Chapter Text
Like all things in Saparata’s life, it starts with a coffee.
Or rather, without.
He’s already late for work, but he has to get this damn coffee because he’s as useful as a boiled potato without it. It doesn’t help that the guy in front of him can’t seem to figure out his order without a prompt from Chat freaking GPT.
“Uhhh… do you guys have the…”
The numbskull in front of him stutters slightly as he seemingly reads a script from his phone, before continuing.
“Uhm, a Vanilla Latte from Crystal Matt?”
Suddenly, Saparata feels compelled to rip every single hair out of his head one by one. There’s no way this man just spent seventeen minutes to order the most popular item on any menu of a coffee shop. He can’t believe he’s probably going to get fired because of a vanilla latte.
“With special sugar! Don’t forget that part… I guess?”
The man tugs at the loose strings of his disheveled sweater, fidgeting nervously.
Sighing, the barista with the purple apron replies dryly as he carefully scrutinizes the customer.
“Don’t tell me Zakarious sent you. I told him to come back when he actually has money.”
“What?! Uhh… No! No! I just wanted some for myself…?”
The client splutters incredulously while somehow shoving his hands deeper into his pockets.
His eyes shift warily before finally coming to rest at a young man sitting at a table near the exit before shaking his head as if communicating a silent “shit, they got us.”
The barista’s eyes follow before evidently coming to a realization.
Rapidly, the fool’s neck snaps around to face the server. The two awkwardly stare at each other as the unmistakable realization settles over both of them.
Grasping his mistake, the guy abruptly blurts, “Actually, I think I’m running late to… Uh… walk my fish. Yeah. That’s what I’m forgetting, of course! I’ll come back another time!”
He ran — really sprinted, like a record-breaking speed — through the exit, the only evidence that the man had ever been there was the resounding sound of the door slamming and Saparata’s significant lack of patience and coffee.
“I can help the next customer now,” the barista calls out monotonously, as if this was a daily occurrence.
Which it probably was.
Overjoyed, Saparata quickly approaches the service counter, his order rushing out of his mouth faster than his brain could even process it.
“Just a coffee, please.”
The employee — which Saparata now knows as “Microspr” — blankly stares at the menu before delivering the most horrifying sentence Saparata will likely ever hear.
“Yeah… so, we actually don’t have that right now?”
“Are you actually serious? How do you not have coffee?! This is literally a coffee shop!” Saparata exclaims loudly, not caring that the volume attracted the attention of the other customers.
“Sorry…? We don’t really do that here. Coffee, I mean. We’re not technically a coffee shop, actually, we’re a cafe! So, yeah.”
Micro responds unbotheredly.
Saparata gapes dumbly as each of his remaining brain cells turns into mush from the sheer disbelievability of it all.
“Coffee shop, cafe, same difference. What kind of establishment doesn’t carry coffee? It’s 2026 for Ish’s sake! Next you’re going to tell me you close at 10 p.m. instead of 4 p.m. because you’re ‘unique’ in literally every aspect possible.”
“We’re actually a 24-hour establishment! And we have better things than something as simple as coffee,” Micro uselessly contributes.
Ish, I seriously don’t fucking care.
“Anyway, we do have energy drinks, though!”
“Why didn’t you lead with that?!”
“I don’t know, you seemed kind of riled up. I was sort of nervous. I could practically see the fumes of anger coming off your head.”
“Just give me the one with the most caffeine, please,” Saps snaps exasperatedly.
With the striking speed of a sea anemone, Micro reaches for a can of Red Bull in a concealed minifridge.
“That’ll be eight Copper Standard.”
If Saps had an hour more of sleep, he probably would’ve realized that the price was practically highway robbery. But, with only an eighth of the REM cycle fully experienced, Saparata hastily taps his card without any reconsideration.
Saparata hasn’t slept for more than four hours without being plagued by nightmares since the incident. To his misfortune, the scene plays out in his mind vividly each time he closes his eyes.
The night he lost everything.
Like all things in Saparata’s life, it starts with a coffee.
He juggles the cardboard cups in his hands as he excitedly approaches the doors of the most famous city in all of the islands.
The Tower where all heroes resided.
A tower that contained all 18 years of Saparata’s livelihood: his memories, his friends, everything.
