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In the Iceman Ready Room, a tense calm filled the air, thick with the anticipation of the hunt. Three Icemen sat at their consoles, fingers hovering over controls, eyes darting across the surveillance monitors, fully absorbed. Behind them stood the Monitor, his gaze steely and watchful as he oversaw every detail of the operation. The steady hum of machinery was interrupted only by the brief, clipped exchanges between the men. The Monitor scowled at a readout, adjusting several controls and finding the results unsatisfactory. His voice cut through the room, commanding, “Get that communication re-established at once!”
They looked up as the door slid open and Emma entered, her presence commanding immediate attention.
"Thanks, Emma," one of the Icemen said, glancing up with a smirk.
Emma took her place at the console, settling in with a confident grace. "Just don't take forever this time, like last," she quipped, her tone sharp but playful.
The Iceman chuckled, "Ah, you love it. You're just afraid you’ll miss a really good Run."
Laughter rippled through the room as Emma took up her watch, her sharp eyes scanning the monitors with precision. She knew the drill all too well, but something in the air felt different. The others returned to their consoles, unaware that her mind was racing beneath Emma’s calm exterior, and the hunt had taken on a far more personal meaning than they could ever guess.114Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡESRq64m8Fe
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Tara walked slowly down the dim, sterile hallway of the Iceman residence, her heels tapping lightly on the polished floor. The walls were sleek and metallic, lined with cold, minimalist decor—sterile art pieces that lacked any warmth. The light from overhead gleamed off the chrome fixtures, casting sharp reflections that mirrored her anxious expression.
Reaching a heavy door with a small, almost imperceptible panel beside it, Tara hesitated for a moment before raising her hand to knock. The door was solid, with a matte black finish that absorbed light, giving it an imposing presence. It looked impenetrable, as if sealing off something far more personal than anyone in the Dome would ever admit.
She knocked once, then twice, the sound barely echoing in the quiet hallway. After a brief pause, the door slid open with a soft hiss. Steed stood in the doorway, his face unreadable for a moment as he took her in, but then his expression softened into one of quiet relief.
"Are you here to help me?" he asked, his voice low and laced with tension.
Tara looked at him, her gaze steady. "What do you need?"
For a beat, silence stretched between them before Steed moved toward her with a sense of urgency, pulling her into him as the door closed behind them.
---
Later, they wandered through a vast, artificial garden, where an engineered stream wound gracefully among flickering, pixelated plants. Occasionally, the vibrant holographic foliage betrayed its digital nature with brief imperfections. The water flowed in precise, controlled patterns, enhanced by bioluminescent particles that glowed faintly in the manufactured twilight. Synthetic chrome-scaled fish, designed to resemble the long-extinct koi, hovered above the stream, their movements unnaturally smooth, propelled by the faint hum of miniature motors. Amidst the illusion of life, trees and plants grew within the enclosure, thriving in artificial soil—or, in some cases, with no soil at all. Kept alive by a precisely regulated influx of nutrients and fertilizers, the garden’s perfumed air lacked any true breeze, a floral scent lingering in the stillness. It was all just part of the meticulously crafted facade.
Steed and Tara moved through the simulated paradise, oblivious to its dazzling technological marvels. The intricate designs, intended to distract and soothe, only heightened the tension between them and underscored the grim reality they faced. A mirror-faced humanoid robot stood vigilant before a central console, patiently monitoring the garden’s delicate balance. From this station, the robot could adjust controls to alter the trees’ nourishment, meticulously injecting premixed chemicals that sustained them. It could regulate the artificial weather, tailor the water supply, and fine-tune the synthetic ecosystem down to each plant’s diet. Yet none of this precision or beauty broke through the cold, pressing urgency that lingered between them.
Steed laughed softly, breaking the tension, but his eyes remained serious. "What’re you going to do?"
"That’s tomorrow," she replied, turning away slightly, her thoughts far heavier than her light words suggested.
He stopped her, gently turning her back to face him. "Maybe you’ll think of something..." His tone was both hopeful and pleading, though he wore his usual confident mask.
Tara bit her lip, hating herself for what she was about to say. "I wish I knew what you think I know."
Steed smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. They both knew there was more truth between them than either was willing to admit. Drawn together by something neither could name, they continued walking along the stream, the illusion of peace in their steps.
---
Unbeknownst to Steed and Tara, shadows shifted ahead. Three figures watched from a distance, their gazes locked onto the pair. They whispered amongst themselves, uncertain if Tara was leading Steed into the trap they had carefully arranged. One of the men anxiously thumbed the handle of a Majoron Axe strapped to his belt, its cutting edge humming faintly with latent power. Another impatiently gestured for them to hold back, waiting for the right moment to strike.
