(January 8th, 2030)

  “For the tenth time, you can’t see him,” the disgruntled prison receptionist said deadpanned.

  Flint Isaiah leaned on the reception counter, a touch exhausted as he snarked back, “That was the fourth time, and ya haven’t given me a reason why. I’m his uncle, and visiting hours are now. What gives?”

  The mentor to most of the new Urban Strikers, Flint Isaiah, otherwise known as Death Head, had arrived in Frost Sand City in West Texas yesterday. He had been trying for hours to get into Oaks Prison to find Carl Murphy. He’d even gone through the trouble of crafting a fake I.D. to pose as his uncle.

  “For the tenth time, you can’t see him,” the receptionist repeated in an identical tone as the screen he resided in crackled.

  All around Flint, others trying to get in for a visit were getting stonewalled by the same unappealing man on a screen. One woman about Flint’s age had broken down to tears as she pleaded with the A.I. system, while a twenty-something man had busted his hand punching and shattering his receptionist.

  “Kzt- V-V-Violence a-aga-against staff is- zzzzz- prohibited,” that fake receptionist said as a brief alarm went off. Like a loaded gun, two guards ran into the reception room and dragged away the injured and cursing young man.

  Flint considered intervening, or at least demanding that the guards, as real people, be the ones to help all the visitors, but decided it was better to be patient and low-key rather than bombastic.

  It was times like these that Flint was thankful his father and mother had moved out of Texas before he was born. Of course, they had no way of knowing, but Texas’ government and businesses had gone all-in on the A.I. craze. Even now that the A.I. bubble had burst, the economy was in shambles from replacing nearly the entire state’s workforce with automation.

  The automated state made a middle-aged man like Flint sickened, and he was glad, aside from one other quirk; the only thing he had connecting him to Texas was his parents’ heavy accent.

  As Flint glanced at the intentionally unwelcoming screen face, he muttered, “Can’t believe anyone ever thought ya fuckin’ A.I.s were smart ta use on the large scale.”

  A quick alarm then went off at the station Flint was leaning on as the image of a disgruntled worker stated, “Profanity against the staff will not be tolerated.”

  The screen then shut off as Flint’s eyes bulged as he yelled, “The fu-? I wasn’t talking to ya, ya dumb sack ah circuits!”

  Just as they finished throwing the young man out, the two guards turned hungrily to Flint. Clearly, they got a kick out of their job.

  However, as they sauntered toward Flint with calls of, “Please cooperate,” and “Don’t cause a scene, sir,” Flint made it clear he was on his last shred of patience.

  He gave them the veteran’s stare, the kind of look that told even the most pigheaded of men, “I’ve killed before, and I will do it again.” Then, as the guards paused, Flint tapped on the metal badge on his jacket’s shoulder. The Marine Raiders’ insignia.

  It wasn’t clear if these men knew what that meant, but they at least recognized its military background.

  Wordlessly, as the guards were scared into indecision, Flint walked between them, shouldering both men out of his way with enough strength to put the final nail in the coffin that he wasn't one to be antagonized lightly.

  |X|

  Flint had returned to his hotel room, a low-end place he was sure wouldn’t ask questions or attract attention, after grabbing a sandwich from one of the high-end vending machines that had replaced restaurants in Texas. He might’ve taken the time to hunt for a real street vendor, but the cold in FrostSand this time of year forced Flint to abandon granting the real workers the patronage they deserved.

  Once he had fuel in him, Flint had grabbed one of his suitcases and slammed it on his bed and was immeasurably grateful to Conner for the fiftieth time since he went on this trip. Just a few weeks ago, Flint might’ve exhausted himself just from his excursion to the prison and back. But now he had the energy and strength of a man in his thirties, with all his old war wounds erased by Conner’s flames.

  Honestly, the battered soldier had forgotten what being in good health had felt like until just recently.

  Opening his suitcase, Flint grinned as he pulled out a cloth version of the Death Head uniform.

