edit made by Archandriel. April 28th 2025
The shot struck the cowled man in the chest.
The informant now falling two stories above Kellan's balcony. Kellan locked eyes with Lang, handed off his weapon, and lunged forward, catching the man by his shoeless leg. The weight nearly pulled him over—every muscle strained to hold on.
The informant twisted, body swinging violently. He slipped from Kellan’s grip, crashing onto the floor below. Chairs splintered beneath him, followed by a cry of pain.
He'd live.
Thoughts raced through Kellan’s mind as the cowled man stepped away from the ledge. The way the red lenses in his face mask caught the sunlight... the tactical gear, the calculated movement—that had to be him. Spectre.
But something was off. His holo feed wasn’t tagging him as a Variant. Actually... it wasn’t tagging anything. The system was frozen, stuck on idle. No alerts, no tracking.
Not a jammer—at least not any kind Kellan recognized.
If this really was Spectre, then tech failure was just the beginning.
“You need to head down a floor. Get the informant in custody.”
Lang was listening—eyes wide, nodding—ready to follow the command. But there was one question he wasn’t asking.
Who was up there?
Kellan grabbed his weapon back from Lang and moved out. Lang fell in behind him. Kellan didn’t have time to explain something he was still trying to figure out himself.
Back in the hallway, Kellan quickly scanned for the nearest stairwell. The corridor ran north to south, a staircase at each end.
“You take this stairwell down,” he said, opening the door. “Clear it on your way. Once the informant’s secure, keep trying to reach HQ. We should’ve heard back by now. If comms are still dead, work your way down to the lobby and make contact with the Suppressor units patrolling the block. For some reason we can’t reach them directly—but if we can’t connect digitally, we can still make visual contact.”
He paused, catching Lang’s hesitation at the stairwell door.
“You’re cleared to enter the suite,” Kellan added. “Standard protocol applies. Tenants in this building are all flagged as Variants—you’re authorized under Section 12. Variant restrictions apply. No expectation of privacy, no warrant delay. Just follow procedure and sweep it clean.”
Lang nodded, tension in his jaw tightening. Then he disappeared down the stairs.
He'll be okay. He's trained for this.
Kellan gave the upper floor a quick glance—no roof access. He cursed under his breath and pivoted, boots pounding toward the north end. The heavy fire door groaned open as he threw it wide. Footsteps echoed below—someone was already several floors down.
The central spire offered a straight drop to the lobby. And there—just for a second—he caught a flicker of the cowl.
“Fuck!”
Think, Kellan. Think.
Spectre had always slipped through law enforcement’s grasp. As Variants go, his abilities weren’t the flashiest—not like the Tier-3s who could melt walls or bend light into plasma. But he was dangerous. Fast. Strong. A step beyond even enhanced soldiers.
The last time Kellan’s task force encountered him, ten rounds made confirmed impact—none of them slowed him down.
Spectre didn’t usually go out of his way to target police, but corner him, and he would leave bodies. Wherever he showed up, blood spilled. Always.
Kellan wasn’t letting him vanish without a fight.
But he couldn't play fair. He wasn’t that rookie anymore. Age and injuries had dulled his edge but what he lacked in speed, he made up for in unpredictability.
He was already too many floors behind. If Spectre hit street level, the fallout would multiply. Collateral would spike.
He spotted the fire hose.
With practiced motion, he slid a concussive round into the secondary chamber of his pistol, then smashed the glass and yanked out several lengths of hose.
These weren’t standard-issue rounds—not something a rookie would ever be cleared to carry. Concussive rounds were reserved for breaching walls, collapsing barriers, or disabling mech-class targets. Kellan carried them for one reason only: to level the playing field when the rules no longer mattered.
“I’m too old to be chasing this prick,” he muttered, steeling himself for the reckless move he was about to make.
He looped the hose around his forearm, braced himself, and charged the railing with a hoarse war cry.
He dropped floor by floor, adrenaline howling through his veins. The world narrowed to motion blur and muscle memory—until time slowed.
Kellan spotted his target just ahead. He couldn’t see Spectre’s face through the mask, but he knew shock when he saw it. The slight turn of the head. The way the lenses locked on him mid-fall.
A dozen tiny reflections of Kellan’s weapon stared back at him—like a spider’s eyes, cold and unblinking.
Kellan leveled his weapon and pulled the trigger.
The concussive blast hurled both men in opposite directions. Kellan slammed into the stairs with bone-rattling force. His head rang. Pain throbbed through every inch of his body.
The building shook from an explosion at the bottom of the stairwell. Then a stead beat vibrated up the stairs.
Then movement.
"I heard you the first time" Spectre croaked as he rose.
Spectre rose.
"Yes, Cragskull, got it."
His mask was fractured, the bottom half torn away. One of the lenses was gone, the others cracked. What was left of his face was bruised, swollen—black and blue, warped by trauma. Not inhuman, but unnatural enough to make you question how he was still on his feet.
