The cold wind bit harder the higher he climbed. From the rooftop, the streets below felt almost peaceful, the odd police siren and shout notwithstanding.
Ethan crouched by the ventilation shaft, checking his surroundings. Just behind the haze of glass and LED neon, beneath the beat of industrial EDM, the Armenians ran their arms operation under the guise of a nightclub.
He'd watched for weeks; tracked routines, deliveries, backroom foot traffic. He knew this building better than its owners did, and he knew tonight was the perfect night to ruin theirs.
This wasn't the usual coked up Billies or thugs lost in the path of life. No backyard meth sheds and dogfights in the swamp. This was bigger. A real criminal organization with real resources, and tonight, Ethan was going to carve through the heart of it.
He wasn't wearing his old stitched-together combat suit either.
His silhouette gleamed under the moonlight; sleek angles, armored plates with matte finish, reinforced but flexible. Gwen had called it the "Gremlin Special." All-black, like a chromed-up knight from some dystopian future. Designed for movement but built to take a hit from a truck and walk away annoyed. The helmet covered his face entirely, glowing teal lines tracing faint circuits like veins.
It had everything from concealed weaponry, first-aid, air-purifier.
Of course, it cost him enough money to make Leo Dicaprio consider marrying a woman older than twenty one.
But it was worth it.
Under the mask, his breath was calm, focused.
His armored gloves brushed against the rooftop's gravelly edge. Below, bass thundered through the building like a heartbeat. No words, just rhythm; violent, repetitive, perfect to forget all your woes…and the nutjob on the roof. He threw a glance at the club's glass dome entrance; flashing lights, grinding bodies, heat pouring out in waves of sweat and perfume and alcohol as people paid good money to ruin their lives.
He moved.
Silent, fast.
The roof access was easy, Gwen had designed a magnetic bypass for keypads, though he couldn't even begin to understand how it worked.
One wave of his glove and the lock clicked open. Inside, the hallway was lit only by a soft red glow–maintenance only.
Two security guards loitered near the stairwell down to the club's upper lounge. Ethan watched them for one full breath. They didn't see him.
A twitch of his finger, and two thin strands of high-tensile carbon wire lashed forward from his gauntlets like solid snakes. One coiled around a guard's neck, the other over the second's mouth and throat. They convulsed briefly, then slumped forward.
Ethan guided their descent with care, unconscious and very much not dead…though the medical bills might make them wish he finished the job.
"Two down," he whispered, the voice modifier making his identity a complete mystery.
"You're enjoying this," Gwen's voice crackled in his earpiece, barely louder than a breath.
"Not enjoying. Demonstrating improved efficiency."
"Show-off."
He didn't smile. But the corner of his mouth twitched under the helm.
Ethan padded forward, boots silent on metal grating. The hallway led to a maintenance catwalk above the dance floor.
Club-goers below writhed in time with the music, flashing lights painting their faces in strobe-blur streaks. From his perch he could see it all, the women cheating on their partners, the men sneaking pills into lone girls' drinks, some college kids exchanging packets of sweet powder for some bills.
He used their lust-fuelled madness as cover, moving from shadow to shadow until he reached the back wall.
A single door led to the stairs down to the basement, and right next to it, a single guard. Mid-thirties, scruffy beard, cigarette glowing faint orange in the dark. He exhaled, looked out across the club absently.
Then he turned and saw what might as well have been a nightmare made from alloy and intent.
The cigarette dropped.
His hand went to his jacket.
Too late.
Ethan raised his hand slightly. Two fingers, like a conductor cueing a violist—and the man's body locked up mid-reach. His feet left the ground, a faint choke escaping his throat as an invisible force crushed his windpipe.
He flailed, eyes wild, but didn't make a sound.
From Ethan's helmet, the voice that emerged was digitally distorted, warped just enough to crawl under the skin. "I've always wanted to do that."
"Dork," Gwen muttered.
Ethan let the body fall with a thud.
Basement door: locked.
Ethan raised his arm again and sent a telekinetic pulse forward like radar. It rippled through the door and down the staircase, brushing through the space like unseen fingers. He waited for resistance, the bioelectricity of a human body was enough to stop this level of psionic power.
Nothing.
"All clear." He said for the voice in his head.
The lock clicked open with a quiet ping. The stairs creaked under his weight, and with every step down, the club's music faded behind thick concrete until it was only a dull memory.
Then the new sound came: crates shifting, tape ripping, metallic clatter.
The real business.
This wasn't a storeroom. This was logistics central. Two dozen men moved with practiced efficiency, stacking rifles into padded bags, sealing boxes of ammunition. Tables full of handguns lay disassembled mid-clean.
