LEAGUE OF PROTECTORS.

Earth.

Sector 6 (The Imperium).

1910 hours.

June 11.

They shoved him into the box they called an interrogation room. Chrome walls. Too slick. Too perfect. The kind of place only the Imperium could dream up. The air smelled. Simply of burned circuits and paranoia.

The desk was a slab of glowing glass, humming like it had secrets. Holograms flickered across it. All abstract shapes and ideas. Just trying to look important. Behind it, an iron chair that'd break your back if you sat too long. The other chair faced away at an angle. No eye-to-eye. Just the side facial profile. Maybe by design. Or not. The Imperium loved their mind games.

He sat, folding his hands instead of dirtying the shiny surface.

A low hum behind him. He turned.

The wall split open like a steel maw, and out waddled Senator McReese. Short, smug, hands tucked behind his back like a man who owned the universe. Flanked by a bot with a visor pulsing cold blue. It cradled a pulse carbine. One squeeze and you'd be nothing but smoke in the air.

McReese didn't sit. He stayed standing. Because of course he did.

"Detective Kline. You wanted to see me."

Kline didn't blink. "Most definitely, Senator."

McReese smiled like a man who knew how this game ended. "I hope you're not accusing me of killing Madin. He was my friend."

Kline's grin was a razor. "Not if you're scared of a mere allegation."

The Senator's brow twitched. "You just broke a law. Smoking's been banned."

Kline thrust his halo-tab forward, sarcasm dripping. "Arrest me. Because that's what you people do. Meanwhile, the Imperium doesn't seem too interested in finding out who butchered Madin. Too busy preening over irrelevant garbage. Everyone's talking about it."

McReese snapped, eyes burning. "Let them talk. We are protecting the universe."

"Protecting?" Kline barked. "Madin's dead."

The bot behind him shifted. Like it didn't appreciate his tone.

McReese's voice was ice. "Everyone dies, Detective."

"Murdered," Kline shot back. "And all you people can think about is Stynx. Like that's all that matters."

McReese stepped in close, the air between them hot with politics and contempt. "We wish to prevent another war."

Kline barked a laugh. "The universe is already at war. Famine, strife, economic rot. You think peace conferences fix that?"

McReese turned on his heel, stomping toward the maw like a kid mid-tantrum. "I don't have to listen to this babble. You haven't asked me one damn question about Madin."

Kline's voice cut like a blade. "Because I already know. The Senator was murdered with a knife carved with Tyr-Glyphs. Martian work. Which means the killer had Martian ties… if not being one himself."

McReese froze. Rage cooling into something else. "That's a setup. I haven't been to Madin's castle in three months."

"You could've sent someone."

"You'd see that on surveillance."

"And Calder?" Kline asked, scribbling on his tab. "You're tight with him."

McReese's brows knotted. "Not tight enough to kill Madin."

Kline leaned in, voice low and sharp. "Every Senator wanted Madin dead. He was exposing the cracks. Especially with Corr."

That did it. McReese had heard enough. "Definitely not me. Have a nice day."

He stomped out. The maw hissed shut behind him.

Then the room spoke. A man's voice. Artificial. Cold. "Are you done, Detective?"

"Not yet."

"What do you need?"

"A warrant."

"For what purpose?"

"To tear apart the Senator's office and see what shakes loose."

"I will confirm with Imperium security. Stand by."

Kline didn't move. Didn't blink.

Nothing. And he meant nothing was stopping him from tearing that office apart.

 ************

Earth.

Sector 8 (The Black Rung).

1910 hours.

June 11.

The hovercraft cut into the restricted zone. Small, fast, loud enough to make a statement.

The place stank. Manly Rot and chemical filth. It had this smell that crawls into your clothes and stays there. Flags with big red X's marked the perimeter. Someone had decided this slice of hell didn't belong to the rest of humanity. Thirty years later, nobody argued.

No one knew who quarantined the place. Nobody cared. One thing was certain. Step inside the Black Rung, and you'd wish you hadn't.

People said it wasn't always like this. Just rumors and drunken nostalgia. No one could prove a damn thing.

The hovercraft dropped onto what passed for a landing pad. More like a trash heap flattened by luck and habit.

Eyes watched from behind mountains of metal carcasses. Lithe men, hollow-eyed women. Survivors. Scavengers. They hadn't seen an outsider from the upper tier in twenty years.

The craft hissed. Doors slid.

He stepped out. Tall. Hooded. Wrapped in a flowing black gown that whispered with his movement. Face hidden. Photon blade at his hip. A silent promise of violence.

The locals scattered like roaches.

His boots clanged against metal ruins as he walked. The sky was virtually a dark veil. One of impenetrable darkness. Down here, it created shadows. Bleak, dead shadows.

He scanned. Always scanning. Eyes sharp. Movements deliberate. Southbound.

No comms. No network. The Rung was a black hole. No damn signals in or out.

Columns of twisted junk became his path. Then came the locals. Two of them. Clubs in their hands, murder in their bloodshot eyes.

"Give us everything," one growled, his voice like gravel mixed with motor oil.

The hooded man didn't slow. "And if I don't?" His tone was arctic.

The second one grinned, teeth brown with rot. Coogles-drunk. "Then you die."

They charged. Clubs swinging for his head.

He didn't flinch. Didn't even bother to raise his hands.

He sidestepped. His left hand to the hilt.

By the time their brains caught up, he wasn't there anymore.

They turned.

He was behind them. Photon blade ignited. Blue fire humming in the gloom. It illuminated the darkness.

"If I wanted your heads," he said, voice like judgment day, "you'd already be dead."

The one with the gravel voice froze. Knew the truth when he heard it. "What… what do you want?"

"The Black Hand."

The name made them twitch. Whimper, even.

The drunk one swallowed hard. "We'll take you. But… not inside. Nobody goes inside."

The hooded man didn't answer.

They shuffled off, spines bent like whipped dogs. He followed. Silent.

The last thing he saw was their gaunt backs fading into the Black Rung's dark.