The basement was quiet except for the hum of computers and the occasional click of a mouse. The warm overhead lights bathed the room in a soft, golden hue, creating a comfortable contrast to the cold city night outside. Kai's basement had become their unofficial headquarters—a place where plans were hatched, discussions were held, and tech was manipulated behind the scenes.
Kilo sprawled lazily across the couch, feet propped up on one of the cushions, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, ready to chime in with his usual quips. Nyota and Sage stood flanking Kai's desk, their focused expressions illuminated by the laptop's glow as Kai sifted through a seemingly endless stream of data and news articles.
Aurora, leaning against a support beam nearby, kept her arms crossed, her sharp gaze flickering between Kai's screen and the others.
"So that's it, huh?" Aurora started, her voice cutting through the quiet hum of the room. "We're going to amplify a protest."
Sage nodded, his tone steady. "It's decided. A local healthcare workers' union is organizing a peaceful demonstration against unjust wage cuts. It's a good cause, and we're going to help them make an impact."
"I've been looking into the logistics," Kai said, fingers tapping away at her keyboard. "The plan is to hijack the city feeds and broadcast the workers' grievances on every major channel and screen. It won't be easy—it'll take a lot of prep, and I'll have to cover our tracks. But if it works, it'll be worth it."
"How would we even go about doing something like that?" Nyota questioned.
Kai shook her head, eyes remained low to her computer. "That's the grand question, isn't it?"
Kilo, now leaning up on his elbows, chimed in. "What if we added something flashy? Like, our symbol as a hologram, lighting up the whole protest. Imagine a giant Z hovering above the crowd—it'd be awesome."
Kai rolled her eyes but smirked slightly. "It's not a bad idea. If I can manipulate a billboard on a building above the demonstration, we could display a massive holographic Z. It'd take a bit of extra coding and planning, but it could really drive the point home—and leave a mark."
"I'll lend you a helping hand," Sage added. "Another technical mind is always better than one."
Aurora tilted her head, her voice thoughtful. "What about the protest leaders? Should we give them some sort of a heads-up?"
Nyota spoke up, his quiet tone carrying weight. "We sent Malcolm Soren a letter. He's one of the lead organizers, and from what Kai dug up, he's someone we can trust not to fold under pressure. The letter explained our intentions and told him to keep everything under wraps."
Kai moved aside, revealing an article with Malcolm's name in bold. "Malcolm's a physician and an advocate for healthcare workers. He's been the face of this union for a while now, having written a lot of opinion pieces about the government's failure to protect frontline staff. Press conferences, rallies, protests. You name it, he's been there, leading the charge.
They've been pushing for better wages and working conditions for months now. He's already stirring up a lot of noise in New Jericho. The media's covered him a bit, but mostly he's a thorn in the government's side. I'm betting he'll see the value in what we're offering."
"And if he doesn't?" Aurora asked, raising an eyebrow.
"We ensured the letter made our point clear," Nyota explained, "establishing us as trustworthy but also making sure we didn't reveal our identities. The most we did was stamp it with our insignia."
"Of course, a letter's safer." Sage added. "Besides, he'll know the value of our support. We're offering to make his protest impossible to ignore."
"Sounds good to me," Aurora stood upright with a single clap of her hands. "So, what do you guys think? Are we good to go?"
Kilo stood as well, drawing close to the rest of the group. Collectively, everyone nodded.
She glanced over the gathered group, her gaze steady. "Good. It's final then. We're ready to move forward with the plan. This protest—it's our chance to amplify the voices of the people. We'll move forward with the next phase of the plan later next week. Until then, Sage is to work with Kai to get the tech sorted out."
This plan was too important. This was a calculated risk, one Zteel needed to make work. Malcolm Soren's apparent unwavering disdain for the government made him the perfect ally, and the protest he was planning could give them the leverage they needed.
"Let's add fuel to the fire."
The next steps would be delicate. But they were ready.
--
Malcolm stood at the front of the community center's small gathering space, his voice steady despite the tension in the room. Folding chairs were arranged in haphazard rows, occupied by healthcare workers in scrubs, union reps in suits, and a few sympathetic citizens. A faded banner with the union's logo hung behind him, a symbol of their cause that, while worn, still commanded respect.
