Chapter 1

Oh my god, I'm dead.

--Only for a moment. System shutdown complete, initiating reboot.--

Oh, god. I'm dead, I died, I can't breathe, I don't want to die...

--Stop being overdramatic, Zeta. You've done this a thousand times before.

Respiratory protocols active.

Oxygen intake nominal.

Restarting cardiac rhythm in 3...2...1...--

"OH SON OF A BITCH."

Zeta's eyes shot open as his heart restarted, pain searing through his chest and back. Spots clouded his vision for a few moments before he had the good sense to blink them away, unable to even lift his head to view his surroundings without being overcome by nausea.

--Careful now. Can't take this too quickly. You always have a bit of disorientation after a reboot, Zeta. Just listen to me and do what I say, and you'll be fine.--

What he had taken for his own voice in his head he gradually realized was much more: it was someone else. Familiarity gnawed at his mind until he could put a name to the reassuring words.

"Al...Al, right?" He slowly felt the fog clearing from his thoughts, but it was like picking each word from a bramble. Waking up had been hard enough, but trying to compartmentalize what thoughts were his and what belonged to the other entity was incredibly difficult. It was like they were two consciousnesses occupying the same physical space.

--Yes, Zeta,-- the voice replied. It was kind and approving, but also a little impatient. --Your brain is rather literally rebuilding itself, so don't be alarmed if it takes you a bit to get your bearings. Can you try to look around?--

With great effort, Zeta attempted to comply, lifting his head from the hard surface that he was laying on. The first thing that he noticed was that he was outside. Stars twinkled knowingly overhead, pinpricks of light that illuminated the drops of rain starting to fall on him. Cool and refreshing, the rain helped him return to his senses, just in time for him to gasp soundlessly in horror at the sight of himself.

While the pain throbbing in his head had dominated his awareness, one glance revealed that the rest of his body was in even worse shape. Flattened against the sidewalk he had landed on, he had multiple bones protruding through his skin in his arms and legs, and his clothing was soaked in blood. Before he could so much as moan hopelessly, however, the voice of Al returned.

--This is the worst hit you've taken in awhile, but it's nothing we can't handle. Just stay calm and let me work.--

"What happened?" Zeta asked, gritting his teeth. He was equally fascinated and shocked by the sight of something resembling spiderwebs reaching out from the break in his skin, wrapping around the bone inside and pulling it back within. Over the next few seconds, the process was repeated all over his body, literally resetting him into place.

--You fell out of a window.--

"Falling out of a window...did this?" He murmured.

--It was a very high window. Your brain was significantly damaged on impact, resulting in short-term memory loss. Do not worry; I saved your recent memories. Once you're fully healed, they will be restored from the external drive.--

"...Right." Zeta didn't follow half of what Al was telling him, but then, it didn't sound like he was supposed to. He started to sit up, only to cry out in agony as his spine reset. The pain was unbearable for a moment until a flood of comforting warmth surged through his system, causing him to exhale in relief. "What did you do?" He asked distantly, feeling consciousness threaten to fade again.

--Painkillers. You've got plenty stored in your implants. I'll remind you to refill them later, because I will need to exhaust the supply to help you here.--

Lying his head back down, mostly to cope with the euphoria and strangeness of the drugs taking over, Zeta stared up at the building that he had presumably fallen out of. Al had been right: it was very large. Dominating a full city block in width, the skyscraper before him extended further than he could even see, and he had no way of telling just where he'd fallen out of.

More interestingly, Zeta realized that he hadn't seen anyone else around, despite the fact that he was laying on what was ostensibly a city street. It wasn't until his brain knitted back together a little bit more that he remembered exactly why this was: After a dangerous storm, this entire district had gone dark for repairs, with all traffic being routed through other areas. It was why he'd chosen this location for...for what?

--For the fight. The fight that you lost.--

"Oh...so it's just me who lost. What were you doing, then?"

--Trying to identify your attacker.--

That struck him as a bit strange. Like all Redeemers - rare, cybernetically enhanced operatives of an organization he'd long since left - Zeta had the most advanced sensor technology and Identify-Friend-or-Foe implants ever designed, far beyond even what the military had access to.