  As he held the suit up, he muttered, “Who said retirement’s gotta be forever? Hell, with my boys’ help, I’ll do this ‘till I’m eighty or even a hundred.”

  This Death Head uniform was colored dark gray with some dark yellows to break the outline and add flair. To help with that, on the center of the uniform’s face mask was the pattern of a death head moth.

  Flint’s normal Mask attire was a heavily armored suit that Hardwire had modified to be bulletproof and still give him near mobility. However, in cases where stealth was paramount, Flint preferred this low-grade version of his uniform. Although not borderline invulnerable, this suit’s fabric was still knife-resistant, had a gas filter in the mask, spikes on the fingers and feet, and metal-padded knuckles. Not to mention the added range of motion of fabric vs metal. He also had a few handy tools in his utility belt.

  Once he was suited up, Flint waited for nightfall and thought. Alright. We tried the peaceful method. Now we do things the Mask way.

  |X|

  Inside Oaks Prison, Death Head had snuck to the cell blocks. He reminisced about how, in the old days, he would have just needed to sneak past actual guards, but now had to worry about the abundance of cameras that covered the modern world. However, he was once more thankful to Hardwire for circumventing modern headaches.

  Hardwire had designed a program he’d uploaded to a finger-sized needle for Flint before he left. All the veteran had to do was find an electrical box connected to the prison, stab it, and the system’s security would be on loop for four hours. And in Texas, without cameras, there may as well have been no security.

  While Death Head practically strolled through the prison, he kept his noises to a minimum as he searched each cell for Carl. He only had a picture to go off of, but the boy’s straight hair with his otherwise Nigerian features would make him theoretically easy to spot.

  As such, one could imagine Flint’s annoyance when he spent three of his four hours checking nearly every cell only to come up empty-handed.

  He only had one last cell block to search, but Flint feared yet expected that Carl wouldn’t actually be in the prison. In fact, he likely wasn’t even in Texas.

  If these Big Bad ass hats are anything like the psychos I faced in Emperor’s China, then misdirection and usin’ lives up’s the name of the game. I’d be surprised if this Carl kid was still… What’s that?

  The sound of clunking wood alongside yelps of pain stopped Death Head’s train of thought. It was coming from the next cell block and was the first thing in this place that caught Flint’s attention.

  Stealthing his way to the next corridor between cell blocks, Flint used a short-circuit pistol Hardwire had built to temporarily disable the locks on the bar doors that separated the sections of the prison. He opened them as minimally as possible, slipped through, and closed them behind him.

  Death Head found himself inside the solitary confinement wing, so he scaled the walls to move through the rafters and check every cell with binoculars.

  Quickly, he located the source of the noise. It wasn’t Carl, but Death Head spotted a young man being beaten bloody on the floor by a pair of night shift guards with their nightsticks.

  As Flint watched the guards indulging their sickness from above, he thought. Well, least I’ll get somethin’ outta this trip.

  From his belt, Death Head drew what looked like a small pop gun. Once he had his sights lined up, he silently fired two small darts at the guards.

  Both men flinched when hit in their neck and arm, and went to swat at what they must have assumed were bugs biting them. Just as planned. They were the size of insects and would break when grabbed or slapped. So, with all the diuretic juice, alongside the bits of flexible plastic, most people would only think they got bitten by a weird bug.

  Knowing these sad excuses for men only had three minutes before they’d be stuck on a toilet for the next twelve hours, Death Head left Oaks Prison with a touch of satisfaction. However, leaving that brutalized prisoner behind made the old timer truly jealous of Conner’s powers for the first time.

  In his rental car, Death Head drove down the rural roads that kept the Oaks separated from polite society. He’d been listening to a playlist of his favorite bluegrass bands, a taste he’d picked up from his father and the only other tie to the southern roots he ever had. he especially enjoyed the banjo parts of the songs, having picked up the instrument himself.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  He was only about twenty away from reaching FrostSand City when, after an energy drink and a bottle of water, the need to pee had grown too strong to resist.

