CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Blue-Collared Justice

  Specter

  “Come on, lift with your legs,” Bastion said as the two robots hoisted the heavy cable machine, hauling it outside and tossing it onto the pile of broken, rusted workout equipment.

  “You do know that the whole ‘lift with your legs, not your back’ spiel applies to humans, not robots, right?” Specter asked as they headed back into the gym, letting the door swing shut behind them.

  “Doesn’t matter. I reckon the advice still holds true. Otherwise, you might blow out a piston,” Bastion shot back, grabbing a nearby broom.

  “Blow out a piston?” Specter paused, as if raising a mental eyebrow at the large robot, who only nodded in response. “You’re an idiot, you know that, right? Like a proper one.” Specter muttered, afterwards tapping the broom in Bastion’s hand to get it moving again.

  He then grabbed a second broom and joined in, sweeping up layers of dust and grime that coated the floor. They’d spent the entire day tearing up moldy carpet, clearing out broken machinery, benches, and removing shattered glass still clinging to the window frames. Outside, a pile of large wooden boards sat ready, stacked neatly along with the nail gun they’d ‘borrowed’ from a nearby abandoned hardware store. By now, the place looked stripped and empty, closer to a warehouse than a gym.

  Specter took a step back, looking over the space. The gym wasn’t huge, but it had enough room for everything he had in mind. ‘In a few hours, we’ll have it set up with some basic workout spots for Marcus—pull-up bar, bench press, squat rack, dumbbells, and maybe more as we go,’ he thought, picturing it. And in time, he’d set up a few machines for robot repairs: a 3D printer, assembly bench, and tools for any fixes they’d need. He imagined them in a closed-off corner, maybe even separated by walls for extra security. That or they could clear out and strip the locker rooms and use those rooms. ‘The basement could make a decent spot to store the Glass and any supplies we didn’t want lying around in the open. And the best part is, the outside still looks shit, so I doubt anyone would think about looting this place, let alone step foot in a dead zone.’ He then thought about the young woman they had already encountered twice. ‘We’ll have to deal with her before she heads down here again.’

  Bastion’s towering frame thudded down each step, sending faint vibrations through the floor as it made its way into the basement. “Say, would it be hard to expand the basement?” it asked awhile later, voice echoing in the narrow space. Specter followed, intrigued by his companion’s sudden curiosity.

  “Expand how?” Specter asked, watching Bastion survey the surrounding walls.

  “You know, expand-expand,” Bastion said, waving its arms at the walls. “Like a secure room for Glass, and a storage spot for robots not in use. Sort of making the Batcave, but for robots?”

  Specter blinked, an almost amused look flickering across his expression. “You want to make a Batcave, in our father’s old gym?” He shook his head. “Let’s start by just finishing stripping this place, and we’ll see how it goes, alright?” He turned and made his way back up the stairs. ‘A big basement does sound cool,’ he thought, though he refused to admit it to Bastion for now.

  He made his way outside and grabbed the first board and the nail gun, hauling it inside and setting it against one of the front window before he drove nails into the wood, the sharp clicks of the gun echoing in the quiet room. ‘Should be good for a temporary fix,’ he thought, stepping back to check his work.

  He headed out for the next board, pondering as he worked. The boards would darken the space inside, but he figured solar panels and batteries could be something they tackled later. None of them knew much about electricity. Still, between some online resources and potential tips from old man Pete, Specter felt confident they could figure it out.

  Finishing with the second board, Specter looked over one side of the front wall, now covered. Satisfied, he moved back inside, eyeing the scattered pieces of old equipment and clutter they’d yet to clear. ‘With a little more work, we’ll have some basic workout spots set up, and Marcus could use the office space in back to sleep. Getting the showers working would be ideal, and perhaps get a fridge, too.’

  Bastion lumbered back up the stairs, arms piled with plastic wraps that had been torn when Marcus had gotten Chipped. It moved with a steady clunk, reaching the back door before unceremoniously dumping the junk onto the growing pile outside and ducking back in.

  “Looks a lot better,” it said as it inspected Specter’s work, its gaze running over the newly-boarded windows.

  “Yeah, it does, doesn’t it?” Specter said, stepping back to admire it himself. “You might even say that I nailed it.”

  “Please, don’t,” Bastion muttered, then leaned closer, slowly turning the nail gun around to face Specter. A low whir sounded as Bastion’s large finger edged Specter’s trigger finger, firing a nail directly into Specter’s chest with a soft thud.