"What do you mean? What'd the IFF say?"

--The IFF said nothing.--

That was enough to make Zeta jerk up into a sitting position, ignoring the lingering pain of the last round of repairs on his body. Between the healing and Al's reminders, just what had happened was coming back to him a rush, and he suddenly realized that he needed to run. As quickly and as far as he could.

--Whoa, whoa, what's the hold up?-- Al asked, catching mind of his panicked thoughts. He was already back on his feet now, staggering but feeling himself improve by the second. Barely two minutes ago, he'd been a mess of bones and gore on the pavement, but now, he was almost entirely healed. Al's systems worked quickly, he had to admit.

"I...I remember now. It was like fighting a fucking cloud, man. Some kind of shadow that just tore me up as soon as it got close. What if it's still around? I gotta GO." He couldn't really explain the primal fear settling into his gut, but fortunately, he didn't have to. Al was part of him - what he felt, Al did.

--You're just having a panic attack. Exhausting primary sedative reserve now. The attacker is long gone. It's definitely time to move, but don't over-exert yourself. You're still putting yourself back together. Just run a perimeter check, then head for the safehouse.--

As always, Al was a wonderful and welcome voice of reason. Taking a deep breath, Zeta turned to take in his surroundings. He was in the upper levels of Pittsburgh, judging by how new most of the surrounding structures looked. The street, unlike those on the lower levels of the city, was never built with vehicles in mind, but instead was a purely pedestrian walkway with a few stops for the magnet rail above. Thanks to the repairs underway, no one was here for now - but who knew when a crew might show up?

"Right. So, we good to run?" Zeta asked, stretching his arms over his head, testing how flexible he felt. Healing as extensively as he had needed to was a unique kind of experience. For a few minutes afterwards, he always felt like a freshly born deer or something, all bow-legged and disoriented, and it can be hard to tell when his systems are optimal. Once again: Thank god for Al.

--You're good to go. Coast seems clear. Run an image scan, then I'll map a route.--

"Right..." Zeta remembered this part. Steadying himself as the mending of his legs finished up, he observed his surroundings, then focused his vision. The dull grey of the street and surrounding buildings became further muted, starkly contrasted by the heat of electricity coursing through the power lines around it as he activated his thermal vision. Complex implants in his eyes allowed him to cycle rapidly from the thermal imaging to infrared, then night vision, each offering new perspective on his surroundings, but none revealing observers, or any sign of his attacker from before.

"Alright...Let's go. Got a path home, Al?"

--Yes, Zeta. Preparing inertia dampeners. Preparing internal compensation mechanism. Preparing--

"Yeah, I got it. Let's go!"

There were few things Zeta liked more than running. As one foot thrust off from the ground, the second barely touched it, so much force behind his initial lunge that the world became a blur around him. In two strides, he was sprinting down the street at twenty miles per hour; in six strides, he was going seventy. Reaching the end of the block, he turned, taking a wide curve and dipping low to manage his inertia, the reinforced musculature in his legs absorbing the impact. He was built for this, designed from the ground up to be the -fastest- of the Redeemers, the fastest of the twenty-four that had been created for a single purpose.

When he ran, his troubles - like considering that purpose - melted away into the streak of the world around him, disappeared behind him. He knew that as soon as he stopped, they'd catch right up to him, but for a brief time, he didn't have to think to what had taken him to this point, to why he suspected the strange, shadowy being had ambushed him and left him as a smear on the pavement. He could just run.

Al's route took him to the edge of the sector, close to one of the mammoth pillars that supported the city. Decades ago, materials breakthroughs had allowed the city's most brilliant engineers to finally combat the growing problem of urban sprawl. Lightweight, powerful metals resulted in a project of enormous scope, dubbed by the media of the time as 'The Pittsburgh Supertropolis.' The concept was deceptively simple: with surrounding suburbs prohibiting easy growth, city developers opted instead to build directly upwards, constructing enormous support structures that would support a platform on which the next sector would be built. The original Pittsburgh, with all its three hundred years of history, was cast in shadow by the necessities of progress.

