A silent gust of wind whispers through my purple-fading-blue hair as I rush past a cluster of decayed, crumbling buildings. Several loose strands rip free from my messy, shoulder-length braid. My hair resonates with beauty; a perfect blend of color that whips with the chilled wind. As the ombré fades from a deep purple into a fiery blue, the dual mixture almost radiates in the near-total darkness - a stark resemblance to the eerie glow emanating from my bleached skin.

The low, rhythmic hum of my hoverboard reverberates the cold void around me. Silence echoes off the lifeless streets and decrepit alleyways. As the stream of cool air currents shove against me, the magnetic soles of my combat boots keep me tethered and safely secured. Despite the shivering chill that lingers throughout my spine, I love this freedom of being able to fly. I relish the euphoric overdose that comes with it. It is a rare reprieve from my reality.

There is very little lighting this far beneath the metropolis' superstructure. The massive city known as Iso-Karo is where I reside. The lower-city, where my story begins, has been nearly deserted for many years now. When the new infrastructure was built on top of the old, advanced layers being added upon archaic layers, the wealthy and influential classes migrated upwards into their own world of paradise. That left only the impoverished and the outcasts to populate what remained. The deepest parts of the lower-city have become known as the under-city, an area completely devoid of life - even as the ancient sewer system beneath it rumbles with automation.

It is in the dark depths of the lower-city that lawlessness becomes rampant and unchecked. Compared to the bustling, well-regulated bazaars and legitimate businesses of the mid-city, it doesn't take a keen eye to notice the numerous black markets, arms dealers, drug cartels and various criminal syndicates that dominate the lower-city. Any form of law and order is virtually non-existent; the golden, unspoken rule of the land is "Every man for himself".

To be willing to live down here was to be willing to die down here. Those who were lucky enough became indebted or indentured to one of the many nefarious organizations, providing manpower, loyalty and allegiance in exchange for food, water and shelter. Those that aren't lucky either starve to death slowly or become one of the countless casualties in the near-constant gang warfare. Luckily for me, I just so happen to be both indebted and indentured.

I am what is known as a 'Drifter', a rather polite term for the lowliest, bottom-of-the-barrel outcasts. At one point or another, my entire lineage was disgraced and wiped from history as we now know it. By legal definition, I am barred from ever seeing the surface or the sky - not that I've ever gotten close enough to have seen them anyway, mind you - with the upper half of the mid-city similarly being out of my reach. My father once served one of the wealthiest families in the entire city: the noble House of Ducat, full of the aristocratic elite under the payroll of the Icarus Gigacorporation.

One drunken evening led to him being hunted by a diverse combination of Ducat assassins and Icarus mercenaries, which in turn led to our family's striking from the annals of recorded time. He spent the majority of his life on the run in the lower-city, later becoming indebted to a drug-lord of one of the most prevalent, infamous criminal cabals: the Rising Phoenix drug cartel. Fortunately, the cartel provided adequate protection and the would-be killers never came close to touching him. Unfortunately, it's because of the cartel that my father is no longer traversing the land of the living.

A well-timed ambush by the cartel left both of my parents dead, with a newly-made five-year-old orphan cradled in my mother's dying arms. I had no family, no home. Were it not for the cartel, I'd be dead to the world. Rising Phoenix took me in as one of their own, raising me as their own blood and training me for the last fifteen years to become an elite, hyper-lethal assassin-for-hire.

To this day I hold a deep resentment for our leader, Darius Rutherford - but that's not to say I don't respect the man. I owe him much more than my life is worth. He's kept me alive a lot longer than I'd ever have made it out on my own. I was forced to learn early on in life that this world is a cruel, wretched place. It's a terrible world, designed to filter and weed out the weaklings from the strong, those who are resilient enough to survive. I have learned to thrive in this hellish environment, for I am far from weak. Let no one mistake that fact.

Another breeze of frigid wind passes through me, sending a sudden twitch down my spine as I sharply turn into a nearby alleyway. The cramped passageway provides an excellent windshield from the near-frozen climate. While it provides nothing for warmth, at least it keeps me from getting any colder. I slow the hoverboard down to a crawl, quickly hopping off with my usual spunk. Powering it down, I collapse it into its more compact form, both ends retracting into the center of the board. Hanging it across the small of my back, two magnetic clamps keep it firmly latched in place, snug and secured.

