Chapter 2: Shadows in the Hollow
1199 Words
The sound of low-powered turbines echoed through the air as Elena’s transport descended from the upper rings of New Lux into the veiled mist below. The sleek Valkor-issued glidercraft sliced through the cloud bank like a phantom, slowing as the city’s gleaming metal spires gave way to a landscape forgotten by progress. Sector Thirteen had been left behind in every sense — no more upgrades, no more funding, and certainly no more hope.
Elena stood as the doors hissed open, her cloak pulled tight against the chemical chill. The scent of rust and recycled heat clung to the cracked pavement. Neon signs flickered above in half-lit defiance, casting a sickly glow over the streets. This place wasn’t meant for someone like her anymore. But it had once been home.
“Area is secure,” muttered Vax, her assigned Valkor guard for the day. He wore his usual exo-vest and infrared visor, eyes scanning the perimeter for signs of unrest. “You sure you want to walk this one alone?”
“I’m not a relic, Vax,” Elena replied, stepping onto the landing ramp. “Stay by the craft. I won’t be long.”
He hesitated. “Director Rourke said—”
“Damian isn't here,” she said flatly, her boots already echoing down the alley. “And he doesn’t need to know I was.”
She felt his tension linger before he finally nodded and retreated back to the transport.
Sector Thirteen was quiet. Too quiet. Surveillance towers were inactive, their red lenses dull. Synthetic rain slithered from overhead ducts in thin streams, creating puddles that reflected a city gasping for air. Elena moved fast, pulling up her hood and blending into the decay.
She knew where she was going.
Her contact — an old informant named Mira — had reached out three nights ago, cloaked under a triple-encrypted channel. "Meet me where we first built fire,” she'd said. Elena remembered the place immediately.
A half-collapsed ventilation complex, once their safe house during the early resistance years, before Valkor rose from the ruins. She’d designed the first breach algorithms in that very room. She and Damian. Back when they fought for freedom — not control.
The building loomed in the fog like a dying titan. She stepped through its shattered frame, her senses alert. Just inside, a low whistle.
The code. Elena drew her sidearm discreetly but didn’t raise it.
“Mira,” she called softly.
From the shadows, a lithe woman emerged, dressed in scavenged techwear, her face half-obscured by a filtered mask. Her dark eyes were sharp as ever.
“Didn’t think you’d really come,” Mira said, lowering her hood.
Elena’s voice was colder than she intended. “You don’t summon me unless it matters.”
Mira nodded and handed her a cracked datapad. “This is from the last Valkor sweep op. Sector Nine. Look at the mission logs — specifically the power grid interference report.”
Elena scanned the file. The data had been tampered with. No civilian entries. No collateral. Just a clean operation — too clean. Her stomach knotted.
“There were families in that zone,” Mira said tightly. “They rerouted energy pulses to fry entire blocks. No survivors. Valkor called it ‘grid purification’.”
Elena swallowed. “How did you get this?”
“I know a man on the inside. Or I did. He’s dead now.”
Elena backed up. “Why show this to me?”
Mira stepped forward. “Because you built Valkor to protect people. Not to become the next empire. And I know you feel it — the way he’s changed. Rourke.”
Elena turned her back, rage prickling under her skin.
“He didn’t change,” she said. “He just stopped pretending.”
A heavy silence passed between them.
“I can’t help you,” Elena said eventually, though the words felt brittle. “Not yet.”
Mira didn’t argue. “I’ll keep digging. But you’d better watch your back. The next ‘glitch’ in the logs might be you.”
Elena nodded once, slipping the datapad into a concealed pocket. “Stay alive, Mira.”
She left the ruins without looking back, her footsteps quick and uneven. The wind stung her cheeks as she emerged into the open air, her thoughts in freefall.
Back in the glidercraft, Vax looked at her questioningly. She did not explain, only, “Return to Obsidian Tower.”
As they rose into the cloudbanks, Elena sat in silence, her eyes fixed on the darkness below. She thought of Mira’s warning. Of Sector
Nine. Of the blood on Valkor’s hands — and hers.
And then, her thoughts strayed to a name.
Cassian Veylor.
He hadn’t been at the gala by accident. He’d known. About the coming op. About the lies. About Damian.
She needed answers.
That night, Elena didn’t sleep. Instead, she pulled up Valkor’s secure files and accessed the next mission’s schematic — the one Damian had told her not to worry about. With her clearance, she decrypted the data layers within minutes.
The target? A data-mining compound in a neighbouring sector, allegedly harbouring insurgents. But buried in the thermal maps were heat signatures — too large, too scattered. Not military.
Civilians.
They were going to burn it. Again.
Her pulse raced. She began recording a copy of the log when a system prompt blinked across her screen.
INCOMING MESSAGE — CASSIAN VEYLOR
“We need to talk. Tomorrow. 0400. Sector Spiral. Come alone.”
She stared at the screen.
Cassian. Always ahead of her. Always a step removed. But now, she needed him.
The next morning, before dawn, Elena rode out again — alone this time, wearing a standard officer’s jacket and no insignia. She arrived at the Sector Spiral under cover of fog, walking through skeletal corridors and decayed transit lines. A place where echoes whispered secrets long buried.
Cassian stood on the platform’s edge, leaning against a shattered pillar. His face was gaunt, but his presence had lost none of its power.
“You saw the files,” he said without turning.
“I saw them,” she replied. “Tell me what you know.”
He tossed her a chip. “Everything. Names. Targets. Future ops. Damian’s preparing a purge protocol. You’re in the next cycle.”
Elena stared at him. “He’d never—”
“He already did.” Cassian’s gaze locked onto hers. “That tech you embedded in your arm — Valkor can detonate it remotely. Failsafe protocol. Tied to your biometric stress spikes.”
A cold rush swept her spine.
“You’re lying.”
“Check your neural implant log,” he said. “I sent you a backdoor code.”
She said nothing. Couldn’t.
He stepped forward, eyes fierce. “He thinks you’re disposable. But me? I’m offering you a chance. There’s an organisation — hidden, quiet, off-grid. We’ve been building a resistance. Not the kind that riots in the street. The kind that rewrites history.”
She swallowed. “And you want me to join you.”
“No,” Cassian said. “I want you to lead them.”
- Writer
