The air in the Warren was a different kind of foul—thicker, smoky, soaked in the scent of rust, soot, and burnt chemicals. But to the group who'd just clawed their way out of the sewers, it was a blessing.
With a mental shift, Sasha and Damian biomass moved. Skin rippled. Dirt dissolved into vapor. Their clothes were rewoven from internal stores of matter, appearing damp and altered. In seconds, they looked like two people who had just cleaned up.
Sasha leaned her head against the cracked tile for effect. "This performance art is getting exhausting."
"It's the price we have to pay around regular people. Once we're back in the Neon District, we can have more time amongst ourselves and dispense with the theatrics," Damian replied.
When they stepped out minutes later, Sasha with her hair looking like it was damp and her clothes wrinkled to show that she had hastily changed, the group didn't even look twice. Marissa darted past them with a towel and a grateful grunt. Grace waited outside the door with a fresh ration bar, eyes heavy with exhaustion.
"We'll step out," Damian said. "Need to check for alternate exit paths in case we're compromised."
Grace nodded. "Be safe."
Sasha smirked slightly. "Always."
The rest of the group cycled through the shower quickly, scrubbing away filth, fear, and some part of the weight that had clung to them since the lab.
When the final person was done showering, the door hissed shut behind them.
Jason waited until the group gathered in the common area of the garage body shop area.
"We should leave," he said.
Elliot blinked. "What? Why?"
Jason crossed his arms. "They're done helping us. We're out. We don't owe them anything."
"They got us here," Marissa said. "You think we'd make it this far without them?"
"Maybe not," Jason admitted. "But if they're not lying, the First Sons have no grip here. So why follow them further? I don't see any reason to go to the Neon District."
Rachel looked up, coin paused pre-flip.
"And what happens when we get to Neon District, huh?" Jason pressed. "What if that's their trap? What if they hand us over—or experiment on us themselves?"
Grace stood up slowly. "They wouldn't."
Jason turned to her. "You sure? We don't even know who Alex and Janet really are. Why were they inside the First Sons lab? We've been going along with them just to save our lives. Now that we're safe, really think about it. Why should we trust them?"
Silence followed. Only the hum of damaged power lines filled the air.
And the feeling, unspoken, that the group was starting to fracture. Jason kept his distance, sitting near the garage door, arms crossed. Marissa curled up with her coat, avoiding Grace's gaze. Rachel was nearly still, watching her coin flip and fall with a consistent, rhythmic precision.
Elliot, huddled near the cold fridge, glanced between all of them as if waiting for someone to break the silence.
Grace tried to rally the group.
"Get some rest. Tomorrow, we'll plan a path to Neon once Janet and Alex come back."
Jason snorted. "Another path they choose for us."
Grace frowned. "We're alive because of them."
"Or because they need us alive," Jason said. "Don't pretend we're equal here."
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The words sat heavy in the air.
Marissa looked away. Rachel's coin clinked against the floor. Elliot hugged his knees tighter.
Later, while Grace was sorting scavenged supplies, Jason pulled Elliot aside.
"I don't trust them," Jason said simply.
"I know," Elliot replied, his voice low. "You said that."
"No," Jason said. "I mean it. I saw the way Alex reacted on the bridge. Like he knew more than he should. Like he was watching us go through it… not actually going through it with us."
Elliot hesitated. "But he's helped us."
"People can help you and still be using you, kid," Jason said. "That's the whole point. You need to wise up."
Elliot didn't reply. But he didn't walk away either.
Grace tried to keep her focus.
She walked the perimeter, checked and made sure no one suspicious was coming around, and even tried to get Rachel talking.
"Do you feel anything?" she asked.
Rachel flipped the coin. "Always."
Grace gave a weary smile. "Anything useful? Dangerous?"
Rachel caught the coin and stared at it.
"Danger," she said simply.
Grace's breath hitched. "Here?"
Rachel frowned. "I don't know. Maybe. Everything's just… wrong."
That night, while the others slept, Rachel sat alone near the dying campfire. Her hand trembled as she held the coin, whispering to it like a prayer.
"Is this where it ends?"
She flipped it.
Heads.
She closed her eyes.
Pain flooded her mind.
Flashes—visions she couldn't control. Fire was consuming the city. A colossal, molten figure screaming in rage. Screams. Smoke. Her own voice, ethereal:
"It's not over. If the past me can see this moment and make the right choice… trust Damian."
She gasped awake, sweat soaking her shirt.
Her heart thundered, but she said nothing. Not yet. She didn't even know who "Damian" was.
Outside, Damian and Sasha moved through the Warren, scouting for signs of Dust Men resurgence. They moved quietly through abandoned outposts and hollowed-out buildings that once served as guard posts or drug dens.
The Dust Men were unraveling—groups fighting over canned food, abandoned bodies stripped of gear, graffiti crossed out with new, desperate symbols.
"We could use this," Sasha whispered. "The Dark Stalker could draw them into the streets. Keep them chasing a ghost while we slip out."
Damian nodded. "Do it. But quietly."
Then he froze.
A small metal node, half-hidden under a burnt trash bin, blinked red.
"DARPA," he muttered.
Sasha scowled. "Moya?"
"Has to be. That tech's military grade. She's still got eyes and ears everywhere."
"Think Grace would believe you if you told her?"
"I doubt it," he said. "But not only will this make the eventual conflict between her and DARPA more interesting, but it might play to our advantage."
Back at the hideout, Jason stirred.
The others slept. Even Grace had finally dozed off, curled up with her back against the fridge.
Jason moved quietly.
He found the supply pack Sasha had dropped. Inside was the map—folded neatly, marked with red arrows and blue Xs.
He studied it.
Paths. Routes. Places to avoid. Patrols to slip past.
He pocketed the map.
Let's see what happens when they lose control of the plan.
He walked back to his sleeping bag, but didn't lie down.