Draped over my usual attire - a worn, short-sleeved white t-shirt and an old pair of ripped cargo pants held up by a ragged belt - is an ultralight load-bearing harness I use for storing gear and equipment, such as my combat knife strapped to my chest. Underneath the short-sleeved tee is another long-sleeved black shirt for an added layer of warmth. Similarly, beneath my torn-and-faded pants is a pair of insulated, skin-tight leggings. Clamped to my left hip is my trusted .40 handgun, the magazines for which are stuffed in my vest. The handgun has more than enough stopping power to deal with the average thug, but it's light and versatile enough not to weigh me down. To finalize the look, I wear a pair of fingerless combat gloves - excellent for protection without sacrificing dexterity.

I'm a notorious killer by trade and a master at my craft, yet I dabble in the occasional smuggling work or scavenging salvage, among other things. Taking a quick look around the alleyway, it's easy to notice that there isn't much to really be seen: like the rest of the lower-city, this area is decrepit and has fallen into complete disrepair. Grime clings to the deteriorating, rusted steel walls as rats scurry and flee from the faintest sound of noise. How /any/ living creature could thrive down here is beyond me. The intensifying smell of rot and decay makes me wince, yet it's all too common down here. A familiar scent that plagues the endless streets.

I shake my head in disgust, before kneeling down while I sift through a pile of refuse. Digging through the filthy junkpile, I search for anything I can put to use; nuts, bolts, springs, et cetera. After a few minutes of foraging, I come across several depleted battery cells, along with a partially broken miniature power converter. I stuff the batteries in one of the pouches on my harness, however I'm stumped with the converter. The block-sized object is too big to fit in the vest's pouches, but I manage to squeeze it inside one of my cargo pockets. Unfortunately, the short cables remain dangling as the fit is too tight for me to button the pocket back up. Not bothering with it anymore, I left the cables as they were. A short-term solution was still a solution, after all.

"Having fun?" A smooth, yet distinctively masculine voice calls out, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. The voice jogs my memory, the silvery undertone raking at the depths of my mind. Despite being vaguely recognizable, I can't quite recall who it is.

Alarmed, I instinctively draw my sidearm and aim down the length of the alleyway. At the end, a familiar figure leans on a metallic wall next to him, lazily holding his hands up in a mock surrender. I keep the barrel pointed downrange, staring the man down as I align my weapon's sights with his center of mass. It doesn't take long for me to realize who the man is and why his gait is so recognizable once he starts walking towards me. I quickly lower my weapon and thumb the safety.

"Corvus?" I call out the suspected man's name, keeping my weapon pointed towards the ground but my two-handed grip firm.

"The one and only." Corvus replies, transitioning from mock surrender to an outward shrug with the tilt of his head.

"Dickhead. If you wanted to get yourself killed, that would have been it."

"I've yet to hear a trigger pull, Nova."

Nova. If my mother had one thing going for her, it was her creativity. She named me after a local, generally unknown myth that is barely acknowledged down here in the dark below. Supposedly, up on the surface - beyond the highest reaches of the upper-city - were beacons of light that dominated the black sky during the night-cycle. These luminous flares were called 'stars', and of these stars, the brightest were called Novas. I can see now that there was plenty of symbolism behind the naming, intended to be inspiring. Though, why my mother truly decided to name me after a god-forsaken fairy-tale, I will never know.

Shaking my head out of the in-thought daze, I holster my weapon with a smirk. "If you can hear the trigger pull, I've already made a fatal mistake." I say, ushering him towards me with the wave of a hand. I finish picking through the pile of debris, nothing useful remains. Corvus' steps towards me are slow and methodical, with a calculated, almost lethal precision. I stand myself back up as he comes to a halt beside me. Despite our dimly lit surroundings, I can still make out his appearance. His hair is styled in that of an undercut; the top is flipped over one side but the rest of his head is shaved all the way around, to include beneath where the flipped portion rests. His skin is similar to mine, but decidedly less pale and more weathered.

He's objectively attractive, for a man at least. To top off the look he wears an insulated, fur-lined denim jacket with a plaid, gray shirt underneath. The shirt is tucked into a pair of blue jeans held up by a black leather belt. The blue jeans themselves are bloused in a pair of worn, brown work boots. His signature select-fire rifle remains strapped to his chest-rig with a simple three-point sling, the weapon being capable of chambering special 7.62x35mm cartridges.

"You gonna spend the rest of the day checking me out?" Corvus asks, breaking the awkward silence.

"You wish, pig." I snap, unintentionally raising my voice.