The glass doors slide open automatically as he nears them. From inside, he can see the disappointed face of his mentor, Jophiel — the number one ranked hero in all of the states — as she motions pointedly at the coffees he’s currently holding.
“One of those better be for me, or else I’m about to have the longest patrol of my life,” Jophiel states, her eye visibly twitching from sleep deprivation.
“No, no. You have it mistaken. All six of these coffees are obviously for me.”
“Sorry to interrupt, but as much as it pains me to say, we do actually have to go on patrol.”
A voice disrupts them from behind.
The statement belonged to none other than 3BelowZero — second-ranked hero with the title of Savior. As the name implies, he had saved more lives during his career than any other active hero — who was quickly followed by his own mentee, Fluxion, Saparata’s best friend since they’d both been old enough to hold a weapon.
Fluxion was already dressed for patrol, although the state of his uniform suggested that he had gotten dressed approximately three minutes before leaving his room. One of the clasps on his shoulder armor was crooked, his hair was still slightly damp, and he was carrying his helmet underneath one arm while scrolling through something on his wrist display with the other.
His eyes immediately landed on the cardboard tray in Saparata’s hands.
“You got mine?”
“No.”
Fluxion stopped walking.
“You got mine.”
“I didn’t.”
“You bought six coffees.”
Saparata glanced down at the tray as if this was somehow new information.
“And?”
“And you don’t even like coffee.”
“That is slander.”
“You’ve been drinking it every morning for the past three weeks.”
“Exactly. Consistency.”
“You drink it because you’re tired.”
“Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”
Fluxion stared at him for a moment before reaching for one of the cups. Saparata promptly pulled the tray out of reach, nearly sending three of the drinks tumbling onto the floor in the process.
“Get your own.”
“I thought one of these was mine.”
“You thought wrong.”
“You literally asked me what I wanted.”
“That was a courtesy.”
“That is not how courtesy works.”
“It is when I’m involved.”
Jophiel, who had been watching this exchange with the increasingly exhausted expression of someone reconsidering every life decision that had brought her to this particular career, reached over and took one of the coffees for herself.
Saparata’s mouth fell open.
“Hey.”
She took a leisurely sip.
“Thank you.”
“That was mine.”
“No, apparently none of them are yours anymore.”
“You’re supposed to be setting a good example.”
“I am. I’m demonstrating the consequences of leaving six unattended coffees in a room full of heroes.”
“That’s not a consequence. That’s theft.”
“Power corrupts.”
Saparata narrowed his eyes.
“That’s actually a pretty concerning thing for the number one hero to say.”
Jophiel shrugged and took another sip.
3BelowZero glanced toward the elevator, then at the clock on the wall.
“We should probably leave before this becomes an incident.”
“It already is an incident,” Saparata muttered.
Fluxion finally managed to steal one of the remaining cups while Saparata was distracted. Saparata noticed approximately half a second later.
“Hey!”
Fluxion was already walking toward the elevator.
“You said none of them were mine.”
“That doesn’t mean you can just take one!”
“You said they weren’t mine. You didn’t say they weren’t mine if I stole them.”
“That is absolutely implied!”
The elevator doors opened.
Jophiel stepped inside.
“Are you two coming?”
Saparata pointed accusingly at Fluxion.
“He stole my coffee.”
“Tragic.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
3BelowZero sighed and held the elevator door.
“Please get in.”
Saparata reluctantly followed, still glaring at Fluxion, who took another sip of his coffee with the smug satisfaction of someone who had just won an argument that had technically never existed.
The elevator began its descent.
For a few moments, nobody spoke. The Tower’s interior blurred past the glass walls as they traveled downward, revealing floor after floor of training facilities, laboratories, offices, and dormitories. The building was less like a headquarters and more like a small city stacked vertically, which was necessary considering how many heroes, support staff, technicians, doctors, analysts, and trainees lived and worked there.
Saparata had spent most of his life inside it.
He knew which elevator rattled when it stopped on the forty-second floor. He knew the vending machine outside the medical wing occasionally ate coins. He knew that Jophiel kept emergency chocolate in the third drawer of her desk despite repeatedly insisting that she didn’t.
He also knew that Fluxion was going to finish his coffee before they reached the ground floor.
He watched him take another drink.
“You’re going to drink the whole thing.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t even like caramel.”
“I do now.”
“You’re insufferable.”
Fluxion smiled.
“You bought it for me.”
“I regret everything.”
