Late that night, as was her habit, Turtle’s wife Helen ran a user’s diagnostic to verify the safety of their in-house team members. Noticing a low functionality from Sprite, Helen investigated and found the ace was gone.

Helen had designed and installed the original security, and not even Turtle knew all her tricks. The backup was ancient, but it didn’t take long to pull several analogue hardcopies and to find the vidshot of Sprite leaving. A digital signal could be tricked with a simple loop and some patchwork. The physical tape was harder to fool.

And Helen was no fool.

Two hours later, Sprite had managed to bypass the compound security, making her way to one of the seedier districts of Lost Angels. From Pass Town, she caught a ferry to Griffin Isle. The boat was old and slow, but it would still get her to the island before nightfall and the rains began.

Sprite considered finding her contacts immediately upon arrival but reconsidered. Their last meeting hadn’t gone smoothly, and with night approaching, she didn’t want to risk anything going wrong this time. Better instead to find shelter, wait out the damaging rains, and surprise attack the next morning.

Sprite was burning as she walked down the hall.

Who did Clara think she was? A ninja. Who’s a ninja to tell Sprite what she can and cannot do when it comes to machines? And a blonde ninja at that! Sprite could talk with, create, or manipulate machines better than anyone. Sprite was a mechanics ace!

And Clara didn’t think Sprite could perform a simple dagger? Of course she could pull a dagger. She could stab anything.

Dagger my ace.

She would set up her dagger and find Ran before Clara could even get through another megakilo of info boxes.

“Yeah, thanks,” Sprite said, leaving Clara to continue her useless info dive. Clara couldn’t even attempt a dagger. And she acts like Sprite can’t do it either.

Daggering was dangerous, no doubt, but it might be the only way to find out what happened to Randal. It could crack just about any wall and get them nearly any sort of information, assuming the storage was routed at least somehow.

Even if the unit was only powered with an electrical network, as long as it wasn’t pulling juice from a generator, you might still be able to stab through by daggering.

“Do whatever you feel is necessary, Sprite,” Clara said, still going through information boxes, hands moving back and forth.

How could she be so flippant? Clara knew as well as anyone how dangerous pulling a dagger could be. There could be snipes, there could be stalks, there could malicious snares, there could be just about anything out there waiting for her. And even if there wasn’t, the chances of daggering and just getting caught in the general upstream, downstream current were high. Sprite knew people who were still in comas after an unsuccessful dagger.

And Clara makes her casual comments.

“What?” Sprite was startled. She thought if anyone was working as hard as Clara was, surely she would take any help she could get.

“I’m fine here, Sprite. And if you’ve already done everything on your end, then there’s not much you can do here.” Clara turned away from Sprite, pulling the port goggles back over her eyes.

“I’ll cash in some favors,” Sprite said. “Ask around.”

“Good,” Clara said, flicking her wrists forward, starting again where she had left off.

“Maybe I’ll try daggering; see if anything comes up.” Sprite hoped this last would get a reaction.

It didn’t.

“How far have you gotten?” Sprite asked, trying to exude casualness by sticking her hands into the pockets of her yellow jumpsuit.

“I’m deep, but still nothing.” Clara threw aside another wave info box and grabbed the next. “You?”

“Blank,” Sprite said. It actually pained her to admit she still hadn’t found anything.

Clara stopped, flipping both gloved hands up at the wrists, pausing her work. She removed the orange port goggles and looked at Sprite. “What do you need, Sprite?”

The other scuffed the floor with her shoe. “Turtle wants us to work together. You need any help?”

“No.”

And she meant business today: Clara wasn’t wearing the earbuds. Instead the audio was low in the room’s speakers, alerts turned up.

Clara was digging through data. Hands moving over various information boxes, the ninja would scan the contents, then toss it aside, grabbing the next box. Sprite silently entered the room and stood there, enjoying the soft hum of the process ports in the nearly empty room.

Clara continued her work and said simply, “What do you need, Sprite?”

Sprite was surprised. She didn’t think Clara realized she was there.

“I know your sound, Sprite. What do you need?”

Finishing the repressors and finding nothing on the net, Sprite went to find Clara. She was in one of the observation booths. Digging through the waves, she wore both interact gloves and the orange goggles. Her blonde hair was pulled back with a blue silk ribbon, and she wore a casual black tank top and pants, a red sash wrapped around one bare arm.

She was taller than Sprite and more athletically built. She was a skilled ninja, well trained, dedicated. And she wasn’t bad on the waves either.

But Turtle was right. There was something between Clara and Ran.

Sprite slid back beneath the repressors. She would get these running and if her data traps hadn’t hit anything yet, she’d see what Clara had found. If she was still hitting rocks, Sprite would call in a favor or two. Turtle deserved that much, even if Randal didn’t.

