A low, mechanical hum underscored everything in Neo-Eden—a sound most citizens had long since tuned out. For Jade Zero, it was inescapable. She sometimes mistook it for the staccato of her synthetic pulse. If she stood barefoot in her cramped apartment, she could feel it vibrating through the floor—constant, unyielding, like the station itself was alive.
She lived in one of the city’s older sectors, a place where half the neon signs flickered with the irregularity of a dying heartbeat and maintenance bots struggled to patch leaky pipes. From her lone window, Jade watched as the artificial twilight settled in. It was always a little off-schedule—some days running long, others abruptly switching to a dawn that felt too bright, too soon. Most people here chalked it up to smog or government cost-cutting measures. Jade used to wonder why the sky never quite matched real day or night. Over time, though, like everyone else, she’d learned to stop asking questions she couldn’t answer.
She sat in a worn-out chair, the padding reduced to lumpy foam from many nights of uneasy brooding. Her cybernetic arms rested on the armrests with an audible clink of alloy fingers against battered plastic. Once, these enhancements had been the source of her pride and livelihood—a sign of her unstoppable skill as a cat burglar. Now, they felt like iron shackles binding her to a past she’d tried in vain to bury.
Behind her, a wall-mounted screen buzzed to life, spewing contradictory headlines about a new five-year prosperity plan that apparently replaced last week’s emergency austerity measures. Jade muted it. Politics no longer felt real—just one more layer of control. She had seen too much to believe the day’s propaganda, no matter how glossy the broadcast.
Her internal chronometer pinged softly. The hour was late, but that hardly mattered in Neo-Eden’s perpetual cycle of half-truths and flickering lights. Jade stood and stretched, listening to the whir of servos in her mechanical joints. Each hum reminded her of that disastrous infiltration job years ago, when she’d nearly toppled one of the megacorporations. She’d awakened from a coma with little to show for her righteous cause but scars and a new set of metal limbs. Heroes didn’t exist in this city, only survivors.
Just as she was about to power down for the night, her ancient comm device chimed—a shrill note that jarred her from her thoughts. She padded over to the cracked display. A single text message glowed:
Jade,
We have a problem. The city is in danger.
Meet me at the old diner off Seventh.
—B
She stared, gut twisting at the sight of her old name. Hardly anyone called her Jade anymore, not with the hushed rumors and tarnished legends clinging to her reputation. Whoever “B” was, they knew enough to speak to the ghost she used to be.
A hundred times, Jade had vowed never again to get embroiled in conspiracies or suicidally risky missions. The city didn’t care about vigilantes or about thieves who claimed a moral code. Her last crusade had cost her everything. She had no intention of walking that road again—especially not for a cryptic message signed only with an initial.
She nearly tossed the comm aside, but her eyes flicked back to the screen as another line appeared:
Please come. You’re the only one I trust.
A memory hit her like a shock to her neural implants: the day she still believed in turning the tide, back when she fought for her parents’ cause. For a heartbeat, that old surge of purpose flared in her chest. She quickly stamped it down, telling herself she was done. Yet her fingers trembled on the comm’s buttons.
Jade stuffed the device in a drawer, determined to ignore the summons. After pacing her tiny living room, she grabbed her tattered stealth coat off its hook and slipped it on without conscious thought. I’m just going for a walk, she told herself—a lie no one would believe, least of all her.
Under the Neon Haze
Out on the street, the neon haze turned dirty puddles into electric pink mirrors. The mechanical hum thrummed beneath her feet, a reminder that the entire city was built on a foundation of metal. Some said it was a leftover from the old days, when they first constructed Neo-Eden’s superstructure. Others speculated it was a planetary shield generator. All Jade knew was that the hum never stopped.
Holo-ads scrolled across building facades, touting contradictory government statements. One ad boasted new volunteer programs to reclaim Earth’s ravaged landscapes, while the very next feed insisted no such programs existed. Pedestrians neither questioned nor demanded clarity. They rushed about their lives, too tired or too scared to dig for truth.
As Jade wound her way through the labyrinthine back alleys, she found herself drifting toward the old diner on Seventh. The place had once been neutral ground for under-the-table deals: data swaps, stolen corp secrets, that kind of trade. If “B” was who she suspected—an old contact, or maybe someone connected to her parents’ rebel circle—then ignoring the invitation might be a bigger mistake than accepting it.
Her rational mind screamed to turn back, go home, forget it. But her feet kept moving.
A Familiar Ping
She was almost at the diner, passing a defunct storefront, when her comm implant buzzed inside her skull—a different channel than the cracked handheld device. It was a direct line, usually reserved for official contacts.
“Zero?” a tense voice asked. “This is Lieutenant Cassin, Civil Protectorate.”
Jade pulled up short, the hum of the city suddenly louder than ever. “Lieutenant,” she said coldly. She hadn’t heard from Cassin since…well, not since she owed him a massive favor. “I’m a little busy.”
“There’s been an incident,” he said, the slightest quiver in his voice. “I need you at Sector V Stationhouse, now.”
“Why?” Jade asked, forcing her tone to remain neutral. Her heart hammered, and her cybernetic joints felt coiled, ready. “In case you forgot, I’m retired.”
He hesitated. “Faros Kensuke turned up dead. He left…strange markings on his body. We think it might be a code, and you’re the only one I know who can crack it.”
Shock rippled through Jade. Kensuke was a forger, a data-runner—someone who dabbled in deals with high-stakes buyers. She’d planned to meet him for dinner next week. The idea of him dead, marked with cryptic symbols, made her blood run cold.
A battered supply drone whirred past, nearly clipping Jade’s shoulder. She stepped aside, mind racing. B’s message…Kensuke’s murder… She couldn’t say which weighed heavier.
“If you don’t come,” Cassin added, “we may never uncover who killed him—or why he was tortured.”
Jade gritted her teeth. “Send me what you have. I’ll let you know if I can help.”
He started to protest, but she killed the line. The static of disconnection buzzed in her ear. Another problem. Another sign that her quiet retirement was over before it began.
Pulling Back the Curtain
She stood at the mouth of an alley, torn between two calls: the plea from “B” and Cassin’s urgent request about Kensuke. In the flickering half-light, Jade ran her augmented fingers over a faint scar behind her ear, remembering the neural interface she once tore out when she realized the corporations were using her brain as much as her skills. I can’t fix this city, she told herself. I couldn’t before, and I can’t now.
Yet here she was, wearing her old stealth coat, adrenaline thrumming through her, peering into the neon gloom for answers. Above her, a swirling purple twilight swallowed the outlines of tall spires. If she tilted her head just right, she might have glimpsed something unusual in the sky—a curved expanse, maybe a faint metal lattice. But just like everyone else in Neo-Eden, Jade accepted the skyline as it was.
No turning back now, she thought. Two leads, possibly connected, definitely dangerous. And a city humming with secrets beneath her feet.
She took a breath, steeled her resolve, and stepped forward into the night.
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