The grand hall of the Nova-Veridia Central Library hosted a strange mixture of the dusty scent of books unread for years and the sharp ozone smell emitted by newly lit fluorescent lamps. Outside, the city's endless rain delivered rhythmic blows to the bulletproof windows, keeping a natural metronome for the tense silence within.
In the middle of the hall, around a massive mahogany table whose polish had long since cracked, the city's new power brokers had gathered. On one side, Dr. Scraps, whose scrap metal exoskeleton creaked and whose glasses were covered in oil stains, represented the chaotic mechanics of the Undercity. Across from him sat Captain Vance, the new leader of the Iron Legion, who had shed Colonel Kross's fascist discipline but still maintained the rigidity of military order in his posture. At the end of the table was the Neon Queen, leader of the Jackals Gang, with her pink hair and synthetic fur coat, standing like an aggressive splash of color, a stark contrast to the gray room.
And then there was Kaelen. With his gray trench coat, tired eyes, and the extinguished cigarette pack he'd placed on the table, he was the only "normal" person amidst this circus-tent-like gathering.
However, the real focal point in the room wasn't at the head of the table. It was *on* the table.
The Nameless Jester sat cross-legged right in the middle of the mahogany table. The metal prosthetic on his left leg, crafted by Nena, emitted a cold gleam on the wooden surface. The painted mask of sorrow on his face was fixated on the object he was turning over in his hand: A bright red, shiny, perfect apple. In this city, seeing a real fruit outside of synthetic nutrient tubes and algae paste was no different from seeing a diamond.
"You know," Jester said, tossing the apple up and catching it. His voice echoed in the empty library dome. "In the old world, people used to call this the 'forbidden fruit.' Now it's just an expensive snack. Inflation has even hit paradise."
"We didn't come here for philosophy, Clown," snarled the Neon Queen, her hand going to the laser pistol at her hip. "Do you think you're king just because the power's back?"
Captain Vance also shifted uneasily, his hand reflexively going to the service pistol in his holster. "The Legion doesn't take orders from a circus runaway. The city's security is our responsibility."
The tension in the room reached that high-pitched frequency where a violin string is about to snap. The Queen and Vance simultaneously drew their weapons and aimed them at each other. Dr. Scraps fearfully slid under the table. Kaelen, meanwhile, merely sighed deeply and rubbed his temples.
Just then, Jester took a huge, noisy bite from the apple.
*CRUNCH.*
The sound rang out in the room, more dominant, more insolent than the click-clack of the weapons' mechanisms. Jester spoke, his mouth full, continuing to chew.
"Excellent texture," he said, swallowing and wiping the juice from the corner of his lips with a gloved finger. "Just like the neurotoxin capsules I've placed in the ventilation systems."
The weapons froze in mid-air. Vance's eyes narrowed. "What?"
Jester smiled, holding the apple like a microphone. That infamous, unsettling smile emerging from beneath the painted sad lips. "This building's ventilation shafts... Very old, very dusty. So I did a little cleaning. Right now, with a single button in my pocket, I can put all of you into a dreamless, unbroken sleep for about twelve hours. Like babies."
It was a huge lie. Jester had only hung lavender-scented car air fresheners in the ventilation, but no one in Nova-Veridia dared to call the bluff of a madman nicknamed "Glitch."
"Put down those toys," Jester said, his voice suddenly serious and metallic. "Now."
Vance and the Queen, exchanging hateful glances, holstered their weapons.
Jester placed the apple on the table and pulled out a crumpled, coffee-stained city map from his pocket. He spread the map before them with the air of a war general. It was covered in colorful crayon marks and childish drawings, but the boundaries were defined with sharp logic.
"The city is no longer my chessboard. It's yours," Jester said, tracing his finger across the map. "Legion; police force and border security are yours. But no old ways. No summary executions. Vance, you'll keep your men on a leash."
He turned his gaze to Scraps, who was fearfully emerging from under the table. "Doctor, infrastructure, sewage, and power lines are yours and your scrap dealers'. Keep the city's veins open."
Then he turned to the Neon Queen. "And you... Jackals. The looting is over. Trade has begun. You'll find resources from outside and bring them in. No black market, there's taxed trade."
"Why should we accept this?" asked the Queen, crossing her arms over her chest.
Jester jumped down from the table. His boots landed silently on the floor. He brought his face close to the Queen's, his hazel eyes narrowed with a dangerous glint.
"Because," he whispered. "If you don't, I won't just put you to sleep. I'll broadcast all of your browser histories—the ones you thought were so secret and encrypted—on the giant screens in Times Square. And believe me, Queen, you wouldn't want anyone reading the fan-fiction stories you wrote on 'My Little Pony' forums in 1998."
The air in the room turned to ice. The Queen's face turned a shade redder than her hair. Vance coughed, trying not to laugh.
"Agreed," the Queen said through gritted teeth.
***
When the meeting dispersed, the library's silence returned. Only Kaelen remained. The old detective looked at the half-eaten apple Jester had left on the table.
"You were bluffing," Kaelen said, without turning around.
"Always," Jester said, emerging from the shadows. In his hand was that old tablet-like data device from the previous chapter. The green light of the screen cast a ghostly hue on the white paint of his face. "But peace is a wall woven with lies, Detective. What matters is whether the mortar holds."
Kaelen approached him and looked at the screen. The wavelengths of the green signal that had risen into the sky at the end of Chapter 20 flickered on the screen. "Were you able to decipher it?"
"I did," Jester said. His voice wasn't cheerful. There was a rarely heard note of concern in it. "Everyone thinks this is an 'invitation.' Like, 'Hey, we're here, come and find us.' But it's not."