The group dispersed quietly, leaving the first man to continue stalking Steed and Tara as they turned the corner—oblivious to the danger closing in behind them.
Steed moved quickly through the crowded streets of The Dome, his heightened senses tingling with growing apprehension. Behind him, the remaining pursuer followed with unnerving precision. In his hand, he gripped the Majoron Axe—a brutal, futuristic weapon that vibrated with dangerous energy. Its quantum-sharpened edge could slice through almost any material with a single swing, the molecular destabilization field surrounding it capable of disintegrating flesh and bone in an instant. One strike from that axe would not just cut—it would unmake.
Steed felt the weight of their presence behind him, and instinctively, he half-turned, just in time to catch a glimpse of the man raising the baton. Before the stalker could close in for the kill, Steed’s transceiver blared to life with a familiar, urgent tone, momentarily halting his pursuers. The man hesitated, lowering his weapon, eyes narrowing with frustration.
Steed unclipped the transceiver from his belt, stepping out of the crowd and into the shadows. Tara followed closely, her gaze flitting nervously between him and the looming figures in the distance. Steed bent down, scanning the message on the screen, while Tara leaned in to catch a glimpse of the readout.
Meanwhile, back in the Iceman Ready Room, alarms blared and red lights pulsed across the console. Emma stood at her post, her eyes fixed on the flashing message:
SUBJECT: RUNAWAY MALE // SECTOR: SIN-BIN QUADRANT 2 // STATUS: CODE STEED-6 // PRIORITY LEVEL: THETA-CLASS ENGAGEMENT
One of the younger Icemen glanced over at the screen, chuckling, "Looks like Steed's got a tough one tonight. Why don't you—"
But Emma was already at the door, not waiting for the rest of the sentence. With a wave, she was gone, moving with purpose, leaving the others to exchange knowing glances and mutter warnings. "Careful in there," one of them called after her, with typical human understatement. "They might, you know, singe you a bit before you even spot them."
The room fell silent again, but the tension lingered. Emma’s pace quickened, her mind racing as she prepared for the inevitable confrontation. This wasn’t just another night, and Steed wasn’t just another Iceman on the hunt. Something darker was unraveling, and she could feel it with every step.114Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡF7OYzgoRPV
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Steed and Tara moved through the Grand Promenade, the low hum of the Glide-cab station ahead of them. Steed's eyes darted about, ever-watchful, as Tara kept pace beside him. His expression tightened as he punched in their destination on the cab's control panel.
"A Runaway," Steed said, his voice low and grim. "Sin-Bin. A man."
Tara shot him a look, her brow furrowed. "You're not seriously thinking of going, are you?"
He hesitated for just a moment, then shrugged. "Why not? Maybe he can help me. You won't. You should stay here."
The Glide-cab arrived with a drunken hum, its doors sliding open. Tara reached out, lightly touching his arm. "I'd rather stay with you," she said, though the words dripped with insincerity.
Steed gave her a sidelong glance and softened his tone. "It's all right, you can come. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you."
They stepped inside the cab, which shot forward as soon as the doors closed. From the shadows, the men in ambush crept forward, watching. One glanced at the screen displaying Steed's destination. Quickly, they summoned another Glide-cab and slipped in, following closely behind.
The Glide-Cab sped them silently through the cylindrical passageway, its largely transparent walls offering a breathtaking view of the sprawling cityscape outside. The vibrant lights and distant structures made it easy to imagine they were soaring through the air instead of racing down a pressurized tube of plastic and metal. Settling into the cab, Steed turned to Tara, his curiosity evident. “Have you ever been through the Sin-Bin?”
Tara shook her head.
Steed leaned back slightly, his expression growing serious. "They’re like beasts in there—wild, untamed. I’ve had my share of encounters with them before, and I can tell you, it’s not pretty. They operate on instinct, not reason. You never know what might set them off. They’re driven by something primal, something that makes them more animal than human. It’s like they’ve forgotten how to think, how to feel. They’re just... dangerous.” He shook his head, the memories lingering in his mind like shadows. “Trust me, Tara. It’s a place where humanity gets stripped away.”
"Maybe they're angry because they’re engineered in bio-synthesis chambers," Tara suggested, a hint of concern in her voice. "Likely it’s due to a genome error."
Steed grimaced, interrupting her. "Instead of what? Nine months inside a woman's body? That’s simply obscene and not something discussed in polite society. We all start out the same, but most of us don’t end up as Foxtrots in the Sin-Bin."