But these repressors had to get tweaked first. And maybe those drives she’d been meaning to overhaul.

Then again, maybe the drives should wait for dark. If she was worried about flashing her calling card , being seen overhauling the drives with anything other than another machine would be just as bad.

Screw it. Randal wasn’t worth that. She’d ask around a bit, but what more did Turtle expect her to do? She wasn’t about to stick her neck out for Randal. He was a hotshot loner. He did a few jobs with them. Big deal.

Sure, he was good at what he did, but there wasn’t any reason for Sprite to put herself in hot water. She had enough of her own history to hide; she didn’t need to flash her calling card around the net or wave and see who bit.

With her luck, someone could end up biting her.

“They share history,” Turtle said. In truth, he knew little more than that. Then he jumped back into a litany of commands, taking leadership on once again. “Keep at it. I want more key phrases, search unknowns, John Does, dive into whatever you can break. I want you and Clara to work together on this one. She’s good at what she does, but I’m certain you can help streamline her process. There’s information out there. I need you girls to find it.”

Turtle left, and Sprite considered options that were left.

There were a few, but they could get messy.

“So what have you found?” T asked. “Is there any word on Randal?”

“Nothing yet,” Sprite said, “but I’ve set up some bots, retrievers, dings, that sort of thing. If there’s anything, we should find it.”

Turtle was disappointed. “Dive deeper,” he said. “There has to be some sort of trail he’s left. He can’t have simply disappeared.”

“If there’s something out there, we’ll find it. You should see Clara; she’s all over the waves. But I don’t think she’s found anything yet either.” Sprite’s mind seemed to wander and she added, “She’s taking it harder than any of us.”

Though he had never before admitted it to anyone, not even to himself, Turtle had always assumed that Sprite was here only for the short haul. He had fully expected her just to disappear one day and never return.

Like Randal already had.

But like Randal now, if given no word from her, T supposed he’d search for her too.

Perhaps it was Randal’s and Sprite’s similar take on the world, their loner mentality that had shaken her when he disappeared.

Perhaps there was more to her than just a wrench and a blowtorch, a few wires and a motherboard.

“You are?”

“Yeah, I mean, I figure he’s one of us, right?”

Sprite sat up. Her face and yellow jumpsuit were smudged with grease, and her dark hair was cropped a short, practical length. She was great at her job; she could make junk dance. But Turtle was taken aback.

Not only was he surprised to hear Sprite associating Randal with their group, he was surprised to hear Sprite associating herself with their group. After Randal, Sprite was the newest member to join their team of darts, and she had never before expressed any sort of team loyalty or identification.

Turtle walked into the workshop of their mechanics ace. The room was a mess. Workbenches cluttered with electronics that looked centuries old and random parts that appeared to belong in the trash. Tools hung on hooks and lay strewn about haphazardly. Other larger pieces of equipment sat throughout the room in various stages of repair.

“Sprite, you in here?”

“Yeah, chief?” she said, sliding out from beneath a large pile that appeared to be nothing more than random debris. “Wha’cha you got?”

“Need you to get on the wire, see if you can snag anything on Randal.”

“Already doing in.”

Turtle stopped and considered this, stroking his thick red beard. He was shorter than average but broad, a man of great physical strength, as well as character. Upon coming to a conclusion he was not fond of, he vigorously ran his hand across the short, red stubble of his scalp.

“Damn it,” he said, walking past his beautiful wife, back into the hall. “Damn it!”

Helen only smiled at this, seeing that her persistence had finally broken through. But she hoped he was right. She hoped her fears were unfounded.

She said another prayer for Randal. Only time would tell.

“It is your business,” Helen said. They entered their bedroom and she turned her husband to face her. “Not because Randal is a freelancer that we hire from time to time. It’s your business because he’s part of our team. If any one of them disappeared, you would look into it. Not because you hire them for a job, but because you care about them.”

“Randal’s different; he can take care of himself.” He turned to walk away, but Helen wouldn’t let him.

“He is different. Which means he needs us more than anyone. Because he doesn’t have anyone else.”

“The man is a freelancer, honey. He makes his own schedule.”

Turtle had had this same discussion with his wife several times over the last few days, and he was not eager to have it again. He continued quickly down the hall, but his wife followed.

“But he wouldn’t be a reliable freelancer if he didn’t show up for the jobs. You know this. Above anything else, Randal is a professional.”

“He’s been reliable in the past, yes. Though it reflects on his character, if a man changes his mind on a job, that is his own business. Not mine.”