  Specter’s camera lenses glowed for a second, looking down at the nail embedded in his plastic plating, then back up at Bastion, brow raised. “Really?”

  Bastion gave a casual shrug and ambled back to its broom, sweeping away dust and debris scattered across the floor.

  Specter watched his companion go, feeling a mixture of annoyance and amusement. ‘Prick,’ he thought before he got back to work with boarding up the windows. ‘Having two sets of Orbs is incredibly useful,’ he thought, noting how he and Bastion had synced into a routine over the past few days. They spent their daylight hours repairing each other, printing out new parts, or fixing up the gym, and by nightfall, they’d take Marcus’s bike out, heading off to hunt more creatures. The steady flow of Glass kept them motivated. Without the tight schedules dictated by Mana supply holding them back, they took fewer risks—waiting longer to set ambushes or retreating when too many monsters showed up.

  They kept moving through the gym, boards thudding into place as Specter secured them over the windows, and Bastion swept dust and debris from the floors. Every so often, they stopped to haul more junk out or grab an intact sofa from a neighbor’s house.

  Later, they turned their attention to their father’s office. Bastion started clearing out the papers and folders, and Specter pushed a filing cabinet to the wall, making more space for a mattress or a bed frame later on. They debated whether swiping a mattress from a nearby house was practical or too risky, considering mold, bedbugs, or worse.

  Their conversation halted when the phone buzzed in a backpack on the desk.

  “Marcus?” Specter asked, watching as Bastion’s steel fingers reached for the phone.

  “I’m not a psychic, but no one else has this number,” Bastion muttered, then tapped the buttons with surprising care.

  “Don’t break it, please,” Specter said, looking at the cabinet before deciding to drag it outside and toss it on the garbage pile.

  “Relax, I’m not going to break it. That only happened that one—” Bastion froze mid-sentence, staring at the screen as a second vibration sounded. Without a word, the robot resumed tapping the buttons.

  “What is it?” Specter let go of the cabinet, turning to Bastion. “Is something wrong with Marcus?”

  Bastion looked up, staring at Specter before speaking in a flat, icy tone. “You need to gear up. Someone hurt Felix.” It handed the phone to Specter, who noticed two emails waiting on the screen. The first was a message from Marcus; the other, from Benedict, included a file attachment.

  Specter opened the file first, scanning through the addresses and profiles of multiple individuals. Public Breacher records were attached, listing guild affiliations along with close-up shots: some were casual profile pictures downloaded from social media, while others were official Breacher ID photos.

  Next, he opened Marcus’s email..

  ┏                    ┓

  “They broke Felix’s arm.

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  Get even.”

  -Nexus

  ┗                    ┛

  Specter locked the phone and set it carefully on the table. He reached into his backpack, pulling out a pair of black jeans and a hoodie. He slid the jeans over his rigid metal legs and tugged the hoodie over his head, adjusting it for maximum cover, afterwards putting on boots.

  Across the desk, Bastion unzipped another backpack, revealing an assortment of store-bought axes and knives, their wear clearly evident. The robot grabbed two larger hunting knives, sturdy with reinforced handles, and handed them to Specter, who secured them to his body with duct tape, wrapping the blades flat against his sides until they all but disappeared. He grabbed the three Mana batteries from the bag, briefly lifting his clothes before sliding them inside and lodging them in place.

  “Try not to kill them, alright?” Bastion asked, its voice stern as it poured most of its Mana inside Specter’s frame to top it off.

  “We’ll see,” Specter replied, slipping on his worn black raincoat. The hoodie’s edge shadowed most of his face, obscuring his features. “Don’t wait up.” He pocketed the phone, turned on his heel, and pushed open the door. The quiet street greeted him as he stepped outside. The dead zone lay sprawled ahead of him, dimming under the weight of the setting sun as he made his way to the edge, every step heightening his anger in that moment.

  - - -

  The bar felt dim and smoky when Specter walked in, the low thrum of voices and laughter reverberating through the room. He registered each figure quickly, matching faces from Benedict’s dossier to those scattered around. ‘All five of them here,’ he thought, noticing the Marks on some of their faces and arms, all too pretty and symmetrical. ‘Three of them Forged, two human like Benedict.’ Some slouched over drinks, half-suited in armor, with bulky crates containing their weapons stacked on the table beside them. Two Breachers sat by a pool table, one nursing a beer, the other staring at a television screen that was showing a soccer match. A couple of other patrons noticed Specter’s entrance, eyeing his worn hoodie and raincoat. He ignored their murmurs and headed for the jukebox in the far corner.