"Some people say children need human mothering," Tara replied, a hint of defiance in her tone.
Steed's expression hardened as he cut her off. "Careful, Tara. You're talking smut now, and I’m authorized to arrest you for that kind of talk. We don’t discuss such obscenities. Nurseries are better than any mother could ever be."
Tara hesitated for a moment, her eyes searching Steed’s face. “Haven’t you ever wondered what it would be like to have a real mother and father?” she asked softly. There was a vulnerability in her tone, a curiosity that seemed to reach beyond the sterile, controlled life they both knew.
Steed’s reaction was immediate and sharp. “No!” he replied with a huff, clearly irritated by the suggestion. The very idea seemed to offend him, as if Tara had ventured into dangerous, unspoken territory.
"I have," she said softly.
After a beat, he inquired, "When did you begin to question Lastday?"
"I don't remember exactly... except I was a Delta," Tara said, her voice softening as she recalled the days when she had been of a lower class than Alpha-7. Another beat passed. "What would you like to relive, Steed?"
He smiled. "Let's see—how long has it been?"
As Tara turned her head, a flicker of guilt washing over her, the Glide-Cab glided to the end of the tube. It decelerated and came to a halt, and an ominous warning light began to pulse on the cab's console. Suddenly, a recorded voice pierced the silence, sharp and uncompromising, reminiscent of an officer barking orders on a parade ground.
"Caution! You are entering a delinquent reservation. Unauthorized access is strictly prohibited. There are dangerous youths inside, and we will not be held accountable for your safety."
The hatch opened, revealing the unknown dangers that lay ahead. Steed and Tara stepped cautiously from the Glide-Cab as its hatch slid shut behind them, the soft hum of the vehicle fading as it glided away into the distance. The air here was different—thicker, oppressive. Tara glanced around uneasily, unfamiliar with this part of the city.
"I’ve never been in this quadrant before," she said quietly, her eyes drifting toward the horizon. "Is that the Grand Promenade over there?"
They stood on the high platform, like an old, elevated station, looking out over the narrow, sharply angled concrete canyon that marked the entrance to the Sin Bin. The distant glow of the Promenade shimmered beyond the canyon walls, a deceptive beacon of comfort in a place devoid of it. Chiseled into the fortress-like walls ahead of them was a crude, mocking inscription, more a taunt than a historical marker:
"There once was a man with a grin, 114Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡICiV13tMqQ
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And now he rots in the Sin Bin."
Steed, ever the protector, took her arm as they descended toward the wall. The cold, dim light made the already austere environment feel even more hostile. Their footsteps echoed off the featureless walls. Steed’s eyes darted around, his instincts on high alert.
"Let me go first," he said, his voice low but firm. "Sometimes they're waiting just inside there, ready to rush you the moment it opens."
He pushed through the narrow opening first, beckoning her quickly with a gesture. "Now, hurry."
As Steed and Tara stepped into the Sin Bin, they were immediately enveloped by an atmosphere that seemed to claw at their senses. The interior, reminiscent of an ancient insane asylum, was a bewildering blend of Gothic architecture and decaying grandeur. High ceilings loomed above, adorned with intricate plasterwork that had long since begun to crumble. Shadows danced across the stone walls, their once-pristine surfaces now marred by layers of dust and disrepair. Broken windows allowed slivers of moonlight to penetrate the darkness, casting eerie patterns on the uneven floor, littered with rubble and debris.
"Just follow me, no matter how it seems," he urged, guiding her with a hand on her arm as they entered the jagged, angular corridor ahead.
The air was thick and stale, tinged with the faintest scent of mildew and something more unsettling—a hint of fear and desperation that clung to the very walls. Steed's instincts prickled, a sense of unease creeping into his bones as they ventured deeper into the chaotic interior. The distant echoes of laughter and shouts punctuated the oppressive silence, a haunting reminder of the tumult that thrived within these crumbling confines.
Tara glanced around, her confusion growing. "What is this place? Why is it like this?"
"The Foxtrots," Steed replied, without slowing down. "When they're hopped up on burn powder, they’re almost impossible to catch. If it weren't for the dazzle in this chamber, they’d zoom right past us at speeds we couldn’t keep up with."
Tara frowned, unfamiliar with the term. "Burn powder? I’ve never heard of that one."
Steed chuckled darkly, leading her deeper into the zigzag corridor. The mirrored walls made it feel like a twisted funhouse, except here, getting hurt was very much a possibility. "It’s an illegal stimulant, only works on them when they're young. Makes everything move so fast it's all a blur. Too dangerous for anyone over thirteen—shakes your whole body to bits."