Cragskull? Here? How's Spectre even concious Kellan thought bitterly—though, truthfully, Spectre was moving slower now.
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Kellan pushed himself upright, every joint protesting. He barely managed a step before pain flared deep in his side—definitely a broken rib, maybe more. His back screamed in protest from the earlier impact with the wall.
He raised his weapon and fired—a clean shot to the shoulder. Spectre stumbled through the stairwell doorway, blood smearing as his hand caught the far suite door across the hall.
Kellan hesitated. He couldn’t keep firing blindly through a doorway—for all he knew, there could be a kid behind it. But Spectre was hurt. bleeding. This was the only window he’d get.
And it was only a matter of time before Spectre returned the violence in kind.
Kellan leaned over the ramp edge and looked down below. A large heavy set person was making his way up. Each step ringing closer and closer.
Kellan fumbled through his leg pouch, fingers closing around the injector pen. A combat stimulant—meant to boost blood flow and suppress pain. Not strong enough to make him superhuman, but enough to wake the inner animal. Enough to make this hurt less. For now.
He jabbed it into his thigh.
Rage surged through him like fire in his veins.
Spectre turned at the sound—just in time to catch Kellan charging straight into him, slamming him backward into the suite door. The frame cracked as both men stumbled into the room.
Shouts of surprise echoed around them.
Kellan didn’t wait. He lunged in, fists flying, hammering blows into Spectre’s face. The Variant dropped into a tight defensive posture, arms up like a boxer, absorbing the blows. But Kellan kept swinging—relentless, fueled by adrenaline and fury.
Then, Spectre moved.
In a fluid motion, he shifted his weight, slipped inside Kellan’s guard, and flipped him over, driving him to the ground. One knee pinned Kellan’s throat, and a clenched fist hovered above, ready to strike.
That’s when both men became aware of their surroundings.
Four tattooed men sat frozen around a table littered with weapons and drug paraphernalia—some halfway out of their chairs, confused, hands drifting toward firearms.
"Police raid!" one yelled.
One of them grabbed a baseball bat leaning against what looked like a stripped-down medical responder unit. Definitely grabbed off the streets—maybe gutted for whatever narcotics or tools were left inside.
Kellan didn’t immediately register what Spectre grabbed off the counter—only that it shattered across the man’s face a heartbeat later. Without pause, Spectre charged, driving the man back and slamming him onto the table, sending gear, chairs, and men flying in the chaos.
Kellan, gasping, began pushing himself upright—only now able to process the scene unfolding around him.
Spectre was tearing through the room like a force of nature, bullets ripping into his torso at point-blank range—but he didn’t stop.
The gunmen were desperate, unloading round after round, trying to put him down. It didn’t work.
Spectre beat them one by one, bouncing from target to target, grabbing anything he could reach—metal pipe, chair leg, broken glass—and using it all with surgical brutality.
After enough time went by for Kellan to steady himself, ready to re-engage, the sound of the steps getting loader. Spectre had the last man pinned to the table, a rifle jammed into the guy’s eye socket. He didn’t even pull the trigger—just pressed the barrel deeper, grinding it against bone while the man wailed in agony. Spectre turned expression less reverting his attention back on Kellan.
The sound of the man wailing snapped Kellan back into motion. He raised his weapon toward Spectre, but the man moved like a blur.
Spectre lunged forward, ripping the weapon from Kellan’s hands, and with unnatural strength, shoved him out of the suite. Kellan didn’t even hit the floor. It was like something caught him mid-fall—something immovable. It felt like the wall was holding him up.
“I... am... tired... of getting pushed around,” Kellan muttered, breath ragged.
It took him a second to realize—he wasn’t holding himself up.
He was being held.
His eyes dropped to the massive arms bracing him under each shoulder. Not metal. Not flesh. Stone.
Kellan slowly turned his head to see what was keeping him upright— and what he saw made his blood run cold.
Through the blur and pain, he blinked up at a massive figure—dark, immovable, wrong. For a moment, he thought it was debris. A support column. Maybe even part of the wall.
But he knew better.
It was a man.
A person—if you could still call him that.
His skin was cracked and dark, like polished shale, the surface fractured with deep, earthen lines that glowed faintly with internal pressure. Veins like molten metal pulsed just beneath the stone exterior.
Then came the alert.
Kellan’s holo finally chirped back to life, projecting red overlays into his vision. A voice he had never heard before read out the details of the mountain standing before him—smooth, clinical, and deliberate. It almost felt curated. As if someone behind the scenes had decided now was the perfect time to let this information through.