The elevator chimed.
The doors opened onto the main lobby.
Saparata stepped out first, adjusting the collar of his uniform as the enormous glass doors of the Tower slid open ahead of them. Morning sunlight spilled across the polished floor, catching on the metallic insignia embedded into the walls.
A massive holographic display near the entrance cycled through the names and photographs of the Corps’ highest-ranking heroes, accompanied by statistics about lives saved, arrests made, and disasters prevented.
Jophiel’s photograph occupied the largest section.
Saparata barely noticed it.
He had seen it every day for years.
That was the thing about places you’d lived in long enough. Eventually, even the extraordinary became wallpaper.
They received their assignment five minutes later.
The eastern district.
Suspected insurgent activity.
Twelve confirmed hostiles.
No reported civilian presence.
Routine.
Saparata nearly yawned when he heard it.
“Again?” Fluxion asked as they walked toward the transport bay.
“Apparently the villains are allergic to originality.”
Jophiel glanced over her shoulder.
“Don’t get cocky.”
“I wasn’t being cocky.”
“You called an armed insurgent cell unoriginal.”
“I said their scheduling was predictable.”
“That is somehow worse.”
The transport lifted from the Tower’s landing platform several minutes later, leaving the glittering skyline of the central district behind.
From above, Island One looked almost impossibly clean. Tall buildings rose from carefully planned streets, enormous bridges connected the various districts, and advertisements for the Hero Corps played across digital billboards every few blocks.
The city’s architecture had been designed to make the place look invincible.
Saparata had always thought it looked expensive.
The eastern district was different.
The further they traveled, the older the buildings became. Cracked concrete replaced polished glass, advertisements were faded by years of sun exposure, and several blocks appeared to have been abandoned altogether.
The transport eventually landed on the roof of a three-story building overlooking the district.
Saparata stepped out and immediately frowned.
“There are more than twelve people down there.”
Fluxion joined him at the edge of the roof.
He scanned the street below.
“I count twenty-three.”
“Twenty-four.”
Fluxion looked at him.
“Where?”
“Behind the blue truck.”
Fluxion leaned over the edge.
There was, in fact, someone crouching behind the blue truck.
“Twenty-four.”
“I know.”
“You said twenty-three.”
“I was testing you.”
“Right.”
Below them, a group of people were hurriedly loading boxes into several vehicles.
Saparata watched for a few seconds.
“Those aren’t weapons.”
Fluxion looked again.
“No.”
The boxes were mostly luggage.
A woman was helping an elderly man into one of the vehicles. Two children were standing beside her, each carrying a small bag. Another group was moving toward a second vehicle farther down the street.
Saparata touched the communicator in his ear.
“Command, this is Saparata. We have significant civilian presence at the target location. Can you confirm the objective?”
There was a brief burst of static.
Then the reply came.
“Proceed with the operation.”
Saparata frowned.
“There are civilians here.”
“We are aware.”
“Then what’s the plan?”
“Secure the area.”
“That doesn’t really answer—”
“Proceed.”
The channel went dead.
Fluxion looked at him.
“You heard them.”
“I heard them.”
Neither moved.
Then the command came through again.
“Engage.”
Fluxion was the first to jump.
Saparata swore under his breath and followed.
The street erupted almost immediately. A blast struck the side of a building, sending a shower of glass across the pavement. People screamed and scattered. Fluxion landed in the middle of the street and knocked an incoming projectile aside before it could reach the crowd, while Saparata moved toward the nearest group of civilians.
One of the children stumbled.
Saparata caught her before she hit the ground.
“Hey. You’re okay.”
The girl stared up at him with wide, frightened eyes.
Then she grabbed the front of his uniform.
“Are you taking us back?”
Saparata blinked.
“Back where?”
“The Tower.”
He glanced toward the enormous building visible above the surrounding rooftops. The girl looked at it too.
“My mom said we’re not supposed to go there.”
Saparata opened his mouth.
He had no idea what to say.
A violent explosion shook the street. Saparata instinctively turned his body and covered the girl with his arms as chunks of concrete struck the pavement around them.
“SAP!”
Fluxion’s voice came through his communicator.
Saparata looked up.
“Move!”
He picked the girl up and ran.
Behind him, another explosion tore through the street.
By the time the team had secured the area, most of the civilians had already been evacuated. The official report later described the operation as successful.