  The device hummed softly until Specter silenced it with a slow button press. He scrolled through the options, barely acknowledging one of the irritated Breachers who shouted, “Hey, douchebag! I was listening to that!”

  A beer can sailed past Specter’s head, smacking the wall behind him. He didn’t flinch, just calmy watch as the next record settled into place: ‘I’m Your Boogie Man’. The song began, low and haunting, filling the bar with a darker edge.

  He moved to the bar, taking a seat and watching his hooded reflection in the mirror behind the shelves. After a few seconds, two of the Breachers sauntered over, lazy grins playing on their faces and eyes half-lidded with disdain. They sandwiched him between them, one leaning against the bar with a beer in hand, the other looking him over with a sneer.

  “Nice threads. What are you, hipster or hobo?” the man sneered, looking at Specter’s worn-out clothes. He leaned in close, the stale scent of alcohol thick on his breath as he squinted at the rain-slick fabric hanging off Specter’s shoulders. “Or do you just like wearing a cheap Halloween costume?”

  Specter kept his head down, continuing to let the hood cast his face in shadow. He stayed silent, unmoved by the taunt. The Breacher’s eyes narrowed, irritation flickering at the lack of response. He raised the beer and held it above Specter’s head, letting a slow trickle pour from the rim, dribbling onto Specter’s hood and shoulders in a thin, mocking stream.

  “Oh, whoops,” he snickered, sparing a glance over at his friends lounging in the corner. All three sat with their feet kicked up on the table, smirking at the spectacle and chuckling with open-mouthed grins, nodding at their friend’s performance like they’d seen it a thousand times before. Encouraged, the man raised the glass a little higher, letting more of the beer drizzle down Specter’s back.

  “Maybe you could use a shower, huh?” he sneered, his smirk growing as he stared at Specter’s bowed head, waiting for a reaction. But Specter didn’t flinch or look up. He let the beer soak in, his silence growing colder as the man’s laughter rang out.

  The other man next to him, tapping fingers against the bar, leaned closer. “You a mute or something?” he asked before he switched his tapping to Specter’s chest.

  Specter kept his gaze steady on the scratched wood of the bar, ignoring the man’s insistent finger prodding at his chest. “Hey, I’m talking to you,” the Breacher sneered, gripping a handful of Specter’s clothes. “What’s the matter? You deaf, or just dumb as bricks?”

  The bartender, glancing nervously between them, cleared his throat. “Come on guys, knock it off,” he warned, his voice holding more caution than authority.

  Another Breacher at the table sneered and tossed an empty beer can, which thudded against the wall near the bartender. A few nearby patrons exchanged looks, tense and wary, before deciding it wasn’t worth sticking around. They rose quietly and slipped out the door, the sharp clinks of the exit bell underscoring the bar’s sudden heaviness.

  Specter finally spoke, his voice so soft it barely carried over the sound of glasses clinking in the bartender’s nervous hands. “You hurt someone today… broke his arm.” His words fell like frost, a quiet menace wrapped in calm. “…an innocent man.”

  The Breacher’s brow furrowed, then his confusion melted into a mocking grin. “Get a load of this guy,” he said, looking back at his friends, a laugh building in his throat. “He’s talking about the food truck lad—”

  Before he could finish, a thin mist began to bleed from Specter’s frame, a pale, eerie blue that caught the Breachers off guard. Their eyes widened in understanding, their laughter vanishing as the mist thickened. In one swift motion, Specter seized the man’s wrist, his grip like iron. The Breacher gasped, a flicker of panic flashing through his eyes, and before he could react, Specter twisted, the bones in the man’s wrist giving way with a sickening crack.

  The man choked on a scream as Specter slammed the broken wrist onto the bar, then drove his knife through the man’s hand with a brutal finality, pinning him to the counter.

  The Breacher’s sharp, guttural scream tore through the room, catching the attention of the few patrons who hadn’t fled. His closest companion whipped around, his shock hardening to terror as he watched Specter slam the wounded man’s head into the bar—once, twice, thrice, then a brutal fourth time. Each brutal impact was an unspoken word; don’t hurt my friends. The Breacher slumped over the bar, his fight knocked out of him.