"Someone's grouchy today. Find what you're looking for yet?" He asks with a clearly bored demeanor. I give him a quick nudge to the gut with my elbow, rolling my eyes for effect. "Mostly salvage. A few depleted batteries and a /slightly/ broken power converter. Could be a good trade. Might even be worth enough to sell it." I say with a hint of a slight grin. Credits were always hard to find down here, hence why everyone relied on strong trade. Few things were worth enough to warrant Icarus' exceedingly rare form of standardized currency. Granted, anyone that revealed themselves as owning said scarcity typically painted themselves as prime targets for muggings by the local looters and bandits. Occasionally, even the crime bosses forcefully extort the credits as "protection" money.

"Slightly? Is it fixable?" Corvus asks with a sideways tilt of his head, eyebrow raised.

"We'll find out when we get back to camp, I suppose." I quip back.

"Yeah, somehow I doubt that."

I've known Corvus for about five years now, give or take. A sly smartass, that one. Always getting into trouble, always somehow dragging me along for the ride. He's the closest thing I have to what one would call a "friend", if he could even be called that. He's reliable, somewhat trustworthy, and the least likely person to stab me in the back - for now. The secretive recluse rarely speaks of his past. To the best of my limited knowledge, he grew up in the slums and found a local gang to call home for a short while. He's a natural pickpocket, a skill that quickly hitched him a ride with Rising Phoenix. The years have allowed him to excel at his craft, eventually granting him the title of Master Thief. Not bad for someone who's barely twenty-two.

Everyone has their weaknesses, however, with his being a near-zealous devotion to pacifism. To this day I've yet to see him actually take a life, despite his numerous close-calls with death. He exclusively utilizes non-lethal takedowns and incapacitative weaponry, something I frequently criticize him for. In my personal opinion, we're in a dog-eat-dog world. What's the point in sparing a life if they'll just come back to haunt you?

"Let's get moving." Corvus says, turning towards the end of the alleyway. I silently nod in agreement, walking past him to take point.

"Darius mentioned the meet-up being just down the road, in another back-alley." I say, turning the corner to go back onto the aforementioned street.

"Yeah, along with enough Amp to rock this entire sector, and then some." Corvus replies.

"Freezing Hell, no wonder the shit's so expensive." 'Hell' is a darker, more fitting name given to the uninhabitable under-city.

"Then I strongly suggest you watch your fire. Last thing we need is to walk away without a score while the whole area goes up in flames."

"Guarantee my aim is better than yours."

"Yeah, last time you said that, one of your rounds ricocheted off a steel pipe and took off the tip of your ear. I still haven't figured out how you managed that one." Corvus says with a light-hearted chuckle.

"In my defense, my sights were off."

"And who's fault was that?"

"Hmph." I say, flicking my purple-blue braid over my shoulder, my hair catching a slight gust of wind.

'Amp', as it's commonly called, is actually a misnomer. The drug's true name is Euphoria, but I rarely hear anyone call it that nowadays. Usually that's a tell-tale sign that somebody's in league with corporate. Amp is an exceedingly rare, psychedelic-stimulant that is a combination of older generation drugs, being available in almost any substance. Powders, infusions, crystals - even nebulizers. The drug amplifies - hence the name - the user's entire nervous system. Enhanced speed, strength and intellect.

The only downside is that the psychoactive part of the drug is more potent than the rest of it, inducing powerful, typically violent hallucinations that can destroy a weak-mind with frequent overuse. To top that off, addiction is almost guaranteed with the first use, even if it's 'just a tiny amount'. Here's the kicker: Pure, unrefined Amp is very volatile. The slightest mishandling of a unit as small as a gram has enough explosive power to level an entire city block, which is a major contributor as to why it's so rare.

A militant insurgent group known as the Patriots is one of the only known, reliable sources for unrefined Amp. Where they get it, we have no idea. What they want with it, we have no idea. Darius has sent us on behalf of Rising Phoenix to figure it out. While there's been poor relations between the two groups in the past, our intent is to cement a lasting alliance with them and secure a stable trade agreement for a steady supply of Amp.

As we continue down the road, we make our way past a crumbling intersection with failing traffic lights. Following the sidewalk, we turn into an inconspicuous passage. Hidden in the wall is a large, steel door that blends in well with its surroundings. The only giveaway is the faint, faded 'X' painted in red across the door. The cracked paint was barely perceptible, having chipped away little by little over the years, until there was hardly anything left.