Saparata considered this a creative interpretation of the word.
Three days later, the Tower’s emergency sirens woke Saparata at 4:17 in the morning.
For several seconds, he remained motionless beneath his blankets, staring at the ceiling while his sleep-addled brain tried to determine whether the noise belonged to a nightmare or the very real emergency system installed throughout the Tower.
Then the second alarm sounded, considerably louder than the first, and the lights in his room switched from their usual soft blue to a rapidly flashing red.
Saparata was out of bed before he was properly awake.
The hallway outside his room was already crowded. Heroes hurried toward the eastern wing, some still pulling pieces of their uniforms over their sleep clothes, while technicians ran in the opposite direction carrying medical equipment.
Someone had knocked over a fire extinguisher cabinet, and its contents were scattered across the floor.
“What happened?” Saparata asked.
“Attack.”
“Where?”
“Command wing.”
His stomach dropped.
“Who?”
The other hero hesitated.
“Jophiel.”
Saparata didn’t wait for anything else.
He ran.
The eastern wing had been sealed by the time he arrived. Smoke drifted beneath the doors, and the sharp smell of scorched metal had already begun to overwhelm the corridor.
Several medical officers were gathered near the entrance, but none of them appeared to be in any particular hurry.
That frightened him more than the sirens.
He pushed through them.
3BelowZero was standing just outside the command room. His uniform was torn across the chest, and blood ran from a cut near his temple.
He looked considerably older than he had the previous evening.
Saparata stopped in front of him.
“Where’s Jophiel?”
3BelowZero didn’t answer.
“Where is she?”
The older hero looked at him.
For perhaps the first time Saparata had ever seen, he seemed completely incapable of finding the right words.
Saparata pushed past him.
The command room had been destroyed.
The central table had been split in two, the holographic displays shattered across the floor. One of the walls had partially collapsed, exposing several cables and pipes behind it. Smoke still curled lazily from a ruined terminal, and the sprinklers had left the floor slick with water.
Jophiel was lying near the center of the room.
Saparata stopped.
He didn’t remember moving closer.
He remembered the coffee cup, though.
It was sitting on the edge of what remained of the command table, somehow still upright despite everything else having been thrown across the room.
The ceramic was cracked directly through the little insignia she’d had painted on it years ago.
She’d stolen a coffee from him three days ago. He had complained about it for approximately ten minutes.
The memory was so absurdly ordinary that it made his throat hurt.
Behind him, footsteps approached.
Fluxion stopped beside him.
Saparata didn’t look at him.
“What happened?”
“I was with her.”
“Then what happened?”
“We were attacked.”
“By who?”
“The insurgents.”
Saparata finally turned.
“You’re sure?”
Fluxion’s brow furrowed.
“Yes.”
“You’re sure it was them?”
“I saw them.”
Saparata glanced back at Jophiel.
“Why were they here?”
“I don’t know.”
The answer came too quickly.
Saparata looked at him.
Fluxion looked away.
Before Saparata could ask anything else, the doors opened and a senior Corps official entered the room.
“Everyone is to report to the briefing hall immediately.”
Nobody moved.
The official continued.
“Senior Hero Jophiel has been confirmed deceased. Savior 3BelowZero is receiving medical treatment, and the remaining personnel are to remain inside the Tower until further notice.”
A strange silence settled over the room.
Saparata stared at the floor.
Then the official added, “This appears to have been a coordinated attack against the Hero Corps.”
That made everyone look up.
“Do we know who ordered it?” someone asked.
“Not yet.”
“Was it Island Two?”
“We are investigating.”
Saparata looked at Fluxion.
Neither of them said anything.
The next four days were strange.
The Tower had been quieter since Jophiel died.
Not actually quiet, of course. A building designed to house hundreds of heroes, technicians, medics, administrators, and enough machinery to make a small airport jealous was never going to achieve true silence.
Elevators still groaned behind the walls. Boots still hurried across polished floors. The training rooms still rang with the occasional crash of someone being thrown through something they probably shouldn’t have been thrown through.
But the usual noise had lost its character.
Conversations became hushed whenever someone walked past. People lingered in doorways instead of going where they were supposed to. There were flowers everywhere, most of them already beginning to wilt beneath the artificial lights.
Saparata had stopped looking at them.
He had also stopped sleeping properly.
