Souls Below - Rebellion

Chapter Thirty-One

Sirens wailed in the distance, echoing off broken concrete and warped steel. The air was thick with smoke, the acrid stench of burning plastic, scorched flesh, and chemical residue blanketing the ruins. Deep beneath the city, where sunlight never reached, the Lower sector reeked of decay and ash.

A low groan rose from the rubble.

Commander Anton pushed himself upright, dust and grit coating his immaculate uniform. Blood trickled down his temple as he blinked through the haze, vision blurry, mind sluggish. Pain throbbed at his temples as he took in the devastation—shattered beams, twisted rebar, and the mangled remains of what had once been a surveillance outpost.

He touched his forehead and stared at the red smear on his fingers.

Nearby, his unit lay scattered like broken dolls. Some were groaning. Others were still, limbs jutted at unnatural angles, skin bubbled and charred.

Boots crunched over glass and debris, Anton turned his head slowly, as if underwater, his ears ringing. A soldier dropped to a crouch beside him, gripping his shoulder. The man’s mouth moved, but the words were lost in the hollow screech of his eardrums.

Anton grimaced, rubbed at his ears, then shouted, “WHAT?”

The soldier pointed toward the others—those still mobile, limping and bloodied, gathering near the wreckage. Anton’s sharp eyes landed on a familiar device clutched in one soldier’s hand: a blood scanner used to identify Lowers when their ID data didn’t match.

Memory snapped back in fragments. A tip about trespassers near the Restricted Sector. One matching the profile of the missing Upper. Useless intel, he’d thought—until he’d seen her.

Not the Upper.

Her.

The Lower girl.

She’d haunted his thoughts since the first encounter—weeks ago, filthy and wide-eyed, vanishing into the pipes like a feral animal. Her face had never quite left him. He’d scoured the city, furious at the idea of a Lower slipping through his grasp.

Today, he’d spotted her again. That same face, streaked with grime, and in that moment, the Upper boy had become background noise. Anton’s orders blurred under the weight of a very personal vendetta.

He stood with effort, swaying slightly, the ringing had dulled to a buzz. His lieutenant was at his side, eyes sharp with concern.

“Sir. Are you injured?”

Anton waved him off. “The blood sample,” he asked, louder than necessary. “Is it intact?” The soldier handed it over. The vial’s contents—dark, viscous—were untainted.

Good.

“Commander Anton,” the lieutenant reported, “the rebels took the fugitive. Agon believes the bomb wasn’t a planned tactic—it was reckless. Too risky. Pure chance the girl survived.”

Anton’s gaze dropped. A smear of blood led away from the wreckage.

“Desperate,” he muttered. “They used whatever they had. Even if it meant killing the asset.” His jaw clenched, thoughts racing. He turned the blood scanner over in his hands. They had lost the Upper, but this—this might be better.

“Get the men back to headquarters,” he ordered. “Tend to the wounded. Clean up the mess.”

“Sir?” the lieutenant hesitated.

Anton’s gaze was steely. “I’m taking this to the lab. I need a full genetic scan done.”

The lieutenant blinked. “What about the Upper—?”

“To hell with him,” Anton snapped. “This,” he held up the vial, “is more valuable than any noble brat.”

The lieutenant saluted sharply and moved to help the others. Anton remained for a beat longer, staring at the blood like it held secrets. Like it might finally explain what made that girl different—what made her worth chasing through filth and fire.

And why, against all logic, she still hadn’t died.

~*~

Heavy boots echoed down the gleaming corridor, a harsh rhythm against the pristine sterility of the lab sector. White-coated technicians parted instinctively as Commander Anton stalked past, leaving a trail of dust, grime, and blood in his wake. His uniform was scorched and torn, crusted with debris—utterly out of place in the polished world of genetic science.

But changing could wait. The blood sample couldn’t.

He reached the door marked DNA SECTOR – CLEARANCE 06 OR ABOVE, and it hissed open with a soft pneumatic sigh.

Inside, cool, sterile light bathed rows of high-tech equipment. A handful of scientists turned at the sound, pausing mid-task. Among them, a woman with the same piercing, unnatural blue eyes as Anton glanced up from her work. Her expression soured immediately.

“Must you drag the Lower City in with you?” Dr. Loila drawled, striding forward with clipped heels and a lab coat too crisp to tolerate filth. Arms crossed, she eyed his appearance with open disdain. “It’s hard enough keeping contamination out of this lab without you tracking it in on your boots. We may share a genome, Anton, but not your bad luck.”

Anton didn’t break stride. He rolled his eyes and muttered, “Always a pleasure, Doctor.” He held out the blood vial. At once, Loila’s sarcasm faded, her attention zeroing in, eyes lit with sharp curiosity.

“I need this analyzed. Immediately.”

Loila raised a sculpted brow. “From a Lower?”

He nodded. “No ID number. Completely off the grid.” Around them, the other scientists stilled. Curious glances flicked toward the vial. “I need to trace her parentage. It’ll help us find her.” His voice dropped, sharper now. “She’s dangerous.”

Loila’s brows shot up. “Wait. You lost her?”