I knock on the door three times, loudly. "Let freedom ring." I utter the code phrase that Darius informed us with. Several metallic clicks can be heard as the door is slowly unlocked. With precision, the door opens inwards, revealing a blackened corridor. A single armed guard stands ready to escort us into the hideout.

"About damn time. Was beginning to think you'd never show." The guard says, gesturing us down the hallway. "They're down below, in the basement. Come with me."

We follow the armed escort as he takes point, rifle slung over his chest but hands still maintaining a strong grip. We traverse several flights of descending stairs, the overhead lamplight fading with each downward spiral. Soon enough, we enter a dimly-lit room, heavily armed guards lining the perimeter. Far too armed for a simple parley. Every sense in my body screams at me to remain on high alert, but I have enough sense to keep my weapons holstered. I can feel the tiny hairs on the back of my neck rise in protest.

In the center of the room is an antique, wooden oak table, flanked by an armed guard on either side. A burly man, appearing to be in his mid-forties, sits in a leather chair on the other side with a cigar in his mouth. The man gestures to two empty chairs situated across from him, implying that we take our seats. Without hesitation, we oblige. Upon closer inspection, I can see that the man has a crescent scar surrounding his right eye, which appears to be at least partially if not totally blind.

"I'm glad you can finally join us." The man says in a thick accent, tapping his cigar into an ashtray on the table. Taking another quick huff, he blows the smoke towards us. I catch a whiff of the aging tobacco, a valuable commodity not often found this far beneath the surface. 'Vox' reads the name-tape on his uniform. I can't read the rank insignia. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, at last."

"We get it, we're late. The pleasure's all ours." I say, earning a discreet elbow to the ribs from Corvus. I concede a very light cough.

"You've got a mouth on you, eh? It would behoove you to shut it." The man replies.

"Ignore her antics, we're not here to fight." Corvus intervenes.

"So then why are you here, exactly?"

"Darius, our leader, sent-"

"I know why Rutherford sent you. I asked why are you here, what's your stake in this?" The man asks calmly, tapping the cigar into the ashtray once more.

Corvus takes one of the open seats as I take the other. "We're here to propose a partnership that'll mutually benefit both of our organizations. A formal alliance and trade agreement, cemented with this gift." Corvus says, slowly reaching inside his jacket. He pauses as both guards raise their rifles; in turn, my left hand goes straight for my holster. The man waves the both of them to lower their weapons. I hesitate at first, but I gradually take my hand off mine.

In the clear, Corvus reveals what he had hidden. A large bag, barely able to fit into the palm of both his hands. Coins can be heard inside, jingling and clinking together. If that is what I think it is, then Darius is a lot more resourceful than he's let on. Without hesitation, Corvus drops the bag on the table with a loud /thunk/, then proceeds to lay back in his chair. The man grabs the bag, weighing it in his meaty hands. Satisfied, he uncinches the top and opens it. A golden reflection can be seen in his eyes as he gazes hypnotically at the shimmering prize, even with the room being so poorly illuminated.

"I could kill you for this, you know." The man states nonchalantly. "If Rutherford can procure this many credits for a simple alliance, he's hiding a lot more than he's showing."

All I can do is blink in disbelief. Did we just get set up?

"Let me put it in layman's terms, sweetheart. Your boss is a snake and I know him well enough. I don't trust him. This many credits will paint a large enough target that I'll have bastards clawing at my door for months. Does he expect to put me out of business?"

"It's a gesture of good fai-" I start.

"Ha! 'Good faith' my ass." The man chuckles. "Enough of my charades, you'll have your alliance. I know why you want it. Luckily for you, we need the money. Keep a steady supply of credits coming in and you'll get all the Amp your hearts' desire." I relax my posture and sigh in relief. This was all an elaborate show of force to intimidate us. It almost worked. Almost.

"Not to be abrupt, but where's our end of the deal?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Straight to business, then. The name's Vox. Captain Vox, if you will. I'm a ranking officer within the Patriots. The soldiers in this room aren't meant for you, never were." Captain Vox says, gesturing to the perimeter guards. "We caught wind that our meeting here might be compromised. My guards are here for your protection just as much as mine." Vox says, his demeanor switching to that of a strict, disciplined leader.

"And our score?"