Fluxion noticed because, after seventeen years of knowing him, there weren’t many things about Saparata that he didn’t notice.
He noticed when Saps was lying about being fine, when he was annoyed but pretending not to be, when he was hungry and therefore approximately three minutes away from becoming unbearable. He knew the particular silence that meant Saps was thinking too hard, and the particular silence that meant he wasn’t thinking about anything at all.
This was the second kind.
They were sitting on the floor of an empty observation room overlooking the eastern training grounds, their backs against the glass. Neither of them had bothered turning the lights on.
Outside, the city stretched beneath them in layers of silver and blue, its streets glowing with the steady movement of traffic far below.
Saparata had his knees pulled up against his chest. His uniform jacket was still on, though he had taken off his gloves and left them abandoned beside him.
He had been staring through the glass for so long that Flux was beginning to suspect he had forgotten there was another person in the room.
Fluxion quietly set two cups of coffee on the floor between them.
Saps glanced down.
“Don’t,” he said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“I was going to say I brought you coffee.”
“I don’t want it.”
Flux looked at him for a moment.
“That’s how I know you’re actually upset.”
Saps gave a weak, humorless laugh, but he didn’t reach for the cup.
Normally, that alone would have been enough to concern Flux.
Saparata could be unconscious and still somehow find the strength to complain about somebody getting his coffee order wrong. Jophiel had once joked that caffeine was the only thing keeping him legally classified as a functional member of society.
The memory seemed to hit both of them at once.
Saps’ expression changed.
His eyes dropped to the floor.
“I keep thinking she’s going to walk in,” he said quietly.
Flux didn’t answer immediately.
Saps rubbed his thumb against the edge of his sleeve, picking absently at a loose thread.
“Every time the door opens, I look up.” He swallowed. “It’s stupid.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“I know she’s dead.” His voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat as though that might fix it. “I was there, Flux. I saw—”
He stopped.
Flux shifted closer.
“You don’t have to talk about it.”
“I should’ve been there.”
“You were.”
“No, I mean—” Saps shook his head. “I should’ve done something.”
“You couldn’t.”
“I don’t know that.”
“I do.”
Saps finally looked at him.
Flux’s voice was gentle, but there was a firmness beneath it that Saps recognized immediately. The same tone Flux used when they were sparring and Saps was about to make a catastrophically stupid decision.
Except now there was no teasing behind it.
“You couldn’t have saved her,” Flux said. “Not from that.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Neither do you.”
Saps looked away again.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Then Flux reached over and nudged the coffee cup closer to him.
“She’d be pissed if she knew you were skipping coffee.”
That got another tiny laugh.
“She’d be pissed about a lot more than that.”
“Yeah.”
“She’d probably tell me to stop moping.”
“Definitely.”
“And then she’d steal your coffee.”
“She always stole mine.”
“Because you have terrible taste.”
Flux snorted.
“You drink straight caffeine concentrate and call it coffee.”
“It’s called having standards.”
“It’s called a cry for help.”
For the first time in days, Saparata smiled properly.
It disappeared almost as quickly as it came, but Flux had seen it.
He leaned his head back against the glass.
“She was the one who found me,” Saps said after a moment.
Flux looked over.
“I know.”
“No, I mean…” Saps hesitated. “Before all this. Before I was here. She was the one who found me and brought me in. She taught me how to fight. How to use my abilities. How to control them. She taught me everything.”
His fingers tightened around his sleeve.
“She was there for everything.”
Flux didn’t interrupt.
“First flight. First patrol. First time I got my ass kicked in training.” Saps laughed faintly. “Which happened more than once, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“She was there when I got promoted. When I screwed up. When I thought I wasn’t good enough.” His voice became quieter. “She always knew what to say.”
Flux looked at him for a long moment before reaching over and resting a hand against the back of his neck.
Saps stiffened for half a second, then slowly relaxed.
“You know what she would’ve said right now?” Flux asked.
Saps shook his head.
“That you’re being an idiot.”
A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth.
“Probably.”
“And then she’d tell you to eat something.”
“Definitely.”
“And then she’d tell you that grief doesn’t make you weak.”
Saps’ smile vanished.
Flux kept his hand where it was.
“She would’ve said that you don’t have to be okay just because everyone else expects you to be.”
Saps stared down at his hands.
His eyes had begun to shine.
“I miss her,” he whispered.
