Smoke curled through the Veins like lazy snakes, weaving between shattered pipes and scorched metal. The aftermath of the staged chaos hung heavy, a curtain of heat and ash that made the air taste of soot and burned nerves.
From my perch above, I tracked him. Elliot moved with the certainty of someone who had rehearsed this rescue a dozen times over. Every lift, every shove of rubble, every hand extended to pull a civilian free was precise, almost surgical. My eyes flicked over him like a predator studying prey but prey that didn't quite know I was there.
Soft murmur… shifting rubble… faint crackle…
He didn't notice me, of course. Why would he? He assumed I'd retreated, that I was cataloging numbers or plotting some obscure ledger trick. And maybe I was but even a ledger could wait when the scene was this… cinematic.
Children scurried, clutching remnants of blankets and burnt scraps. Mothers and fathers ran with frantic precision, ignoring the chaos that still nipped at their heels. Elliot's gaze flicked from one to the next, assessing, adjusting. Like a chess player who could see three moves ahead, his arms became a shield, his steps a map through the wreckage.
Soft hiss… distant metallic clang… shuffle…
I cataloged his pattern, noting the slight hesitation before lifting a crate that might have crushed a woman's leg. That small pause, human, vulnerable, was a thread I filed away. Predictability made people fragile. Predictability made them manipulable. And yes, Elliot was predictable, in that annoyingly heroic way.
I couldn't help it. I muttered under my breath, letting the words curl into smoke along with the rest of the chaos: "Oh, look. The city's self-appointed savior shows up on schedule. How original."
He lifted another panicked child, guiding her to safety without breaking stride. The precision of it all should have been comforting if I weren't calculating how to turn his instincts against him. Even now, I could see the marks of past mistakes in the walls and floors: scorched tiles, cracked beams, panels misaligned from previous rescues. He didn't notice, but I did.
Footstep… faint rattle… air shift…
And then he paused. Eye contact or what felt like it from across a cloud of smoke. Recognition? Suspicion? I couldn't read him yet. Couldn't trust him, not fully. There was history, a ledger of moments and betrayals stored deep, weighing heavier than any flame below.
My lips twitched in a half-smile. "Rescue drama, starring Elliot. Who wrote this script again?"
He vanished into another plume of smoke, leaving me to watch, calculate, and catalogue. No hesitation. No flash of fear. Just another performance, heroic, infuriating, entirely predictable.
I pressed a hand to the railing, feeling the Veins hum beneath the city, vibrating in anticipation, hungry. And somewhere beneath all that, the machinery and chaos conspired. Ready. Waiting.
I exhaled, letting my thoughts linger on the scene, on him, on what could be manipulated, delayed, or exploited. One thing was certain: the rebellion was stirring. And Elliot, annoying, irritating, infuriating Elliot, was only the opening act.
"And here I thought the chaos could run itself."