  With no other cars in sight and the city lights only on the horizon, Flint felt comfortable getting out to drain the snake off the side of the road. The veteran’s renewed youth had him hopeful he could spell his name in the snow.

  |X|

  Neil McDonald, otherwise known as Death Saw, or the Holder of Death, the Shadow Council’s top Crook mercenary, was hidden under a camouflaged tarp just outside the bounds of FrostSand City, alongside a band of ten other agents.

  The Holder of Death was adorned in a normally gray and crimson set of armor, but the camouflage setting made it match his surroundings. The suit completely covered him and was intentionally designed to look half slick and half worn out. He had an automatic rifle and a pair of twin swords on his back, two bandoliers wrapped around his torso, one for ammunition and the other for general storage, a belt that carried knives, grenades, and a pistol, and his signature weapon, a wrist-mounted, diamond-tipped buzz saw.

  Death Saw had been contacted by Author earlier that day for a dose of aggravating micromanagement. So, even with his dream target, Death Head, visible through his bionic binoculars, his mood was on the downward slope.

  “Make sure he’s captured above all else. You can fight him after he’s in our custody, Neil,” Author had reminded him. He was all the more resentful of his backup for that same reason.

  Death Saw had only gained his title two years ago when he killed his master for it. But with how old Death Knife had been at the time, Death Saw felt he hadn’t earned it until he killed the man who’d rejected the position of Holder of Death previously: Flint Isaiah.

  But what would he prove if Death Head was captured in an eleven-on-one battle and then defanged for the real match? Death Saw hadn’t even bothered bringing his usual power armor just to keep things as fair as possible.

  However, when Death Head suddenly stopped his car and got out, Death Saw was shocked to find his evening could get worse. What Death Saw had assumed was the Mask’s famous full body armor; he could now tell was just a cloth copy with hardly any weapons.

  “Oh, what the fuck?!” Death Saw shouted so loud he was glad the only people for miles around him were Shadow Council agents.

  “Oh. It seems he’s carrying a stealth arsenal, sir,” one of the agents, a lithe man Death Saw hadn’t bothered to learn the name of, responded as if Death Saw’s exclamation was a real question. “This should make catching him all the easier.”

  “Oh, joyful days,” Death Saw groaned as he and the agent kept watching through binoculars while the others readied their weapons.

  “Indeed, sir,” the agent replied with blithering ignorance. “We didn’t even need to bring the armor-piercing rounds. Heck, I bet you didn’t even need your saw.”

  Glancing at his favored weapon, Death Saw replied, “Saying I shouldn’t uv brought this is like saying I should’ve come here naked.”

  The agent nodded and replied, “Of course, Death Saw, sir. Brilliant strategy.”

  Whenever he worked with other agents who knew of him, Death Saw sometimes enjoyed their admiration, but usually found it grating. It was dependent on the day. Especially when their praise lacked any coherence.

  As Death Saw considered chopping this agent’s head off and blaming Death Head, the agent asked, “Wait. What’s he up to?”

  Returning his focus to Death Head, Death Saw could clearly tell he was going to the bathroom.

  Can’t you tell what he’s doing without me holding your hand? Death Saw pondered with thinning patience. Just then, his mood lightened as he got an amusing idea.

  Sternly, Death Saw answered, “It looks like he could be laying a trap for us. He might’ve seen us. Looks similar to what Death Knife showed me.”

  “Are- Are you sure, sir?” the agent asked with his first bit of hesitation Death Saw had seen. “It just looks like he’s taking a leak.”

  “No. I’ve seen this a thousand times,” Death Saw answered without dropping a beat. “This could be a special reverse ambush Death Knife taught me.”

  Taking his binoculars off, the agent frowned as he replied, “Oh… Well, what should we do, sir?”

