Back in District II – Underway 101
A battered Body-Ware advert van rolled out of its shadowed hideout, blending into the rust-and-neon haze of District II.
The van looked innocent enough—holographic ads flashing across its panels, selling spinal mods and synthetic eyes. But inside, it was packed with high-tech weapons—illicit tech, quietly smuggled for a small-time gang known as the Punks.
The driver sat slouched, chewing a stim-gum. Two armed gang members sat behind him, lazy but alert enough. Another night. Another delivery.
It had been safe—always safe. Smuggling under the radar had become second nature.
Sure, there were occasional leaks. Sometimes the Retributors showed up and made a mess.
But lately? With all the chaos from the recent string of unsolved murders, the streets were distracted. Business was booming.
What the Punks didn't know: they were being followed.
Two unmarked vehicles—silent, professional—had tailed them since the van left the hideout. No sirens. No lights. Just patience.
The van took a detour, just as planned.
An underway bridge—quiet, tucked beneath the elevated rails. One exit. No traffic. A perfect trap disguised as routine.
Up ahead: a police checkpoint.
One of the gang members leaned forward, squinting through the windshield.
"What are cops doing out here?" he asked, more bored than concerned.
The driver shrugged, unfazed.
"Let 'em do their thing. We're clean. Files are fresh."
They slowed to a crawl and transmitted their clearance codes to the police comms.
The check came back clean. As always.
"Told you. All good," the driver said with a smirk.
A uniformed officer waved them forward. The barricade creaked as it parted.
They rolled through the narrow gap—
And then it happened.
From the side window: a flash.
Gunfire. Close-range. Brutal.
The driver's head exploded into a red mist, painting the dashboard in gore.
The gang members screamed—reaching for weapons too slow.
The next volley of bullets shredded them into pulp before they could move.
Silence.
Then boots on concrete.
Butch stepped into the light, grin wide, silver teeth flashing.
Behind him, a team of masked operators fanned out—methodical, efficient.
"Alright, boys," Butch barked. "Make it look good. Fifteen minutes. Clock's ticking."
They moved like ants—quick and precise.
One body was yanked from the van and set ablaze.
The cargo—tech crates and pulse rifles—were pulled, packed, and gone.
Then: detonation charges wired to the van.
With a flash and roar, the scene was reduced to charred rubble.
No survivors. No questions. No trace.
Butch scanned the destruction, then raised his comms to his mouth. He flicked on a voice modulator—grainy and distorted.
"Yeah, I got somethin' for you," he said in a fake, panicked voice.
"Underway 101. North D2. another Retributor snapped—went full psycho. Bodies everywhere. Better hurry. Early bird gets the scoop."
He ended the call, smirked, and vanished into the dark.
The story was already writing itself.
Another retributor hit.
And the real predators?
Already hunting their next distraction.