A century after the first platform had been built, there were now seven such sectors, each in varying states of construction. With an abundance of choice and a liberal amount of space to work with, the city's architects took the opportunity to turn the city into a wonder of novelty and growth. An entire sector was dedicated to building an incredibly ambitious entertainment venue, surpassing even Hollywood in its potential for drawing talent and tourism. Other sectors, built to combat the stresses of overpopulation, housed entire industries' worth of workers and their families, resulting in shorter commutes on the cutting-edge rail system of public transport that was developed in sync. For awhile, it seemed like without the obstruction of previous city infrastructure to build on, Pittsburgh could achieve the dream of all over-strained population centers: the chance to build from scratch, using only the latest technology and design philosophies.

Of course, the reality of the situation was far more complicated. Government funding on both the federal and state level was woefully insufficient to meet the demands of the ambitious project, and the private sector had been all too happy to compensate accordingly. Zeta didn't understand most of the deeper details, but from what he'd gathered from his time in the city, large amounts of entire sectors wound up owned by corporations and private owners. Traversing the abandoned streets to reach a half-completed magnetic rail, Zeta looked around for witnesses, then leapt up, clearing the sixteen foot gap from the ground with ease.

He'd always prided himself on his adaptability and inventiveness, and he had a small surge of pride whenever it was time to ride the rails. Though this one hadn't been finished yet, much like the rest of the half-constructed sector, it still provided him access to where he needed to go with the help of a simple implant that he had designed - with Al's help, of course.

Grabbing tightly around the metallic rail, Zeta activated the electromagnetic gloves he wore, then let go. Powered by magnetic levitation technology, he remained suspended in place as he started to drop, taking the incomplete shaft straight down towards the sector below. "Woo!"

Technically, each of Pittsburgh's vertical districts were simply called 'Sector 1' or 'Sector 3', but it hadn't taken long for more colorful nicknames to dominate the public zeitgeist, whether through common usage or more active marketing efforts by the companies with a stake in their success. The rail he was zipping down now descended from the as of yet-unnamed Sector 3 to Sector 2, better known as 'The Mouth'.

Zeta had only been living here for a few months, but he'd already figured out why The Mouth had earned its name: because it was practically a gaping maw to hell. The second-lowest district and the lowest one still officially populated by registered citizens, Sector 2 looked a lot nicer on first appearances than it really was. It was heavily populated, a primarily residential and urban district first and foremost, with a strong police presence that sold an image of safety. Apartment complexes were packed tightly together, dozens of buildings surrounding a single large artificial garden that reminded Zeta of the time he'd visited Central Park, and the whole area bustled at all hours of the day and night with thousands milling through the streets, the shops, and the clubs. It was social, it had atmosphere, and it was affordable to live in.

Swinging off the rail into the station's landing platform, Zeta was greeted by the sight of a Buddhist-inspired mural painted on the wall, with a peaceful-looking bald man sitting underneath the words 'Peace Without Possessions'. Shaking his head, he started up the steps towards the street level, pulling his jacket tighter around himself. He couldn't really afford to run in such a crowded area, but his clothing was still tattered and covered in blood from his defenestration earlier. He'd barely made it a few feet before he noticed people staring, turning their heads nearly all the way around as he passed.

--You're drawing too much attention, Zeta.--

"Yeah, I got that," he murmured under his breath. "You got a solution, or just pointing out the obvious?"

--There is a clothing shop three blocks down that you could purchase a disguise in, but it might backfire; I assume you would draw more attention inside than on the street. You could also try to slip unnoticed into an alleyway and call your roommate. He does not seem easily perturbed, and may be willing to bring you clothes.--

"Oh, god. Andre? I hate Andre." Okay, he didn't hate Andre. Andre was just a little...strange. That said, calling him certainly seemed like a better alternative than storming into a Bailey's Tailoring covered in drying blood. Slipping between two shops and somewhat self-consciously crouching behind a dumpster, Zeta touched a finger to his ear. "Andre Desmarets", he said softly.