He paused, a sardonic smile playing on his lips. "You should see what happens when one of those Foxtrots tries to run through here while high on burn powder... splat!"
As Steed and Tara neared the end of the narrow corridor, a small figure shuffled toward them from the shadows, humming a broken tune. The child’s tattered clothes barely clung to her fragile frame, remnants of what might have once been a uniform, now grimy and torn. Her singing halted abruptly when she noticed them, wide, mistrustful eyes peering from beneath a tangled mess of hair, her face smudged with dirt.
The girl, no older than eight, stood before them, her body thin and hardened by a life far too harsh for her years. Her Dome clothing, designed for the sleek efficiency of the 25th century, now hung like rags from her bony shoulders, a ghost of its intended purpose. She stared at Steed and Tara, silent and cautious, as if trying to assess whether they were friend or foe.
“Don’t be afraid,” Tara said softly, crouching to the girl’s level, her voice filled with compassion.
“What’s your name?” Steed asked, crouching down beside Tara, his tone as gentle as he could manage in this grim setting.
“I’m Georgie 4,” the girl replied, her tone matter-of-fact, eyes darting between them as though sizing up their worth.
“Where do you live, Georgie?” Tara asked, maintaining her soothing tone.
“Here,” Georgie 4 answered with unsettling plainness, as if the crumbling corridors and dark corners of the Sin Bin were all she had ever known.
“Why aren’t you in Nursery?” Tara pressed, her concern deepening.
“I’m very smart,” the girl said, her expression blank, offering no further explanation.
Tara exchanged a worried glance with Steed before continuing. "When do you go up?" she asked, referring to the expected transition for children to safer living quarters.
“I never go upstairs,” Georgie 4 replied, her voice sharper now, suddenly appraising Tara with narrowed eyes. “You’re a nice old lady.”
Before Tara could react, the girl darted forward with surprising speed, snatching a delicate pin from Tara’s jacket. In a blink, she was gone, disappearing down the dilapidated hallway like a street-hardened thief.
Tara instinctively moved to chase her, but Steed caught her arm, pulling her back gently.
"Not here," he muttered, his gaze hard as he watched the shadows. "Might be a decoy."
Reluctantly, Tara stopped, her eyes lingering on the path where the girl had vanished. The Sin Bin wasn’t just a ruin—it was a trap, a place of lost hope where survival came at a cost. As they cautiously resumed their path, stepping out into the open air, the stark reality of the crumbled, decayed building around them mirrored the lives of its inhabitants—broken then, broken now.
Steed moved cautiously through the darkened, dilapidated alleyway, Tara close behind him. The tension was palpable, their senses on high alert as they searched for the elusive Runaway. Suddenly, from the shadows, a man bolted into view. He looked panicked, his eyes wide with fear, as if cornered by some unseen force. The man was gaunt, his clothes torn and dirty, and in his left hand, a red crystal pulsed faintly—marking him as a Runaway.
Steed stepped forward, his voice calm but commanding. "Runaway!" he called, hoping to avoid violence.
The man hesitated for a brief moment, his hands raised slightly in surrender, but his eyes darted toward the dark shadows beyond. Before Steed could say anything else, a pack of snarling figures burst out of the darkness—young Foxtrots, feral and wild, their speed blinding as they circled around the Runaway like predators stalking their prey.
The Runaway didn’t wait. With a frantic look, he turned and dashed off into the maze of shadows, disappearing from view. Steed started to move after him but quickly realized the pursuit was futile. He turned back, now facing the pack of Foxtrots.
As the shadows shifted and swirled around them, Steed and Tara suddenly found themselves surrounded by a gang of youths—Foxtrots, recognizable by their ragged attire. Emerging from the dim corners of the Sin Bin like specters, each wore tattered Vaudeville costumes that clung to their thin frames, remnants of a long-forgotten performance. Their faces, smeared with dirt, flickered between defiance and malice.
At the center of the group stood Robby, their leader—a tall, feral boy no older than fifteen, his wild hair and sneering grin marking him as the most dangerous of the pack. His clothes were a patchwork of trophies from past conquests, and his eyes gleamed with dangerous excitement. In his hand, he clutched a flickering torch, its flame casting erratic shadows that danced across the cracked walls. He stepped forward, raising the torch close enough for its heat to wash over Steed’s face, heightening the tension.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” Robby sneered, his voice dripping with arrogance. "An Iceman and his little plaything, lost in our den of delights. Georgie did a good job, didn’t she? Look at you, so trusting, so naïve. I love it when they come in here thinking they can play heroes."
