Chapter 7

The road north was a graveyard of ambition. Jake gripped the steering wheel of the Road Runner, his eyes tracing the massive, jagged fortifications that loomed ahead like the ribcage of a dead god. These walls didn't just separate Scrapheap Town from the rest of Olympus City; they quarantined it. The concrete was scarred by ballistics and choked by rusted rebar, a stark contrast to the neon-slicked glass of the central districts. Grants Radio crackled through the speakers, the host’s voice smooth and corporate despite the chaos of the morning news. The lead story was a frantic update on the Casbah District: Urban Outlaw had managed to ambush Seraphina Stone in broad daylight. Jake whistled, wondering if the "Titan Potion" poster girl had managed to keep her hair perfect during the scuffle. The broadcast shifted quickly—damage control in full swing—announcing that Specter, the frozen nightmare who had been playing tag with Jake’s front bumper all week, had been successfully recaptured by The Elite. "Back in the cooler, snowflake," Jake muttered, tapping a rhythm on the dashboard. The pavement ended where the border checkpoint began. Three Sentinel Services guards stood in the middle of the road, their armor dusty and their rifles held at low ready. Jake slowed the Road Runner to a crawl, the engine purring a low, mechanical growl that seemed to make the guards tighten their grip on their weapons. One guard, his visor smudged with grit, stepped forward and raised a gloved hand. Jake rolled down the window, letting in the smell of ozone and rotting garbage. "Authorization or a work permit," the guard demanded. His voice was firm, the tone of a man who spent his days looking for reasons to say no. Jake leaned his elbow on the doorframe, offering a winning, entirely fraudulent smile. "Just visiting. I heard the air up here has a certain... vintage bouquet." The guard let out a dry, grumbling laugh. "Visiting? Nobody visits Scrapheap Town unless they’re looking to get stripped for parts or sold to a lab. You’re crossing into the gutter of the world, kid. There’s no law past that gate, just hunger and whatever the Nexus Syndicate hasn't burned yet." "Ah, the charms of civilization," Jake said, gesturing vaguely at the reinforced bunkers and the heavy machine-gun nests flanking the road. "It’s heartening to see we’ve progressed so far from the caves." "Yeah, well, the caves were probably safer," the guard agreed, his eyes drifting to the pristine condition of the Road Runner. He cleared his throat, his posture shifting from authoritative to expectant. "Entry isn't free. There’s a... security contribution required for non-essential personnel." Jake didn't blink. "A contribution. Right. For the widow’s fund, I assume?" "Something like that," the guard said. "And if I contribute generously," Jake said, reaching for his wallet, "does that skip the part where you tear my upholstery out looking for contraband? Or is the car inspection mandatory?" The guard leaned closer, his eyes narrowing as he calculated the value of the bills Jake was thumbing through. "Inspection depends entirely on the size of the contribution. A big enough donation means I might just lose the keys to the gate for a minute while you drive through." Jake handed over a wad of cash that made the guard’s eyebrows clear his visor. The man pocketed it in one fluid motion and waved his colleagues back. The heavy iron gates groaned open, screaming on hinges that hadn't seen grease since the last century. As the Road Runner crossed the threshold, the world turned grey. Scrapheap Town wasn't just a slum; it was a monument to industrial decay. The pollution was a physical weight, a yellow-brown haze that clung to the cracked asphalt and the skeletons of collapsed tenements. Squalor didn't cover it. Squatters huddled around fires fueled by plastic and old tires, their eyes hollowing out as they watched the red muscle car pass. Dealers stood on every corner, clutching small vials of Serenity like holy relics. Homeless families had carved niches out of rusted shipping containers, and packs of wild dogs prowled the gutters alongside children whose faces were masked by filth. Jake pulled over near a group of men sitting on a pile of discarded electronics. One of them, a dealer with a facial twitch and a