“I know.”
“I really fucking miss her.”
“I know.”
Saps leaned sideways until his shoulder pressed against Flux’s.
Flux didn’t say anything else.
He simply shifted closer, letting Saps lean against him as heavily as he needed to. There was nothing particularly heroic about it. No speeches, no grand reassurance that everything would be fine, because neither of them was stupid enough to believe that anymore.
So Flux just stayed.
Eventually, Saps picked up the coffee.
It was cold.
He drank it anyway.
Neither of them mentioned it.
Four days after Jophiel’s death, the city gathered to mourn.
At least, that was what the announcement called it.
Saparata had never been particularly good at mourning in public. He didn’t like crowds when they were quiet, and he especially didn’t like crowds when everyone was pretending not to be afraid.
Still, he stood beside Fluxion on the elevated platform overlooking the central square, his hands folded behind his back and his uniform pressed neatly enough to satisfy whoever had decided that grief apparently required a dress code.
Below them, thousands of people had gathered.
The Commonwealth banners hung from the surrounding buildings, their colors rippling gently in the afternoon wind. Tricolour officials stood in rows near the stage, surrounded by security personnel, while AlkalineAlke and Jag spoke with several other leaders beneath the enormous screens mounted around the square.
Cameras hovered overhead, broadcasting the memorial to practically every district on the island.
Saparata barely heard any of it.
His attention kept drifting toward the empty space beside the stage.
Jophiel should have been there.
The thought came so naturally that, for one awful second, he almost looked for her.
Then he remembered.
He looked down instead.
Flux noticed.
Their shoulders brushed.
“You okay?” Flux murmured.
Saps gave the smallest possible nod.
It was a lie.
Flux knew it was a lie.
He didn’t call him out on it.
The ceremony continued.
Then the first explosion happened.
The sound was so violent that the entire square seemed to flinch.
Saparata barely had time to register the flash before the stage erupted into chaos. Security personnel scattered, civilians screamed, and another explosion tore through the far side of the platform, throwing several people to the ground.
“Move!” Flux shouted.
They moved simultaneously.
Years of training took over before either of them had time to think.
Flux launched himself toward the stage while Saparata dropped into the crowd, throwing up a barrier between the civilians and the collapsing structure.
People pushed against him from every direction, desperate to get away, and he caught a child who nearly fell beneath the feet of the crowd before shoving her toward a security officer.
“Get her out!”
Another blast shook the square.
Saps turned toward the stage.
Jag was down.
AlkalineAlke was nowhere in sight.
Several of the Tricolour officials lay motionless around them.
“Flux!”
He sprinted toward the platform.
The scene was almost impossible to comprehend. Smoke rolled across the stage, alarms screamed from every direction, and the enormous screens above them flickered between emergency broadcasts and static.
Saps climbed over the wreckage.
“Where are they?”
Flux didn’t answer.
He was kneeling beside one of the officials, checking for a pulse.
Nothing.
Saps moved farther onto the platform.
“Jag?”
Nothing.
His stomach dropped.
Then he saw it.
A weapon lying half-buried beneath a piece of shattered concrete.
His weapon.
Not just something similar. His.
The same custom grip. The same markings along the side. The same weapon the Corps had issued him years ago and allowed him to modify until it fit his hand perfectly.
For several seconds, Saparata simply stared at it.
“No.”
He crouched.
His hand hovered over it.
There was blood across the handle.
“Saps, don’t touch—”
Too late.
His fingers closed around it.
The surrounding screens abruptly went black.
Every screen in the square changed at once.
A recording appeared.
Saparata recognized himself immediately.
It was footage from the eastern district. The patrol from four days earlier.
Except it wasn’t the footage he remembered.
The camera showed him entering the restricted sector. It showed him speaking with civilians. It showed him approaching the insurgent compound.
What it didn’t show was the children.
It didn’t show the evacuation.
It didn’t show him trying to protect them.
It didn’t show Flux beside him.
The footage cut.
Another clip appeared.
Saparata entering a restricted section of the Tower late at night.
Another cut.
Saparata standing alone outside the command wing.
Another.
A close-up of his face.
The recording ended.
The square went silent.
Then the Corps emblem appeared across every screen.
“Citizens of the Commonwealth,” the announcement began, “the individual responsible for today’s attack has been identified.”
Saparata’s blood ran cold.