> TIER-2 VARIANT IDENTIFIED
> Codename: CRAGSKULL
> Status: Active Warrant – Detain on Sight
> Classification: Class-G Heavyweight Mutagenic
> Physical Threat Level: 8.7/10
> Known Abilities: Dermal calcification, enhanced strength, extreme blunt force resistance
> Recommended Response: Heavy ordinance, multiple agents, suppression foam
> Priority Flag: Yellow – Operates under influence of gang networks in Zones 3, 5, and 8
Of course it boots now. Maybe Spectre only jams the parts he wants. Kellan thought bitterly, blinking as the full form of Cragskull loomed over him.
Stepping away from Cragskull, Kellan re-entered the suite— where Spectre still waited.
“Alright, gentlemen,” he called out, trying to steady his voice. “This has been quite an adventure, but I need both of you to stand down—before things get worse for the two of you.”
"Who's going to make my day any worse? The two of you?" Cragskull growled.
"I see what you mean, but do you don’t want assaulting a federal officer on your wrap sheet" Kellan said, forcing a crooked smile that only half-committed to being charismatic.
He didn’t even get more than a few steps before Cragskull shoved his way through the suite entrance like a wrecking ball. The force of it sent Kellan stumbling sideways, crashing to the ground.
Right. Your turn Spectre, I'll just be over here.
Cragskull continued his rampage now fixating on Spectre—who had rolled behind the table, grabbing a rifle from the unconscious thug’s shoulder socket.
The shots came fast. Point-blank. Rounds slammed into Cragskull’s chest and shoulders— and bounced off like pebbles.
He smashed through the table, growling low and guttural, driven by a single purpose: crush Spectre's head into the reinforced window.
Kellan dragged himself to his feet behind the kitchen counter, ribs on fire, blood still blinding one eye.
Okay... Spectre’s barely armed, Cragskull’s invincible, and I’m down a weapon. This is fine. Totally fine.
Think, Kellan. What’s around? What can you use?
He scanned the chaos.
No more rounds. No backup. Holo-feed barely hanging on. A walking disaster trying to flatten the ghost who won't die.
He needed an angle.
Anything.
His eyes landed on the medical unit as the sounds of Cragskull beating Spectre with his rock hands. The body of the unit had already been stripped for gear—but the power core? It was missing. Kellan’s pulse quickened. If they pulled it, it had to be nearby, and if he could find it fast enough, he might just have a shot at ending this.
If they pulled it... they'd have to keep it cold.
He turned toward the fridge in the corner. Opened the upper door accessing the freezer.
There it was.
Sitting next to a bag of synthetic ice packs and a half-used stim injector.
These people are absolutely out of their minds.
Medical power cores were wildly unstable outside of their containment units. They were designed to power delicate surgical tools—not survive a fall, not handle shock, definitely not built to slam into a walking slab of concrete.
That’s why med units stayed clear of roads and heavy-impact zones. And Cragskull was one hell of a heavy-impact zone.
Kellan gripped the core, its casing already sweating from thaw.
Across the room, Spectre’s head was being repeatedly slammed against the reinforced window—fissures cracking outward from the impact as blood spatter grew in size.
Kellan stood fully. Blood on his lips. Core in hand.
“Hey Rockface!” he shouted. “Time for your check-up.”
Cragskull turned—slow and heavy. Spectre's blood mask in hand.
Spectre dropped like a puppet with cut strings, crumpling to the floor.
Kellan lobbed the core with everything he had, then threw himself behind cover.
The core hit.
The world screamed.
BOOM!
The blast ripped through the room. Cragskull was launched backward, smashing through the already-damaged window. Glass exploded, a steel support beam buckled—and the massive Variant fell ten stories, crashing into the asphalt below like a dropped statue.
The room was silent.
For about three seconds.
Then Kellan exhaled.
“Okay,” he coughed. “That one’s gonna need a report.”
Kellan limped his way over to Spectre’s limp body, boots crunching on broken glass and scorched debris. He pulled a pair of suppressor cuffs from his belt and snapped them around Spectre’s wrists, locking both arms behind his back.
He stood there for a moment—breathing heavy, head spinning.
Then he stepped away from the shattered window and let himself collapse against the wall, sliding down until he hit the floor.
I win, asshole.
His holo crackled weakly to life.
“Hey, boss? There was an explosion—are you good?”
Kellan started laughing. Not just a chuckle—one of those half-broken, wheezing laughs that came from too much adrenaline and not enough oxygen.
“Yeah,” he managed. “Peachy.”
A note from Archandriel
Reviews and Critiques:
I'm pen to feedback, suggestions, and constructive criticism. While I do some editing before posting each chapter, I'm not a professional editor, so your input is appreciated!
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Developmental Editing – Story structure, pacing, and overall flow.
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Logic and Inconsistencies – Plot holes, character actions, or worldbuilding details that don’t make sense.
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Confusion – Areas that feel unclear or need more work to better connect.
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Immersion, not Realism – If something breaks your engagement with the story, even if it’s technically “realistic,” I want to know.
Specific to this chapter: This is my first scene with heavy 1v1 action. I feel the pacing is a bit off. Especially introducing the Cragskull element.