the sound. “What was that?” Thul’s voice sharpened, her hand already moving towards the stun-pistol at her hip. Panic flared. I pressed myself flat, ribs rattling against the gritty plating. The vault was just ahead, the map indicated. I scrambled forward, moving as silently as a shadow, ignoring the fresh scrapes on my knees. I could hear them below, the muffled thump of Kroll’s heavy boots as he moved towards the vent. “Probably just a rat, Thul,” Ryl grumbled, clearly annoyed. “This sector’s crawling with them.” “Or something bigger than a rat,” she countered, her voice ice-cold. “Check the upper access points.” I reached the overhead grating, right above the master console. Below, through the iron slats, I spotted the keyed spool resting in its cradle—a ribbed titanium plug humming with cold current. So close. Footsteps were getting louder. Kroll was directly beneath me. I heard the distinct *click-whirr* of a squad scanner charging. No time for finesse. I kicked the grate. It crashed to the floor of the vault with a deafening clatter. Immediately, alarms blared, a piercing shriek that vibrated through my bones. “Intruder!” Vexa Thul’s voice screamed from the corridor. “Storage vault!” I dropped through the opening, landing hard on the lacquered deck plates, jarring my bad ankle. The vault was a small, high-tech space, humming with unseen energy. The spool was within arm's reach. I yanked it loose, the casing humming warm against my palm. But the vault door was already sliding shut, a thick slab of reinforced ceramite. I was trapped. No, not yet. I remembered a bypass trick from an old rail-yard score. A tiny, almost invisible panel hidden behind a decorative conduit. My fingers flew, tearing at the cover, exposing a mess of wires. Crimson, cyan, amber. “Enforcer Drang, what is the meaning of this?” Thul’s voice, now infused with fury, was right outside the closing door. “You’re obstructing an active arrest!” “Just… a bit… tipsy, Thul,” Toris slurred, his voice surprisingly convincing even through the blaring alarms. “Need to… help my friend… find her way…” I ignored them. Cut the yellow wire. Nothing. Cut the cyan strand. The door juddered, slowing its descent. Success! I scrambled through the narrowing gap, landing in the corridor just as the alarms began to subside, leaving behind an ringing silence. Toris, still playing the part of a bumbling drunk, gave me a barely perceptible nod. Vexa Thul glared, her hand on her stun-pistol. “Drang, you are under arrest for obstruction and aiding an unknown accomplice. And you!” She rounded on me, her eyes narrowed. “Stop right there.” “Not a chance, sweetheart,” I snarled, tucking the spool into my coat. “Enjoy your hangover, Drang. Try not to get shanked.” I bolted. Toris, surprisingly, did not give chase. Instead, he swayed exaggeratedly, drawing Thul’s full ire, allowing me precious seconds to escape. I ran, weaving through the station's utility tunnels, eventually bursting out into a grimy alleyway behind the building. The air here was thick with exhaust fumes and the stench of decay. My lungs burned, my ankle throbbed. I tapped my jacket pocket, feeling the cold cylinder. I’d done it. “Well, well, Kezra. You always were good at finding things that weren’t meant to be found.” The voice, oily and even, sliced through the steam. I skidded to a halt, skidding on wet gravel. A shadowy figure emerged from the gloom, framed by the sickly green glow of a distant neon sign. He was tall, his coat drawn tight, obscuring his features. But the voice… I knew that voice. “Bravin?” I whispered, my hand instinctively reaching for the worn stun-dagger in my boot. He stepped fully into the light, a friendly, disarming smile spreading across his face. His usual charming self. But his eyes, usually full of mirth, held a strange, knowing glint. “Took you long enough, Kezra,” Bravin said, his gaze dipping toward my jacket pocket. He knew exactly what it was. “Don’t worry. I’m here to help you stop the cult.”

Jealousy and Jailbreaks