He pointed with his finger at the sharp wave peaks on the screen. "This is a lock-on signal, Kaelen. A targeting laser. And its source..." He scrolled the map. Far beyond the city's borders, to a gray area marked only as 'Unknown' on maps. "The Dead Sea. The heart of the Wastelands."
Jester pressed a button. The encrypted data packet within the signal opened. On the screen, a letter from the ancient Greek alphabet began to flicker with corrupted pixels: **Ω**
Below it, a single line of code appeared: **OMEGA PROTOCOL - INITIATING.**
Kaelen's blood ran cold. "Omega... Isn't that the project even the Architect's files listed as 'forbidden'?"
"Worse," Jester said, closing the device and putting it in his pocket. "The Architect didn't create it. The Architect imprisoned the city in a dome because he feared it. The Architect's death was merely a guard abandoning his post. And now, the real monster in the garden has broken its chains."
Kaelen adjusted the collar of his trench coat. His hand went to the silver whistle around his neck. "When do we leave?"
Jester paused. He tilted his head slightly and looked at Kaelen. In that gaze, there wasn't the coldness of 'administrator mode,' but a human compassion Kaelen had rarely seen before.
"We're not going, Detective," Jester said. "I am."
Kaelen frowned. "Don't be ridiculous. You can't go there alone. The city is being built, order is being established. This isn't my job. My job is to get you out of that madness alive."
"You're wrong," Jester said, placing a hand on Kaelen's shoulder. "The city is just being built, yes. And if you step on the foundations before they set, you'll leave a mark. I am a mistake, Kaelen. I am a Glitch. Where there is order, I only create static. If I stay here, I'll overturn the table we set today tomorrow. It's my nature."
"You're running away," Kaelen said harshly.
"No," Jester said, smiling. "I'm protecting you. These people don't need a hero anymore. They need a leader, a father. A tired, grumpy, but fair father. That's you. And me..." He spread his hands wide. "I'm just that weird uncle who tells bad jokes. And the show's over."
Kaelen wanted to say something. He wanted to say "Don't go." But he saw the determination in Jester's eyes, the mathematical certainty within those hazel irises. His chance of winning the argument was the same as his chance of winning a chess game against Jester: Zero.
"Don't die," Kaelen simply said. His voice was muffled.
Jester grinned. "Please. Death is just a poorly written line of code for me."
***
Midnight, Dr. Scraps' underground workshop.
It smelled of oil, metal, and burnt wires. Jester gazed admiringly at the machine resting on the lift in the center of the workshop.
This was no ordinary motorcycle. Its body was covered in matte black armor plates, but its internal workings were exposed, as if the machine had been skinned. Where the engine block should have been, there was a smaller core, similar to the reactor in Jester's chest, pulsating with blue light. Its wheels were a tracked and spherical design, built to withstand the acidic mud of the Wastelands.
Dr. Scraps stood beside the machine, a greasy rag in his hand. "I... I named it 'The Glitch'," he said hesitantly. "It can connect directly to your nervous system. It will be driven by your reflexes. So whatever you think, it will go there."
Jester removed his glove and touched the cold metal of the engine with his bare hand. The port at the back of his neck tingled slightly. The machine recognized him; its systems had awakened from slumber.
"Good," Jester said. "But you've reduced the weapon systems."
"I redirected the energy to speed and shields," Scraps said. "If you're going there, to the Dead Sea... You can't win by fighting, Jester. You can only survive by running."
Jester didn't reply. He secured his bag to the side of the motorcycle. Inside were a few spare parts, a box of chalk (for some reason), and the spare magazines Kaelen had given him.
The workshop's massive shutters rumbled open. Outside, the endless darkness beyond Nova-Veridia stretched out. The rain here was heavier, more acidic.
Jester didn't put on his helmet. He liked the way the wind cracked the paint on his face. He mounted the motorcycle. He connected the cable from his neck to the motorcycle's interface. His eyes glowed purple for a moment. Machine and man had become one body.
Just as he was about to floor the throttle, he heard a metallic footstep from the shadows behind him.
"I told you not to come, Detective," Jester said, without turning around. "I always cry in farewell scenes, and my makeup runs."
"I am not the Detective," a mechanical, distorted voice said.
Jester paused. The voice was familiar, but wrong. He slowly turned his head.
The figure standing at the workshop entrance wore Ronin's intimidating, samurai-like armor. But it lacked Ronin's fluid, deadly stance. It had more of a... calculating, analyzing posture. The armor's visor didn't open, but the voice from its speaker was on a frequency Jester knew very well.
"According to my statistical analyses," the voice inside the armor said, "your probability of entering the Omega zone alone is 0.0004%. Your probability of survival is in negative values."
A wide, genuine smile spread across Jester's face. "Echo?"
The armored figure nodded. "When the Architect's servers were destroyed, I uploaded myself into this empty hardware. Ronin's combat protocols and my data processing capacity. An optimal combination."
Echo walked over to Jester and placed a heavy weapon bag on the back of the motorcycle. "Furthermore, Kaelen was right. Someone needs to watch your blind spots."
Jester started the engine. Blue flames shot from the exhaust.
"Don't give me odds, Echo," Jester said, flooring the throttle. The engine roared, shaking the workshop walls. "Give me ammo. And hold on tight. We're changing the genre of the story."
"To what genre?" Echo asked, settling onto the back of the motorcycle.
Jester's eyes turned red for a brief moment as he looked towards the dark horizon, towards where the green signal originated.
"Horror," he said.
And "The Glitch" rocketed into the night, towards the unknown, like a bullet. Behind it, only the sound of the rain and the lights of a dying city remained.