A couple of rings and a smooth, relaxed voice came on the other end of the line, transmitting directly into Zeta's inner ear. "Ayyyy, my man Erik," he greeted, using the pseudonym that Zeta had adopted when he'd first moved to Pittsburgh. "Weren't you supposed to, like...be home by now?" As far as Zeta knew, Andre had never touched drugs in his life, but he still always sounded like he was high. Distant, spacy, a little bit distracted.

"Yeah, uh, about that. I got into a bit of an accident. Could you bring me some clothes? I'm walking around looking like a fucking zombie cosplayer and it's a bit too real, if you get my drift."

"I absolutely don't," Andre admitted, "But that's okay, man! I'll do what ya need me to do. Where do you want to meet?"

Crouching behind the dumpster, just out of sight of the passerby milling about between the shops, Zeta waited impatiently for almost half an hour before Andre finally showed up. Tall, thin, and sporting shoulder-length dreadlocks that waved cheerily every time he moved his head, the Haitian-born man stood out in a crowd, thanks primarily to the Bosozoku-inspired way he dressed: almost exclusively in a surprisingly varied array of patterned jumpsuits, often with his favorite webshows, video games, or other irreverent symbols on the arms and back. While the "style" struck Zeta as remarkably unappealing, he couldn't deny the pragmatism, since Andre's favorite hobby - outside of the aforementioned games and shows - was engineering. Zeta couldn't even count the number of times he'd come home after an excursion, fearing the difficulty of making up an excuse for his ragged or tattered state, only to find his roommate completely absorbed in building some machine or another and not even aware of his presence. As strange as Andre was, their relationship was a convenient one, and the fact that the man didn't even seem to think twice about their clandestine alleyway clothing swap punctuated that fact nicely.

"Thanks, Andre," Zeta said, awkwardly kicking off his tattered pants and tossing his shirt into the bag before grabbing the fresh outfit within. Once he's dressed, he pats himself down, frowning as he realized something was missing. "Ah...my fucking knife," he grumbled.

"Nah, menaj, I didn't bring you a knife." Andre always called him that. He didn't have a clue what it meant, and didn't particularly care. Ignoring the misunderstanding, he started back to the street, unsurprised by the fact that Andre idly followed after him. Fifteen minutes and one short 'railhopper' - miniature traincars designed to ferry small parties between residential complexes, having entirely replaced private vehicles some decades ago - ride later, the pair were outside of their apartment complex.

It was here that The Mouth started to reveal its true nature, away from the glitz and glamour of the shopping districts and entertainment venues. Cracked walkways gave way to an overgrowth of moss on the rusty fence, and away from the artificial lighting of the sector's more crowded areas, it was as dark as a jungle canopy here; having ten sectors on top of them meant that sunlight struggled to reach the lower sectors. Ubiquitous artificial lights were, ostensibly, supposed to alleviate this issue, but in practice, the underfunded maintenance staff of this sector rarely kept more than half of them on at any given time. The apartment complex itself, thankfully, was in moderately better condition, privately owned by an older couple who had won their fortune in casinos in their youth and invested the money into an array of businesses. Leading Andre up the steps to their front door, Zeta unlocked it and stepped inside, only to stumble across a furry form that shot across his feet like a pinball.

"Motherfu-" Zeta grumbles, snapping a hand out near-instantaneously, grabbing the ferret across the middle and under its head. Firmly but carefully, he picks the animal up, inspecting its curious eyes. "Damn,King, how'd you get outta your cage again?"

He glanced up to notice Andre staring, and realized too late he'd pretty much crossed the entire living room in a fraction of a second to catch his errant pet. Andre, however, just shrugged and commented, "Damn, you're fast. Glad you got her before she got outside, though."

Zeta gently stroked the little animal's head, starting towards her cage as she tried to wriggle out of his grasp. "What's with naming a girl ferret King, anyways?"

"Girls can be kings," Andre replied, gentle but insistent as he dropped down onto the couch in front of the television.

"No, girls are queens," Zeta countered, setting the ferret inside atop a comfortable pile of bedding and closing the door.

"Oh yeah? Then what about Merietta King? She's a movie star." Andre pointed to the TV, where Merietta King herself was being interviewed about her latest film - some horror joint, from the sound of it.