jacket made of stitched-up rags, looked up as Jake rolled the window down. "Looking for something homemade," Jake said, tossing a small coin into the dirt. "Dr. Aris Thorne-style tech. Who’s the best tinkerer in this hellhole?" The dealer snatched the coin and pointed a trembling finger deeper into the maze of alleys. "Joey’s Garage. Look for the neon. If he doesn’t kill you for trespassing, he’s got the gear." It wasn't hard to find. Amidst the monochrome misery of the district, Joey’s Garage screamed for attention. Garish neon lights—pinks, greens, and blues—flickered in a frantic, headache-inducing pattern above a heavy steel shutter. It was tucked into a dead-end alley that was barely wide enough for the Road Runner to turn around in. Jake hopped out of the car, straightened his Vigilante Suit, and kicked the side door open with a grin. "Here's Johnny!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the cluttered walls of the workshop. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of solder and burnt oil. A scrawny, balding man with grease stained into the pores of his skin whirled around from a workbench. Before Jake could take another step, the man—Joey Marino—had snatched a rocket launcher from a rack and leveled it at Jake’s chest. "You!" Joey snarled, his eyes bulging. "You’re that lunatic! The one who crashed the plane on my workshop in Port Haven!" Jake blinked, holding up his hands in a mock gesture of surrender. "Wait, did I do that? Port Haven... Port Haven... honestly, I’ve crashed a lot of things in a lot of places. You’re going to have to be more specific. Was it the twin-engine or the private jet?" Joey’s knuckles turned white on the launcher's grip. "You destroyed two years of my life’s work! You leveled the whole block!" "You don't remember, do you?" Joey’s voice hit a pitch of pure astonishment. "I lost everything because you wanted to 'see if the hangar was flammable'!" Jake shrugged, his expression shifting to something resembling a sheepish apology. "Look, if I did, I’m sure I had a very good, very impulsive reason at the time. My bad? I tell you what—how about I pay you back? I’ve got some cash, a few favors, maybe a coupon for a car wash?" "Out!" Joey screamed, his finger twitching on the trigger. "Get out of my shop before I turn you into a red smear on the pavement!" Jake’s smile didn't falter, but his eyes went cold. He tapped the side of his head. "Careful, Joey. You pull that trigger, and I might just decide to stop time. I’ll walk over there, take that launcher, and see how many of your own toes you can eat before the clock starts ticking again." Joey didn't flinch. Instead, he reached out with his free hand and tapped a console on the wall. A small, sleek nanomissile slid out of a concealed tube in the ceiling, its sensor eye glowing a malevolent red as it locked onto Jake’s heat signature. "Harbinger Missile," Joey said, his voice dropping to a low, defiant growl. "Once it locks, it doesn't stop. You can stop time all you want, but the second you let go, it’s going to find your heart and turn it into shrapnel. We both go up, Jake. I don't care anymore." Jake stared at the missile. Then he looked at Joey. Slowly, he reached into the hidden compartment of his suit and pulled out a small, white, slightly stained rabbit plushie. "You want to play that game?" Jake asked, his voice suddenly very quiet and very dangerous. "This is a WMD, Joey. If I squeeze the trigger on this little guy, we aren't just going up. The entire Casbah District becomes a crater. Scrapheap Town becomes a footnote. I’ll do it. I’m bored enough to do it." Joey’s eyes widened, his gaze darting between Jake’s face and the innocent-looking toy. "You’re insane. That’s a plushie! But... I’ve heard the stories. They say you’ve got something in there that defies physics. You can't control that thing! You’ll kill everyone!" "Then I guess we better hope I have a steady hand," Jake said, his thumb hovering over the plushie’s tail. "Drop the launcher, Joey. I’m not asking twice." "You're going to pull the trigger anyway, aren't you?" Joey hissed, his body shaking. "You're just that kind of monster." "Maybe," Jake said. "Want to find out?" The silence in the garage was absolute, broken only by the hum of the neon lights. Finally, with a sound of pure disgust, Joey