"We cannot let these cuts pass without a fight," Malcolm declared, gripping the edges of the podium. "We've sacrificed too much already—our time, our health, and for some of us, even our lives. To take more from us now isn't just unjust, it's inhumane."
The crowd murmured in agreement, a mix of anger and determination visible on their faces. Malcolm's gaze swept the room, locking eyes with as many people as he could. He wanted them to feel seen, to know their voices mattered.
"This protest is more than a statement," he continued, his tone sharpening. "It's a demand. A demand for dignity, for fairness, and for a future where we don't have to beg for what we've earned. We'll stand together, peacefully but firmly, and show them that we won't be ignored."
Applause erupted, filling the small room with a collective energy that Malcolm found both heartening and daunting. As the gathering began to break apart into smaller conversations, he stepped down from the podium and exchanged handshakes and quick words with those who approached him. He smiled, nodded, and reassured everyone that their efforts would not be in vain, but doubt still lingered in the back of his mind like an unwelcome guest.
The meeting stretched late into the evening, with plans hashed out and final details discussed. By the time Malcolm left the gathering space, the streets were quiet, the glow of streetlights reflecting off slick pavement from a brief drizzle. The evening air was cool and damp, carrying the faint scent of rain.
His mind wandered as he drove home, weighed down by the magnitude of what lay ahead.
When he arrived, he pushed open the gate to his modest front yard, a scuffed briefcase in one hand. Streetlights flickered softly behind him, casting long shadows that stretched across the patchy grass.
Reaching the mailbox mounted beside his door, Malcolm paused. The polished brass mailbox gleamed faintly under the glow of the porch light. It was a sturdy, well-crafted piece that matched the refined exterior of his home—a modest but elegant two-story house with neatly trimmed hedges lining the walkway.
Most days, the mailbox held little more than bills and the occasional flyer. Tonight, however, something unusual caught his eye.
A thick envelope rested among the usual stack of mail, its heavy parchment standing out against the thin paper of the bills. The crimson wax seal was unbroken, embossed with a strange insignia he didn't recognize. Malcolm furrowed his brow, slipping the letter into his jacket pocket before tucking the rest of the mail under his arm.
Once inside, the house greeted him with familiar stillness—the faint ticking of the kitchen clock and the lingering aroma of last night's dinner. Malcolm set his briefcase on the kitchen table and shrugged off his coat, draping it over the back of a chair. His curiosity tugged at him as he reached for the envelope.
He sat down and broke the wax seal, carefully unfolding the heavy paper. The words were typed, precise, and deliberate:
To Malcolm Soren,
We are aware of the upcoming protest and your role in organizing it. Your dedication to the cause of fair wages has not gone unnoticed. We believe that your efforts, while noble, deserve a larger platform. It is for this reason that we wish to offer our support.
Our intent is to amplify the voices of those who have been ignored. On the day of the protest, you will witness our involvement. We ask only for your trust and your discretion. Do not share this letter or its contents with anyone else.
You may recognize our actions from events in Blueport a month ago. Know that we share a common cause.
We are Zteel.
Malcolm leaned back in his chair, the letter still in his hands. His eyes flicked back to the strange insignia stamped at the bottom of the page. A sharp, angular symbol, unfamiliar and cryptic, yet unmistakably deliberate.
"Zteel," he murmured under his breath, turning the word over in his mind. It carried no meaning to him, no associations—only the weight of mystery and intent.
The reference to Blueport sent a chill through him. He'd read about the explosions in the factory district, the chaos that had followed, and the rumors of shadowy actors pulling the strings. Could these people really be connected to that? And why had they chosen him of all people?
His thoughts churned as he folded the letter neatly and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Rising from his seat, Malcolm glanced over his shoulder toward the darkened windows, a flicker of unease crossing his face. Whoever Zteel was, they had gone to great lengths to reach him.
Clutching the edges of his coat, he stood still for a moment, his gaze lingering on the shadows beyond the glass. His role in the protest was already precarious. With this letter, it had just become infinitely more complicated.