  Like a coin, Death Saw flipped to his feet and answered, “You guys wait here a minute while I scout this out and make sure you all aren’t about to walk into a death trap.”

  “If… you say so, si-.”

  Before the agent could get the ‘sir’ out, Death Head pulled the bush covering off his motorcycle, jumped on, and rode out. Miraculously, with the technology of the Shadow Council, the engine made no sound. The bike also lacked any headlights, but the night vision lenses in his helmet easily made up for that.

  While this bike was perfect for missions, the lack of noise was why Death Saw owned a separate ride for personal use.

  |X|

  Once his bladder was empty, Flint let out a sigh and zipped his uniform up. Although nowhere near old enough to have needed one, Flint felt happy knowing that Conner’s fire fix kept him from needing an adult diaper anytime soon.

  Despite the bunk prison mission, Flint couldn’t help but feel satisfied as he walked back to his car’s driver's side. After all, his spelling mission had just been a success.

  However, he grew a bit tense as he felt the faintest vibrations in the ground. Even with how light it was, Flint’s experience told him it belonged to a vehicle, despite the complete lack of headlights. And if a vehicle was this stealthy, there was no way it belonged to a civilian.

  As he reached for the customized Desert Eagle on his belt, Death Head was shocked to see a red and silver armored figure on a motorcycle appear just over a hundred yards out. This gave the impressively fast bike enough time to reach Death Head before he could open fire.

  Instead of running him down or anything, the cyclist stopped on the other side of the road from Flint, parked, and flipped off his ride impressively.

  This man’s bombastic look and moves told Flint he was either dealing with another Mask or a Crook. Considering the metal armor and full arsenal this man carried, most notably a wrist-mounted buzz saw, he prayed for the latter.

  “Hey there! You’re Death Head, right?” Although his face was concealed, Death Head could tell from his tone and body language that this potential foe was trying to be disarming. “I mean, that’s not just a Halloween costume, right? Sorry, you just usually have armor on.”

  With his hand resting on his gun, Flint questioned, “If’n I were the real Death Head, what would ya do ta me?” He intentionally tried to sound more nervous than he really was. Hopefully, this guy would assume he really was a cosplayer. It wasn’t the first time Flint had gotten that excuse to work while in his stealth suit.

  However, the armored man instead put a hand on his hip and extended the other as he answered, “Mainly, I’d wanna shake your hand. The name’s Death Saw, by the way. We’ve only got a couple minutes, but I’m a big fan, and I wanted to meet you one-on-one while I had the chance.”

  Flint drew his gun at that, aimed at the Crook’s head, and exclaimed, “Death Saw? Real original, kid. The fuck do ya mean?”

  He seemed genuinely disappointed by Flint’s hostility, yet Death Saw remained patient as he withdrew his hand and explained quickly, “I’ll tell you my whole deal later. For now, aside from myself, there are ten other agents headed this way with power armor and armor-piercing rifles. You’ve lost.”

  “What…? Well, you shits aren’t the only ones with armor-piercin’ rounds,” Death Head said as he squeezed the trigger halfway.

  Still calm, Death Saw knocked on his helmet and said, “Eh, sorry. I wish this fight was that fair, but I could sit on a grenade with this suit on and just get a bruised tailbone. Your bullets’ll just-.”

  An explosive bang rang through the frosty desert night. Death Saw’s head was lightly flinched back as a bullet designed to go through tank armor lay flattened on the ground.

  “Feel like a love tap,” Death Saw finished, slightly irritated by the attempted murder. “Well, they’re definitely coming here now. And as much as I’d love to throw hands with you, I’m being paid to bring you in quickly and efficiently.” The Crook then flipped his rifle off his back and steadied it at a very pissed-off and surprised Death Head.

  “Ya expect me to come quietly?”

  Shrugging, Death Saw answered, “In most situations, I’d rather you didn’t. But I really don’t wanna kill you this way. But I absolutely will, don’t get it twisted.”

