The Barroom Confrontation
The stale air in Vincent's bar clung to the walls like old secrets. Neon beer signs flickered, casting a sickly glow over the warped oak counter where Dave leaned, his massive frame making the stool creak in protest.
Vincent slammed two fingers of whiskey in front of Dave, his knuckles scarred from decades of bar fights. "Dave McCullough," he muttered, shaking his head. "Can't believe you're alive. Eleven years MIA—most figured you'd wound up in a ditch."
Dave downed the drink in one swallow. "Was head of security at Kane Advanced Research Complex."
Vincent barked a laugh. "Bullshit. Ain't never heard of no 'Kane Complex.'"
"That's the point." Dave's voice dropped low enough that the ceiling fan nearly drowned it out. "Black budget. Deeper than Site R."
A glass shattered in the kitchen. Leor flinched—the first movement he'd made since they'd arrived. Vincent's gaze slid to him, taking in the kid's too-pale skin, the electric-blue veins visible at his wrists.
"James' brat, huh?" Vincent wiped the counter with unnecessary force. "How's your old man?"
"Dead."
The word hit like a gunshot. Vincent froze mid-wipe, the rag dripping onto his boots. Leor's stare was arctic, the kind of look that made combat vets like Vincent feel the ghost of a knife between their ribs.
Dave cleared his throat. "Vincent. I need a favor. Place to lay low for a bit."
Vincent exhaled through his nose. "Kid—why don't you check out the town?" It wasn't a suggestion.
Leor stood, chair scraping loud enough to make Vincent's bartender reflex twitch. Neither man spoke until the door swung shut behind him.
Vincent waited exactly four seconds—the time it took for Leor's shadow to clear the window—before grabbing Dave's collar.
"What the hell did you drag into my town, McCullough?"
Outside, Leor pressed his back to the sun-warmed brick, their voices carrying through the cracked window:
The fishing boats creaked against their salt-crusted ropes as Leor walked the weathered planks. Time hadn't been kind to Harrow Point's port - the lobster traps sat stacked like gravestones, their rusted metal groaning in the Atlantic wind.
A polished leather shoe scuffed the dock behind him.
"Quite the electrical storm this morning."
Leor turned to face a man in a tailored navy suit that screamed government issue. His smile showed too many teeth.
"Han Ho-Jo. WSA Emerging Threats Division." The ID badge swung from his neck like a pendulum. "You'd be surprised what security cameras catch in small towns."
Han's phone screen flared to life, displaying the mountain's destruction in jagged blue. The timestamp read 03:47 AM - right when Leor had lost control.
"Funny thing," Han pocketed the device, "this matches energy signatures from a little... incident three years back." His eyes flicked to Leor's twitching fingers. "You look just like your father, you know."
Leor's breath hitched. The air smelled of ozone and dead fish.
Vincent's Bar - Moments Before the Raid
Vincent slammed his palms on the sticky bar top. "Start talking, Dave. What the hell is that kid?" His eyes darted to the window where Leor had disappeared. "I saw his veins glow like damn Christmas lights!"
Dave's augmented eye whirred as he drained his whiskey. "Three years ago. Project Vajra—we called it the Orb." The glass cracked in his grip. "James was so close to stabilizing it when... everything went to shit. Kid lost his parents, his home—hell, his humanity that day."
Vincent opened his mouth, but Dave's right arm shifted—flesh dissolving into dark metallic plates, neon-green energy pulsing through the seams. The bar lights flickered in response.
"You—" Vincent stumbled back.
Tires screeched outside. Three black SUVs skidded to a halt, disgorging tactical operatives in matte-black body armor. Their visors reflected the bar's neon sign in blood-red streaks.
Dave's metal fist clanged against the counter. "Impossible! They shouldn't—" He whirled on Vincent, eyes blazing.
"Don't fucking look at me!" Vincent yanked a sawed-off shotgun from beneath the bar, shells scattering. The weapon's barrel had strange glyphs etched into the steel—ancient glyphs. "I didn't sell you out. But someone sure as hell did."
The first flashbang crashed through the window.
"Move!" Dave roared, his entire torso now sheathed in that alien metal. "Find Leor before—"
The door exploded inward.