"Okay, but King is just her last name. She's not an actual King," Zeta emphasized, exasperated.

"Yeah, and King is just King's first name. She's not an actual king either, and I never said she was."

"Shit. You got me." Zeta hated when Andre made a good point. Leaving the ferret where it was for now, Zeta glanced to the television, then back to Andre. "You gonna be in here for awhile? I wanna use the workshop."

"Yeah, man, go wild. I didn't feel like working today." As far as Zeta knew, Andre had been really putting the time into a new project, one that he kept under tight wraps. It wasn't surprising he'd decided to take a day off whatever his new toy was. Focused on his own matters, Zeta made his way down the apartment hall into the workshop.

Upon Zeta's moving in, it had been quickly agreed upon that their mutual interest in engineering would require more space than a two-bedroom apartment really provided without making some sacrifices. Zeta was never one to require much space, so he had offered to crash in the living room in exchange for the both of them chipping in on a workshop they could build together. Though small, it was well-equipped with all the tools he needed for everything from repairing his cybernetic implants to constructing tools for the field missions he found himself carrying out lately for his new employers. Really, the only concern had been one of privacy, but that had gone out of the window when he'd gotten to know Andre. The seemingly normal (well, normal-ish) man had an extensive number of implants of his own, a far cry from the designer upgrades that were so in vogue these days. Whereas it was common to find someone with a camera implanted into their cornea or with their personal computers completely grafted into their bodies, Zeta's technology was a little bit more advanced.

Locking the door of the workshop, he settled down in front of a small table, pulling the cover off of his operations drone. The small, autonomous machine was primarily designed to repair and install upgrades where Zeta couldn't conveniently reach himself, generally piloted by Al. "Alright. I guess we should start with a systems check."

--That would be wise. In our haste to vacate the field, we did not perform one before.--

"Yeah, yeah..." Not entirely thrilled about the reminder of his brief panic, Zeta focused on his work. "Alright, Al, run the diagnostic."

It was hard to really describe the sensation of taking such a detailed inner look at himself. For a brief moment that felt like a lifetime, Zeta was made intimately aware of every part of his body, as if lightning coursed through his nerves and illuminated what was inside of him. As he'd suspected, most of him - the organic parts, reinforced with more durable skin, dense muscle, and resilient bone - had fully recovered through their typical regeneration, but the rest, his cybernetic upgrades, needed a bit of work. Sensors were fried, navigation implants compromised, and worst of all, the miniature fission reactor that powered him was no longer working at capacity.

--It's a good thing we escaped,-- Al mused. --Any more damage and you might have been looking at a catastrophic systems failure.--

"You know, that reminds me. Let's try and analyze the damage we tool. All I really remember is a lot of pain, then blacking out. Anything we can gather while the drone fixes me up?" He'd considered naming the drone, thought about it for weeks. Ultimately, he hadn't come up with anything good. So it was just drone.

--I can attempt that, yes.--

As the miniature automaton lifted into the air, micro-welding tools emerging from its ports, Zeta leaned his head back, lifting his shirt up over his chest. The first and most urgent matter to attend to was most certainly his reactor. The miniaturized fusion plant was a marvel of engineering, occupying the majority of his chest cavity. Accessing it was a simple task, one that the drone knew well. It extended a pair of small arms just below Zeta's breastbone, opening the seal there with a key that he had installed when he built it. Where a man's heart and lungs typically sat, Zeta had the framing of the reactor, a metallic cylinder with two smaller ones on its right side.

--Looks like your heat exchanger was damaged. It's a good thing we didn't go on a serious run. Might have been--

"Yeah, yeah, catastrophic damage." Zeta cut Al off, waving a hand and leaning back against the bean bag he'd dropped down to sit in. "How long's repair gonna take?"

--Approximately ninety minutes. Fabricating the materials will be the majority of the labor.--

"Alright, fuck it. Wake me when you're done."

Staring up at the ceiling, Zeta slowly drifted off to sleep, trying his best to forget his fear of the monster that had managed to so easily lay him out.