A wall-mounted monitor blinked with shipping schedules in Armenian.
In the far corner, a rusty industrial fridge held suspiciously body-sized meat hooks. Next to it: bags of what Ethan was fairly sure were actual cash.
And gold. Lots of gold. Chains, watches, rings.
Gangbanger sure loved their jewelry.
Ethan stepped out of the stairwell and into their little ecosystem.
One of the workers noticed him. A skinny guy with acne scars and a clipboard. He blinked once. Twice. Then somehow worked out that punching the scary dude made of metal was a good idea.
His knuckles met reinforced composite.
Something broke, it wasn't Ethan's nose.
HE grabbed the now howling man by the wrist, twisted it, and slammed his head gently, but firmly, like a dad who just wanted you to know better–into a nearby stack of rifle crates. The man dropped without a sound.
Everyone else froze.
Then a scream—someone shouted something in Armenian, and though he didn't speak their language he reckoned it wasn't very nice.
Then guns. Lots of guns.
He counted at least a dozen. All aimed at him. Drunk or not, these men were ready to shoot. Their hands didn't shake. They weren't just hired muscle.
"Gwen," Ethan said calmly, "remind me what your dad said about Armenians and firearms?"
"They shoot straighter when they're drunk. Which they often are."
"Fantastic."
The bullets came all at once.
A wall of lead.
The thunder was deafening. Dust burst from the walls and ceiling. Sparks jumped as rounds ricocheted. Smoke billowed in slow motion.
And in the center of it all, Ethan stood still.
Arms at his sides. Head slightly tilted. Untouched.
His force field shimmered faintly, a translucent bubble of compressed psionic energy that bent the bullets' paths just enough to send them off course. Clattering to the ground, denting the walls, but never reaching him. It took effort. More than usual. But it held, failure was an option but the suit would help cover his mistake, gotta thank Gwen for that.
Among other things.
The smoke cleared.
They stopped firing.
He took a step forward.
Two of them bolted, only to get whacked in the skull by a flying crowbar…twice, they were very unlucky.
The rest held firm. Brave.
Stupid.
Ethan launched himself into the fray.
One elbow cracked a jaw. A knee crushed a ribcage. He ducked under a wild swing, drove his fist into a stomach, then flung the man back with a burst of force. Another tried to grab him from behind—Ethan calmly grabbed the man's wrist, twisted, spun, and threw him bodily into a table of disassembled pistols. Screams. Groans. Crunches and a whole lot of fun.
He danced between them like a storm in a china shop, each movement precise, brutal, efficient and economically disastrous.
They came in waves. First the frontliners, thugs with scars and confidence. Then the smarter ones, more coordinated, tried to flank. Ethan responded in kind. He grabbed a pipe from the ground, flattened it telekinetically into a short baton, and used it to knock one assailant across the face with a loud crack. Another went down when Ethan pulled the rifle from his hands mid-swing and used the butt to send him into the nearest wall.
In five minutes, it was done.
They weren't dead. Probably…hopefully.
Maybe.
He stood over the unconscious and moaning forms, helmet breathing in slow, even hisses. One final man, possibly a manager or just lucky, lay beneath a tipped-over crate, staring up in abject horror.
Ethan crouched beside him.
"You run this operation?"
The man swallowed. "N-No. No, I just…"
"Good. Means I can leave you alive." He bullshited, for reason other than the love of the game.
He stood, stepped over a pile of assault rifles, and walked toward the fridge.
Cash. Gold. Watch rolls. Designer belts.
He filled two duffel bags without even blinking.
"Gwen?"
"Already tipped the cops. You've got maybe six minutes."
"Plenty."
He raised one of the confiscated pistols and emptied the magazine into the ceiling of the upstairs hallway. The music stopped. Screams. Footsteps. Chaos erupted above as club-goers scrambled to escape. Ethan didn't wait around.
He slipped into the designated escape route; an old maintenance tunnel behind the fridge. It reeked of mold and sewage and regret. But it led to a storm drain two blocks away, where a nondescript black SUV waited for him.
He climbed in, tossed the bags in the backseat.
Pulled off the helmet.
Sweaty. Tired, and with a solid dent in his reserves.
But much richer.
"Only twelve more hits like this, and you might have enough to make up for the suit." Gwen's teasing voice rang in his ears, and he couldn't help but groan.
Still, he loved that voice.
Alt Title: Upgrade.
Author's Note:
If you're enjoying the story and want to read ahead or support my work, you can check out my P@treon at [email protected]/LordCampione. But don't worry—all chapters will eventually be public. Just being here and reading means the world to me. Thank you for your time and support.