lowered the rocket launcher and slumped against his workbench. The Harbinger Missile retracted into the ceiling. "You’re a blight, Jake Miller," Joey spat, wiping sweat from his forehead. "A walking disaster. What do you want? Take what you need and leave." Jake tucked the rabbit plushie back into his suit, his cheerful demeanor returning instantly. "See? Diplomacy works. I’m looking for homemade Dr. Aris Thorne tech. High-end stuff. The kind of gear that makes the Imperial Guard look like they’re playing with Lincoln Logs." Joey let out a bitter laugh. "You’re late. The Boneyard is closed. Most of the good Thorne tech in this district has been scavenged, broken, or seized. I don’t have anything that would satisfy a psychopath like you." Jake leaned against a stack of crates, his eyes scanning the shop. "I’m looking for something specific. Crimson-painted bathyspheres. Steampunk influence, lots of brass, probably looks like it was built by a Victorian diver on a bad acid trip. Seen anything like that?" Joey froze. His anger seemed to drain away, replaced by a sharp, sudden flicker of recognition. "The bathyspheres... the deep-pressure units. Yeah, I know them. That’s Chloe Vance’s work." Jake stood up straight, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Chloe Vance? You’re sure?" "Hard to forget," Joey said, shrugging. "She showed up in Scrapheap Town about six months ago. Called herself the 'Deep Diver.' Most Thorne-types try to suck up to the Grants or Maximus Thorne to get a real lab, but she just started building in the dirt. She was selling inventions to the Imperial Guard—mostly environmental gear and some heavy-duty salvage tech." "That’s her," Jake said, a wide, genuine grin spreading across his face. "That’s my girl. Tell me everything, Joey. Don't leave out a single detail." Joey looked at Jake’s frantic expression and stepped back. "Whoa, take it easy. She isn't here anymore. About two months back, she decided to get political. She attacked a Grants chemical plant over on the west side—something about environmental poisoning and 'seizing the means of production.' She’s a bit of a Marxist, that one." Jake nodded vigorously. "Yeah, she’s always been big on the 'eat the rich' stuff. What happened?" "She got caught," Joey said simply. "Sentinel Services moved in with a heavy response team. They took her into custody, and everyone figured she was headed for a black site. But then rumors started flying—a breakout. Word is the Imperial Guard hit the transport, and she vanished right after. Nobody’s seen her since." Jake’s excitement was palpable. He paced the small area of the workshop, his mind racing. "But she’s alive. She’s out there. Joey, you’re a pal. You’re a real prince." He stopped and looked at the scrawny mechanic, his eyes bright. "I’m in a great mood. A fantastic mood! Tell you what—I’ll give you a wish. One wish, and I’ll make it happen." Joey frowned, crossing his arms over his grease-stained shirt. "Are you serious? You’re going to play genie now?" "Dead serious," Jake said, his voice dropping into a rare moment of sincerity. "Name it." Joey looked toward the door of his shop, his expression darkening. "Fine. You want to be a hero? Deal with the Nexus Syndicate. They’ve moved into the north neighborhoods, and they aren't just selling drugs anymore. They’re abducting people. Local shopkeepers, homeless families... even children. They’re dragging them off to the old industrial sectors and nobody comes back." Jake tilted his head. "Does Sentinel Services know? They usually love an excuse to crack heads." "They don't care," Joey said, his voice dripping with disgust. "To them, the people in Scrapheap Town are just lowlifes. If the Syndicate wants to clear out the 'trash,' the Services are happy to let them do the dirty work. They turn a blind eye as long as the Syndicate keeps the violence away from the corporate zones." Jake hummed, tapping his chin. "That’s the weird part. The Syndicate is run by Mind-Benders and Vitality junkies. Those guys usually have the impulse control of a toddler in a candy store. If they’re showing restraint and not hitting Grants directly, someone’s keeping them on a very short leash. Or they’re busy with something much bigger than a turf war." He turned back to Joey and gave him a sharp salute. "Consider