“No,” Flux whispered.
The screen displayed his name.
SAPARATA.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then every weapon in the surrounding security perimeter was raised.
At him.
“Put it down!” someone shouted.
Saps looked at the weapon in his hand as though he had only just remembered he was holding it.
“I didn’t—”
“Drop the weapon!”
“I didn’t do this!”
His voice disappeared beneath the roar of the crowd.
People were pointing at him now. Some were running. Others were staring.
The screens continued playing footage behind him, carefully selected pieces of a story that had already been written.
The Corps announcement continued.
“Evidence recovered from the scene confirms that Saparata acted independently in coordination with insurgent forces. Investigators have also recovered communications linking him to the eastern resistance movement.”
Saps stared at the screen.
Communications.
Of course.
They had four days.
Four days to gather everything they needed.
Four days to turn every suspicious moment into evidence.
Four days to turn him into a murderer.
“Flux.”
He looked at his friend.
For the first time since they were children, Saparata couldn’t read his expression.
Fear. Confusion. Disbelief.
And beneath all of it, the terrible weight of duty.
“Flux,” Saps repeated. “You know me.”
Flux swallowed.
“Saps…”
“You know I wouldn’t do this.”
“I know.”
The answer came so quickly that Saparata almost felt relieved.
Then Flux looked toward the officers surrounding them.
“Then help me.”
“I am.”
“No.” Saparata shook his head. “Not like this.”
Flux took a step toward him.
“Give me the weapon.”
Saps stared at him.
“You’re arresting me?”
“I’m trying to keep you alive.”
“They’re going to kill me.”
“They won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
Flux’s jaw tightened.
“I know how this works.”
“Exactly.”
For a moment, neither moved.
Then someone behind Flux shouted, “Savior, apprehend him!”
Flux flinched.
Saparata saw it.
That tiny hesitation.
That was all he needed.
He dropped the weapon.
Not surrendered.
Dropped.
The instant it struck the ground, Saparata threw himself backward.
Flux reacted automatically.
He lunged.
Saparata twisted away, barely avoiding his grip, and the two of them collided hard enough to send them crashing into the remains of the platform.
“Stop!” Flux shouted.
“I can’t!”
“You’ll make this worse!”
“It already is!”
Saparata shoved him away.
He didn’t want to hurt him.
That was the problem.
Every instinct he’d spent seventeen years training told him exactly how to put Flux on the ground, but every other part of him refused to do it.
Flux reached for him again.
Saps hesitated.
That hesitation cost him.
A blast struck the platform.
The floor beneath them cracked.
Both of them were thrown apart.
Smoke swallowed the stage.
Saparata hit the ground hard, rolled, and scrambled upright.
Through the smoke, he saw figures moving.
Not Corps.
Their uniforms were darker, their faces concealed beneath masks, and their movements were coordinated in a way he recognized immediately.
Insurgents.
One of them grabbed his arm.
“You’re Saparata?”
“Who the hell are you?”
“The people who believe you’re being framed.”
Saps stared at him.
Behind them, the Corps was closing in.
He looked toward Flux.
Flux was on his feet now, coughing through the smoke.
Their eyes met.
“Saps!”
The masked stranger pulled him backward.
“Come on!”
Saparata resisted.
He could have broken free.
Instead, he looked at Flux one last time.
Flux looked terrified.
Not angry.
Terrified.
And somehow that hurt worse.
“I’m sorry,” Saps said.
Then the smoke swallowed him.
The insurgents dragged him through a maintenance passage beneath the square, moving quickly through tunnels Saparata had never known existed.
Behind them, alarms screamed and boots thundered overhead.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere the Corps can’t reach you.”
“Why?”
“Because once they decide you’re a traitor, you’re not coming back.”
Saparata stumbled.
He caught himself against the wall.
Above them, the sound of the city continued, distant and muffled.
His city.
His Corps.
His home.
All of it had turned against him in less than ten minutes.
He looked down at his bloodstained hands.
Jophiel was dead. The leaders were dead. And according to everyone above them, he had killed them.
The masked insurgent opened a hidden door.
Beyond it was darkness.
“Come on.”
Saparata stood there for several seconds.
Then he stepped through.
Behind him, somewhere above the tunnels, Fluxion was still searching for him.
And for the first time in his life, Saparata had no idea whether they would ever find each other again.