Anton sighed. “Temporarily. She had help.” He glanced down at his filthy uniform, a twitch in his jaw. “And a rebel detonated a bomb to get her out.”

That shut her up. Her gaze flicked from the vial to the dried blood crusted along his temple and collar. Her expression shifted—sass replaced by concern. She stepped closer, inspecting the gash along his hairline with a careful hand.

“Anton, you’re bleeding.”

He brushed her off. “It’s nothing. Just get the sample processed.”

“You’re actually injured. That doesn’t happen to you, brother.”

“I said I’m fine,” he snapped, then caught himself. His tone lowered. “Run the DNA. I’ll be in the visitors’ wing. Contact room 408 the moment you have results.”

Loila watched him for a beat longer, concern flickering beneath her clinical cool. But she didn’t argue. She turned away, already barking instructions to her team as she secured the vial in the sample processor.

Anton didn’t look back.

The door hissed shut behind him as he walked off to wash off the blood, soot, and failure—his mind still racing with the image of the girl’s wide, defiant eyes staring back at him through the smoke.

~*~

The halls twisted like veins, branching out in every direction as Braken led me deeper into the rebel base. People nodded to him as we passed, some clapping him on the back, others simply stepping aside with quiet reverence. Their eyes flicked to me—curious, wide, respectful in a way that made my skin itch.

Braken moved like someone who belonged here. I, very clearly, didn’t.

We passed open doors revealing cluttered rooms—simple sleeping quarters, storerooms stacked with rations and gear, and one filled with odd tools and half-assembled gadgets. A shelf in the back displayed a few long objects that reminded me too much of the weapons the Guards used. Cold crept into my spine.

And yet, the further we walked, the more I realized just how wrong the stories had been.

The whispers on the street always spoke of a dying rebellion—barely surviving, scraping by with a few beaten-down survivors clinging to faded ideals. But as we passed room after room, person after person, I realized those whispers were lies.

The rebellion was thriving.

An auto-door hissed open ahead of us, revealing a landing that overlooked a cavernous hall below—and my breath caught.

It was packed. Dozens—maybe hundreds—of people gathered below. Laughter echoed against the high ceiling, a murmur of conversations blending into a human hum. Children darted between tables, adults sipped from battered mugs, repaired gear, or simply talked. Life, chaotic and real, pulsed through the space like electricity.

I blinked, stunned. “I thought…”

“You expected shadows, maybe a few sad-eyed men nursing wounds in the dark?” Braken asked, voice tinged with amusement.

Heat crept up my neck. “Something like that,” I admitted. “Jerard always said the rebellion was all but gone.”

Braken’s smile faded. “Did he now?” His tone shifted, sharp beneath the calm. He stepped to the railing, arms leaning against the metal as he looked out over the crowd.

“Funny,” he murmured, almost to himself, “Jerard once believed more fiercely than most. If he’d stayed, we might have actually won.”

The words hit like a punch to the chest. “Jerard… was part of this?”

Braken glanced at me, gauging my reaction. “He led us. He was passionate, driven. After his daughter died… and his wife vanished… he poured everything into the cause.”

I stared at him, heart suddenly pounding.

“He fought hard. Pushed people. Made them believe again, that we were just as worthy as the Uppers.” Braken’s jaw tightened. “And then, one day, he left. Just… walked away.”

“Why?” But before he could answer, a sharp cry rose from below.

“MIRA!”

My head snapped toward the sound. A blur of movement, a flash of pink, metal clinking and bouncing as someone tore up the stairs. I barely had time to react before Zinnivia practically launched herself at me, wild-eyed and grinning.

“I knew Braken said we had a special guest,” she gasped, chest heaving, “but I didn’t think he meant you!”

She flailed her hands in excitement, metal bits jangling with every movement. “You’re the Mira. Everyone’s been whispering about it. We were told to be on our best behavior, which honestly never works on me, but still!” Braken exhaled slowly through his nose, visibly restraining a sigh.

“Zinnivia, breathe.”

She grinned at him. “Don’t worry, Captain Crankypants. I’m breathing. Just… excited.” She looked back at me, cheeks flushed. “If you’re looking for my dad, he’s not here.”

My eyebrows rose. “He’s part of the rebellion too?”

Zinnivia laughed like I’d just asked if he was a professional dancer. “He doesn’t know I joined. He hates danger, risks, heights—ugh, especially rats.” She bared her teeth with a little chomp for effect.

I blinked at her, then slowly turned to Braken, who only closed his eyes and shook his head. Braken opened his mouth, clearly trying to steer the conversation back on track—but Zinnivia gasped and pointed to my side.

“Oh my maker! You’re bleeding again! Through the wrap!” I glanced down. She was right. Crimson had seeped through the bandage, blooming into a deeper stain.

Braken muttered something under his breath and turned briskly, calling out to a medic as he did. “Come on,” he said curtly, already walking.

“To my office. Now.” Zinnivia opened her mouth again, but he cut her a look over his shoulder that made her snap it shut. “Try not to explode before I get back,” he stated flatly.

She saluted with mock sincerity, then winked at me. “You’re gonna love his office. It’s all mysterious and dramatic.” I followed Braken in silence, her laughter fading behind me. My side throbbed, but it was the words about Jerard that hurt more.