  As Death Saw promised, ten more men in bulkier, camouflaged armor arrived on motorcycles and Humvees before they surrounded Flint with rifles. Although enraged and embarrassed beyond words, Flint knew he was done. Dropping his gun, he raised his hands in surrender. In turn, Death Saw looked earnestly disheartened as the soldiers closed in on Flint with cuffs.

  However, one particularly tall individual marched to Death Saw instead and snapped, “You lied to us!”

  Sounding thoroughly bored, Death Saw replied matter-of-factly, “Yes, yes, I did.”

  The man then grabbed the collar of Death Saw’s armor and shouted, “What the Hell?! Do you think we’re stupid?!”

  “Yes I do.” Death Saw chuckled. “Okay, you had your tough guy moment. Now take your hand off me or I’m keeping it. I’m serious, I’ve got a collection of hands in jars at one of my penthouses. You’d be number twenty seven.”

  “You didn’t even bring your Honor armor, remember?” the man asked, confident and demeaning. “You can’t-.”

  In a flash, there was a whirring noise, cut metal, and splattering blood. Then, the tall man’s helmet started to leak the blood he’d vomited thanks to his split-open torso. The man then fell backward in shock, as the armor of his severed hand kept its grip on Death Saw.

  As his buzzsaw spun the blood off itself, Death Saw stated, “I told you. I’m naked without this thing.” Looking at the dying man once his weapon was clean, he told the corpse, “Well, least that was better than kissing my ass. You had some guts at the end there, my guy.”

  Flint and the soldiers grabbing him were all equally floored by Death Saw’s mercilessness. However, after seeing one of them die and realizing they were truly distracted, he got an idea.

  Once Flint readied himself, Death Saw looked over and remarked lazily, “Hey, you guys should probably stay focused on Death Head.”

  With grace that betrayed his true age, Death Head pushed away the rifle nearest to him, gripped the arm of the soldier holding it, and then flipped around to wrap his legs around the man’s neck.

  After one forceful jerk, Death Head snapped the soldier’s neck and thought. Oh, thank Christ that worked! Hardwire’s armor keeps most neck breaks from doin’ much.

  Death Head then grabbed the rifle of the dead man as Death Saw muttered, “Cheap crap.”

  The Mask then beat the next closest man to him on the draw, punching a whole that blood and sparks flew from as Death Saw remarked, “You guys should strike for better stuff from the bosses.”

  Two men were down, and Flint rolled out of the way as the fastest shot of the squad fired at him. However, it was partially a reflexive roll and partially the sheer recoil of the rifle, knocking him off his feet. In truth, he felt more like he’d just fired a rocket launcher than a gun. It was all the more impressive that these death canons were completely silent.

  After Death Head properly braced himself and took the head off the quick shooter, he spun to fire at Death Head. However, the Crook was gone. Instantly, Death Head heard a whirring noise as he felt a simultaneous coldness and burning wetness from the center of his back.

  At once, Flint lost feeling in his legs, and he fell on his face in the sand and snow.

  Death Saw then casually walked in front of Flint as he began to hyperventilate, crouched down as the hand hung from him like a necklace, and let his fluid-covered saw hang between them.

  “Look, sorry about that. But my bosses’ve got top-notch doctors who can fix that in a week. Don’t worry. I’ll keep you company the whole time, friendo.”

  If not for his Mask, Death Head would have spat at Death Saw. Instead, he had to settle for cursing. “Fuck yer pa, you degenerate.”

  Unoffended, Death Saw didn’t break eye contact with Flint as he shot an agent who had started aiming a rifle at the Mask and said, “Wow! You can still talk like that? Most people go into shock by now. I’d like to wait and see how long you’ll last, but I gotta get you medical attention, buddy.”

  Calmly, Death Saw retracted his buzz saw and threw a jab into Death Head’s face. To his horrified shock, it felt like a runaway car had socked him in the nose as he lost consciousness.