  Specter moved quickly, pivoting to the next Breacher just as the man swung a beer bottle towards him. His metal fist shattered the glass mid-swing, sending shards slicing across the man’s face and forcing him to stumble back. The man gritted his teeth and threw a wide punch, but Specter stepped in and drove his steel head into the man’s fist, the metal meeting bone with a sickening crunch. The Breacher recoiled, clutching his mangled hand.

  Before the man could react further, Specter seized his arm, twisting it outward as his other hand crashed into the man’s elbow, snapping it at an unnatural angle. The Breacher screamed, eyes wide with agony, stumbling back as he clutched his mangled arm. His legs buckled, his pale gaze flicking down in shock at the ruined limb.

  Not stopping, Specter grabbed the nearest barstool, spinning in a fluid motion before swinging it full-force into the man’s chest, sending him flying.

  The impact sent the Breacher flying headfirst into the jukebox. With a loud crack, the machine buckled, and the song began to skip, repeating the line, ‘I’m your boogie man… I’m your boogie man…’ like a sinister mantra.

  Chaos erupted. One of the Breachers dove for a crate, fumbling with the latch before pulling out a pistol and aiming it at Specter while the others got into a defensive stance. The man fired, the shot ringing out and striking Specter on the side of his head. The round bounced off the metal, leaving only torn fabric as Specter slowly turned to face the three remaining men. ‘Two Forged, one human,’ he calculated. His camera lenses flickered to life, their eerie blue glow cutting through the shadows beneath his hood as he locked onto the man with the gun.

  “What the fuck… what are you?” the man shouted, panic edging his voice. The Breacher fired two more times—one round glanced off Specter’s torso, while the other punched through his frame with little effect. “I’m sorry!” the man stammered, holding the pistol out in shaky hands. His companions stood tense beside him, hands hovering over their own crates, nerves tight as tripwire. In the background, the bartender sank to the floor behind the bar, gripping his phone tightly, the screen showing an outgoing call. Every other patron had bolted when the shots rang out, their screams fading into the night.

  “We’re sorry,” the scared Breacher said once more.

  Specter stepped forward, the tilt of his head radiating a menace colder than anger, more like hatred turned to ice. His voice, low and controlled, sliced through the air. “I don’t care,” he replied, each word clipped and chilling, the repeat from the jukebox looping behind it like a heartbeat slowed to something sinister. “It doesn’t change what I’m going to do to you.”

  The robot moved with a terrifying calm, his footsteps measured, as though each step barely restrained the violence thrumming within. For a moment, Specter was gone; in its place stood Marcus—cold, unchecked, filled with a fury that could only be quenched with his fists.

  He drew his second blade slowly, pale blue mist seeping from his frame once more. He burned through what little Mana he had left in his frame and the batteries he had lodged there, reinforcing his steel limbs. In one swift motion, Specter kicked the table, sending it crashing into the Breachers’ path. Then he lunged, a blur of metal and dark fabric, his blade flashing outward as the bar erupted into a storm of gunshots and frenzied shouts twisted with pain and terror.

  - - -

  Twenty minutes later, Specter stood alone in an alley, the dim streetlight glinting off the bullet hole in his metal and plastic frame. He lifted his hoodie, dragging a steel finger over the jagged entry wound on his robotic frame, tracing the rough edges of the damage.

  He shook his head, a flash of irritation crossing his mind before he pulled out his phone, quickly typing brief mail.

  ┏　　　　　┓

  “Got even.”

  -Specter

  ┗　　　　　┛

  His mind replayed the fight that had erupted in the bar moments before. The Breachers hadn’t stood a chance—Specter had made sure of that, using Overcharge right off the bat and the element of surprise. He’d worked through them one by one, beating them before breaking each right arm with a mechanical precision that bordered on ritualistic, just to send a message. None of them had escaped punishment. They had earned it for hurting his friend. He felt no guilt, no regret for what he’d done. Keeping them alive was mercy enough. But what he’d done afterward lingered in his thoughts, a small prickle of unease.

  He glanced to the side at the three security crates lined up near his feet. Breacher crates, the kind flagged to the authorities as soon as they were opened without permission. He’d ripped them open without hesitation, knowing the risks.

  “They hurt Felix,” he muttered to himself. “And shot me… three times. They’re lucky I only grabbed three crates.” He yanked off his torn raincoat and laid it flat on the ground, dumping the items inside one by one. He tightened the makeshift bundle, preparing it to be smuggled out.

  “Marcus will understand.”