"As an extra show of good faith, you'll be retrieving it from the sewer system where it's currently under guard by a heavily armed escort." Vox says, ignoring my glare. "We're compromised, there's no doubt about it. I'm not going to risk our Amp being stolen, much less destroyed along with everything near it. I'll provide you with a map, directions and transportation. The rest is up to you." The man finishes his cigar, tipping the last bit of ash and leaving what remained of the cigar in the tray.

"You say we've been compromised, what happened? Snitch?" I ask in confusion.

"Icarus caught our scent, somehow. They've been hunting us day and night, leaving us no room to maneuver or recover." Vox says, nodding.

"They've been hounding Phoenix as well. The crackdowns are getting more frequent, more brutal." Corvus replies, his face grim.

"It sounds like the Patriots have a mole." I say, watching Vox's mouth twitch so faintly I almost miss it.

"We're… investigating the possibility. Icarus has been well known to use sleeper cells." Vox offers, confirming my suspicions.

"Sounds like we better get moving then." Corvus says, rising out of his seat as I follow behind him.

"Agreed. Take these before you go." Vox hands us two vambrace-like gadgets. "They're called TAC-PADs, they wrap around your forearm. I've already pre-programmed a map with directions in both of them."

I strap the device across my right forearm, like a bracer. The rectangular screen lights up with a blue holo-projector. An interactive, 3-D map displays itself, hovering just above my arm. A distinct path of lines between our location and the nearest sewer entrance lights up bright yellow. Our current coordinates can be seen just above the start point. I take a brief look at the current directions. If I'm reading this right, we're heading southbound over a long stretch of highway, before taking a steep dive into the under-city via a set of old maintenance elevators.

"That's a long walk. You said we had transport?" Corvus chimes in.

"Affirmative. We're civilized, don't worry." Vox's thick accent shines through. "We'll keep in contact through the TAC-PADs. They've got built-in voice communicators. You can use them to get a hold of me as well as each other, should you manage to get lost. Please don't."

"One more thing," Vox says, giving us pause. "You never did answer my question. What's your stake in all this?"

"I owe Darius my life. I might not agree with all of his decisions, but I have more respect for that man than anyone else in this city. I'd follow him through the depths of Hell and back if he ordered me to." I say with zero hesitation.

"You're loyal. Disciplined. You have principles. I can admire that." Vox says with a respectful nod. "I might not like Rutherford, but you two are alright in my book. I never did catch your names."

"Nova." I say.

"Corvus." My partner says.

"It's been a pleasure, Nova, Corvus." Vox says with a slight grin.

"Likewise." We say in unison.

Icarus Gigacorporation, as the leading corporate authority in Iso-Karo, has a complete monopoly on the upper and mid-cities. It has taken the place of any standardized government. Naturally, money is power, and Icarus bought its way to the top a long time ago. Being the wealthiest corporation in existence, it has established its own private security firm in place of an official military. Any reputable market or legitimate business falls under Icarus. While the lower-city and under-city have become relics of a bygone age, the mid-city and upper-city were built solely by the accumulated wealth of Icarus. As such, daily life in the upper reaches is heavily monitored. Every transaction can be traced, down to the last credit. Icarus would have us all been slaves, wealthy or not.

Luckily for us, the lower-city isn't as easily tamed. While Icarus has a nasty habit of invading the underground markets, we push back just as hard, if not harder. It has led to the company striking backroom deals with numerous syndicates, utilizing cash-under-the-table methods. As such, the lower-city is in a constant state of civil war between those who would support the corporation and those who enjoy the taste of true freedom.

Unfortunately, most of the 'freed' gangs and enterprises are wiped out before they can become a real threat to the power hierarchy. Rising Phoenix itself has avoided the bulk of Icarus' death squads. Darius takes his criminal enterprise seriously and never stays in any one place for too long. Our base of operations has been relocated numerous times to avoid detection. It would appear that the Patriots have done the same to survive. With the constant pressure of Icarus' bearing down on both of our groups, it's only a matter of time before all hell breaks loose.

A heavy layer of dust falls from the ceiling as the building begins to shake violently, pebbles scattering across the battered stone floor. Corvus unslings his rifle as I quickly draw my pistol. "That's our cue." I say, turning around. I follow several guards moving back upstairs, Corvus close behind me. I can hear gunfire getting louder the closer we get to the top. As we reach the corridor, guards line up on the walls, waiting for a signal. Another layer of dust and tiny debris showers us when the deteriorating building takes another blast. I take point at the end of the hallway. With a deep breath, I yank the door open towards me and quickly make my way back into the alleyway.