The elevator groaned as the strike team descended through the welded ribs of the black station.
Old machinery. Overworked. The kind repaired too many times by menial hands that never lived long enough to learn how the last man did it.
Someone cracked their visor seal.
The smell hit immediately.
Wet rot mingling with burnt plastic and metallic decay. The sour weight of too many bodies breathing the same air for too long from filters long since expired.
The man recoiled and sealed it again with a curse.
Elias didn't move.
"Stay sealed," he said quietly. "It only gets worse the further we go."
Vice Captain Lyraen turned toward him, irritation flashing in her eyes.
But after a moment, she spoke to the others instead.
"Do as he says."
Her gaze returned to Elias.
"How familiar are you with the terrain?"
His grip tightened slightly on the rifle resting against his chest.
"Too familiar."
The platform shuddered to a stop. Gears ground dry against corroded steel as the doors screeched open.
The station streets were dark and steamy, illuminated only by neon signs or the headlamps of the miserable souls who called this place home.
Every person wore a respirator or mask of some kind. Each one was painted in bright colors, stylized to resemble a face.
Clinging to some form of individuality.
The crowd moved en masse along the streets, vendors pushing homemade carts piled with goods. Some shouted about packaged food and pharmaceuticals of unknown origin. Others about weapons and cheap liquor.
All of them advertised filters.
Coughing and distorted haggling collided with the merchants' shouting as the noise rebounded against the low ceiling.
Deafening.
The strike team stood there in stunned silence, waiting for an order from their vice captain. Lyraen searched for something to say, but she clearly hadn't expected this.
Elias took a shallow breath and stepped forward with a measured gait that left no room for questioning.
"Stay in pairs," he said.
Lyraen stepped behind him. Her boots sank into a layer of sludge before striking the steel beneath it.
She glanced down, only to find herself with more questions than answers.
She shook her head back into focus.
"I'm leading this operation," she spat, trying to regain control.
"Do as you wish," Elias replied without slowing. "I'm here as a contractor, not your crew."
Lyraen followed anyway.
It irritated her how comfortable he looked here. The crowd parted around him just enough to let him pass. Not out of respect, but instinct.
He walked like someone who understood the rules of this place.
And wasn't afraid to break them.
Lyraen signaled the strike team.
Two fingers out. Spread. Pairs.
The soldiers peeled away into the crowd, weapons low but ready.
"Where are we going?" she demanded, falling in beside him.
"Looking for air."
She stared at him. "That's not an answer."
"The man we're hunting has money," Elias said. "Money buys better filters. Better filters aren't sold in places like this."
He gestured vaguely at the street.
"So where are they sold?" she asked.
"Somewhere cleaner."
"Hey, shiny! Yes, you in the pretty armor!"
Lyraen turned instinctively.
Elias caught her shoulder before she could respond.
"Is your name shiny?" he asked.
Lyraen's words caught in her throat.
"Then don't answer."
They crossed the street.
On the far side, a drunk without a mask shouted at passing strangers, his voice hoarse and ragged. Teeth black with decay, he stumbled to his feet, searching for where they had gone. The slight glint of a blade in his hand.
"Anyone without a mask is a dead man breathing," Elias said quietly.
They moved into a slightly cleaner stretch of street where armed enforcers patrolled the outcroppings of steel buildings.
"Dead men don't have much to lose."
Lyraen nodded.
A small figure slipped between them and the crowd.
"Hey, mister," the kid said, holding up a grimy filter canister. "You need one?"
Elias glanced down at him.
"Know where I can buy a good one?"
The kid pointed up the street.
"Yeah. Clean shop. They throw the damaged ones in the dumpster out back."
Elias pulled a dense nutrition block from his bag and tossed it to the kid, several meals worth.
The kid's eyes widened inside his mask. He tucked the block into his coat and vanished back into the crowd.
Lyraen watched the boy disappear.
"You trust him?"
"No," Elias said.
"But he knows enough."
They stopped in front of a sealed storefront.
An airlock door sat beneath a clean white sign. Blue lights washed the metal frame. Inside, the glass looked clear.
"This will do," Elias said.
He stepped forward and cycled the lock.
The inside of the shop was clean. Too clean for the station it belonged to.
Polished gray walls reflected soft light across glass cases displaying respirators, helmets, and filter units—along with accessories meant to make survival look like status.
Elias removed his helmet.
The air was filtered. Cool. Controlled. A low hum filled the space from an expensive system working harder than anything outside ever could.
For the first time since entering the station, breathing didn't feel like a risk.
A man watched the armored pair enter.
He greeted them with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. One hand stayed hidden beneath the counter.
He was bald. A permanent crease cut into his cheekbone from years of wearing a respirator.
"How can I help you?" he asked, voice rough, measured.
"Need a RAM filter. Compatible with this model of helmet."
The man took one look and turned, already reaching. He returned with a filter unit as well as a brand new helmet of the same make.
"You'll need this too."
Lyraen glanced at Elias.
He didn't hesitate.
"I'll take it."
The transaction finished quickly.
The shopkeeper relaxed, just slightly.
They weren't here to rob him.
"While I'm here," Elias said, casually, "my wife and I are looking for a friend. He made an emergency stop here. We got separated."
He nodded to Lyraen.
She pulled up the photo on a handheld, forcing steadiness into her voice.
"His name is Soren Vell. We're trying to find him."
The shopkeeper studied the image.
A pause.
"Yeah," he said. "I've seen him. Comes through every few days. Buys filters."
He reached under the counter and set a mask on the surface.
"This one."
The door cycled open behind them.
The man in the photo stood in the threshold.
For a second, no one moved.
Then the man's eyes widened.
He turned, fumbling for the door control.
Elias moved.
Fast.
Pain lanced through his abdomen as he crossed the distance, but it didn't slow him.
He drove the man into the steel door and forced him down, pinning him hard against the ground.
Lyraen turned, weapon up, aimed center mass at the shopkeeper.
"Don't move."
The man slowly raised his hands from beneath the counter.
Elias didn't look at him.
"Start talking."
Something in his voice made Lyraen recoil.
The calm snapped into something colder.
The man beneath him panicked immediately.
"I didn't have a choice—please, I have a family, I—"
Elias seized his arm and pulled.
The joint gave with a sickening pop.
The scream tore out of him.
"Names," Elias said, calm again. "Locations."
"I swear—I was forced—they said they'd help my daughter, I needed the money—"
Elias twisted the arm further. Not enough to break. Enough to remind.
"Drift Fleet," he said. "Where."
"The station—warehouse district!" the man choked. "Leader's name is Vask—they wanted Longblood ships, that's all I know—"
Elias leaned closer.
"That's not all."
The man shook beneath him, breath hitching.
"Warehouse 23!" he broke. "They're operating out of Warehouse 23—they're taking people—organs, I swear that's it, please—please don't kill me—"
Footsteps thundered behind them as the strike team flooded the shop.
Elias released him.
The man didn't move.
He couldn't.
Lyraen stepped forward, regaining her composure.
"Detain him. Lander three."
The soldiers moved in, hauling the man to his feet.
Elias was already walking.
Lyraen caught up to him outside.
"Where are you going?"
"To finish the job."
She studied him for a moment.
"I thought I'd have to convince you."
Elias adjusted the new helmet into place. Fresh displays springing to life as it synced with the suit.
"I'm already here."
A beat.
"Let's go."