Randal struggled to lift his empty right hand toward the reinforcements. Hand shaking, arm red, dripping blood, the soldiers readied themselves for anything. Randal pulled the trigger of a gun not there and a couple of the men nearly fired their autos.

Ran smiled at this. Drops of perspiration visibly covered his forehead; his vision blurred. His arm fell to the stone floor.

The Special saw a deep black crow fly into his vision and land. Then another one. And another. More birds amassed into one dark blackness. He smiled and his body floated with the birds.

Randal passed out.

But the guards did not advance, unsure of their approach and none brave enough to make the first move. Their quarry lay with his face to the stone floor. He was not moving. A pool of blood slowly grew around him.

Blood rolled into the mortar gullies between rocks, turning dark gray into dark red.

Finally one man stepped forward. Even this startled some of the men who had just witnessed one of their own unloading his magazine into the backs of his fellow soldiers.

Then Randal stirred and guns were immediately at the ready, fingers resting on the triggers.

“So tell me, won’t you? Your life will be all the easier. How did I fall under your scope? Who hired you? Why was I the job? Tell me everything you gave them and everything they wanted. And tell me who you are and who you were working with.”

Randal didn’t answer, only resting his head on the cold floor.

Giresun waited, and the guard grew more uneasy. Finally Giresun spoke again over the ancient loudspeaker. “Take him back to his cell. Keep three guards on him until Temmins shows with further orders.”

The speakers snapped as Giersun clicked off.

Guns trained on Randal, security stood edgy, looking for a reason to pull the trigger.

“I will find out, prisoner” Giresun continued. “You have to know that by now. Yes, I acknowledge that I have underestimated you. But don’t you see that all your efforts have been futile? I now have at least a glimpse of what you are capable of, and this will only make your time here worse.

“Temmins will wear you down, and he will break you. You know this. Admit it. You will snap, prisoner. Everyone does. It is only a matter of how and when.”

A voice came over a crackly loudspeaker, filling the halls. “Very impressive, prisoner.”

Even with his ringing ears, Randal recognized the man’s voice: his captor and previous mark, Giresun. In response, Ran spit out a mouthful of blood.

“You’re no vampire, but I will venture a guess: you’re not strictly human either. Am I right?” Randal did not answer. “No matter, prisoner. You are still mine, and knowing you are not exactly human, I’m sure Temmins will have fun trying to discover what you are. Not to mention who you are, who you work with, and who you work for.”

But this left Randal’s back uncovered. As the last of the guards fell in front of him, ammunition erupted from behind. Ran’s legs ignited with pain as bullet after bullet found their mark.

The Special fell to the ground. Scrambling and pulling with what strength remained, Randal used bodies as barricades and body armor and returned fire.

Several more fell dead. Then more eruptions from behind. Ran’s remaining good arm, bleeding and screaming in pain. His auto went flying. Randal fell flat, turning to see another squad of reinforcements taking shelter around the corner, their weapons trained on the Special.

The guard was screaming and so was Randal. The Special leapt to one side, putting more soldiers between him and the man unleashing his light artillery auto.

The solider sprayed down several more guards before his own men turned on him, realizing they were falling due to friendly fire. Randal then released his own auto, first taking out the guards not firing on their own.

Pain hit the panic stricken guard with several heavy thuds in the gut and chest. He fell over and Randal saw to it that the remaining members of his battalion were soon to join him.

It didn’t matter how many of his fellow soldiers he took out. All of them were already dead if somebody didn’t take drastic measures and put down this animal.

The guard opened up, firing on the fighter, finger turning white from the pressure with which he pulled that trigger. Soldiers in front of him fell down, bullets riddling their backs with holes.

The escapee faced him, the soldier seeing saliva flying from the animal’s mouth and hearing a vicious snarl from his throat.

It showed absolutely no fear, and this gripped the guard with a terror even harder than before.

Randal turned on this man, striking him mercilessly with the baton. The guard fell, wrenching Randal’s arm. Pain shot up his arm, piercing his face, neck, and head with sharp icicles. His vision momentarily went white.

There was no thought left. Ran grabbed the fallen man’s light autofire.

And this action was enough to grip one soldier at the rear in a type of palpable fear he had never known.

Guards were yelling, screaming. Men he had trained with, worked with.

The escapee was a rabid animal, and it would kill every last one of them if given the chance.

With bloody fervor and lightning speed, Ran struck the first two guards he came to across the face with his baton, easily dispatching them, their feeble attempt at defense a joke when compared to the righteous fire burning through the Special at that moment.

He was a desperate man, held captive for months, now taking his first opportunity at escape.

And he wasn’t about to let these men stand in his way of freedom.

The next soldier fell with only one blow as well, then the next.

One dove and grabbed Randal’s wounded arm, and icy pain tore through him.