it done. I’ll handle the Syndicate in my 'Flawless Victory' run." Joey looked confused. "Flawless Victory? What the hell does that mean?" "It’s a technical term," Jake explained, already heading for the door. "It means the version of reality where I don't screw up, nobody important dies, and I look incredibly cool doing it. This loop? This is more of a... data-gathering mission. But I’ll get to them. I’m heading to the Boneyard now to see if Chloe left a trail." Jake stepped out of the garage, the heavy scent of the wasteland hitting him again. He reached for the handle of the Road Runner, feeling the familiar heat of the desert-red paint. Then, the sky screamed. A massive, buzzing weight slammed into the roof of the car with the force of a falling building. The Road Runner’s suspension snapped instantly, the frame buckling as the roof caved in. Glass shattered in a glittering spray, and the tires exploded under the sudden pressure. Jake tumbled back, landing hard on the cracked pavement. He scrambled to his feet, his eyes wide with horror as he looked at his car. Straddling the ruins of the Road Runner was a monster. It was easily twelve feet tall, a grotesque fusion of insectoid anatomy and warped human biology. It had the thorax of an enormous mosquito, covered in bristling, needle-like hairs, and six spindly, multi-jointed legs that ended in serrated hooks. Its head was a nightmare of compound eyes and a long, serrated proboscis that dripped with a caustic, glowing fluid. "I smelled a rat," the monster hissed. Its voice wasn't human; it was a vibrating, buzzing resonance that seemed to vibrate in Jake’s teeth. "A little rat scurrying through the trash, asking too many questions." Jake didn't look at the monster's face. He looked at the pancaked roof of his car. He looked at the twisted metal of the hood and the shattered remains of the custom engine he had spent weeks tuning. "My car," Jake whispered. His voice began to rise, trembling with a fury that far outstripped his usual manic energy. "You... you giant, overblown, blood-sucking pest... you smashed my car!" The monster, Stinger, tilted its horrific head. "The car is nothing. Your life is the tribute required for the Nexus Syndicate. You shouldn't have come north, little man." Jake reached into his suit, his movements jerky and frantic. He didn't pull out the rabbit plushie. He pulled out a heavy, metallic sphere, the surface etched with glowing warning runes and a countdown timer that began to hum with a low, ominous thrum. "You see this?" Jake screamed, holding the A-bomb up like a holy relic. "You see this little ball of sunshine?" Stinger buzzed, his compound eyes twitching. "What is that? A toy? You think a metal ball will save you from—" "It’s a thermonuclear device, you overgrown gnat!" Jake shrieked. "And I’m setting the timer to zero! Nobody touches the car! Nobody!" Stinger hesitated, the sheer volume of Jake’s rage seemingly causing a momentary lapse in his predatory instinct. "You’re bluffing. You’ll die too." "That’s the point!" Jake yelled. He lunged forward, tossing the bomb directly into the monster's open, buzzing maw. "See you in the next life, asshat!" The world vanished. A pillar of pure, white-hot nuclear fire erupted from the center of the alley. In a microsecond, the Road Runner, Joey’s Garage, and the hulking form of Stinger were reduced to their constituent atoms. The shockwave tore through the northern district of Scrapheap Town, vaporizing the grey tenements and the yellow fog alike. As the fire consumed him, Jake felt a strange sense of satisfaction. It was a new way to go—quick, flashy, and it took the bug with him. The white light expanded until it was everything, and then, with the familiar, sickening jerk of reality resetting, the world went dark. *** Jake gasped, his lungs burning with phantom heat. He slammed his hand against the side of his seat, his fingers finding the familiar, un-smashed leather of the Road Runner’s interior. He was back. The 'Welcome to Olympus City' sign loomed ahead in the rearview mirror. He sat there for a moment, his hands shaking slightly on the steering wheel. He had a name now. Chloe Vance. The Deep Diver. And he had a target. But first, he really needed to find a way to kill that mosquito. ════════════════════════════════════════