The rest of the Foxtrots encircled them, their eyes gleaming with anticipation. One of them, lurking in the shadows, called out, “We’re gonna have ourselves a time tonight, right, Robby?”
Laughter rippled through the alley, cold and cruel.
Steed stood his ground, his face stern. "I’m an Iceman," he said, his voice cutting through the laughter like a blade.
Robby sneered, unimpressed. “I burned up one of your lot yesterday,” he said with twisted glee. “They said I’d never get him... but I burned him good, I did.”
His voice grew darker, seething with pride. “The flames lit up the whole place, and the way he screamed—oh, it was delightful! You think you can stroll in here and scare us, but I’m the one with the fire. You’ve got no idea what you’re up against.”
Steed’s expression remained unchanged. His voice, low and steady, carried the weight of experience. "I feel sorry for you, boy."
A low murmur rippled through the pack as they watched their leader, Robby, with rapt attention.
“For me? Better feel sorry for yourself, Iceman!” Robby sneered, his bravado unwavering.
Steed, unfazed by the taunt, locked eyes with the young thug. “No, for you! How old are you, Robby?”
Silence hung in the air as Robby hesitated, his bravado momentarily faltering.
“Fourteen? Fifteen? Your days are numbered. How long can you last? A year? Six months?” Steed continued, gesturing toward the yellow flower clutched in Robby's palm. “What happens when you turn sixteen and go green?”
“Nothing will happen!” Robby lashed out, his voice cracking with defiance. “I make the rules! Foxtrots do what I say! Always have! Always will! I own Sin Bin, and I’ll never let go!”
“No Foxtrots over fifteen,” Steed countered, his tone steady and authoritative. “Ever heard of a Foxtrot with a green flower? You’ll be kicked out of Sin Bin when you go green because they won’t let you stay. And if you try to stick around, the younger ones will fry you!”
“Shut up! Just shut your damn mouth!” Robby shouted, his anger boiling over.
Before Steed could respond, a surge of adrenaline coursed through him, and he dropped into a fighting stance, prepared for whatever came next. But in an instant, he was seized and slammed against the wall of an abandoned building.
“Let him suck on some lethal spice!” a voice called out, dripping with malice. “That’ll shut him up! Let’s watch him shake himself to death!”
The Foxtrots began pulling out drug pads, their movements quickening with the promise of danger. They squeezed the pads and inhaled the potent substance, their actions becoming blurringly rapid. The air crackled with tension as they assumed menacing positions, some leaping overhead, eyes wide with a manic thrill. The once-dim alley now pulsed with chaotic energy, thick with the scent of desperation and defiance.114Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5M5Akrp1Gv
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Inside the dimly lit confines of Iceman Central, the atmosphere buzzed with urgency. Holographic maps flickered to life, illuminating the stark faces of the personnel stationed at their consoles. The vast screen displayed intricate sections of The Dome, each area pulsing softly with color-coded indicators, a web of information that stretched across the room like a living organism.
The Monitor leaned over his console, eyes darting across the glowing maps, and called out to one of the operators manning the console. “Report! What’s the status on the Runaways?”
The operator, a bespectacled man with a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow, turned to the Monitor. “Runaway detected in the Sin Bin,” he announced, his voice steady despite the gravity of the situation. “Iceman on scene is John-6-Steed.”
Emma, stationed at a nearby console, felt a pang of recognition at Steed’s name. Memories flooded her mind, unbidden and heavy. She recalled the last Iceman—David, she thought, David-10-Hartley—who had entered the Sin Bin on a similar mission and had never returned. The whispers of failure and loss still lingered in the air, a chilling reminder of the dangers that lay within the dilapidated asylum.
Emma straightened, determination igniting within her. “I’ll go with him,” she declared, her voice cutting through the tense silence of the room.
The Monitor glanced at her; his brow furrowed in concern. “Are you certain? We don’t know what’s waiting for him in there. You could be putting yourself at risk.”
“I’m aware of the dangers,” Emma replied, her tone unwavering. “But if Steed is there, he might need backup. And if Hartley’s fate is any indication, we can’t afford to lose another Iceman.”
A moment of silence hung in the air as the weight of her words settled over them. Emma’s heart raced, not just with fear for Steed, but with the unrelenting desire to protect him, to prove that she could be more than just an observer in this deadly game.
Without waiting for further approval, she strode toward the exit, her resolve firm. The hum of technology surrounded her as she prepared to step into the fray, unaware of the intricacies of Steed’s true intentions, yet determined to lend her support wherever it was needed. The corridors of Iceman Central pulsed with the weight of history and the specter of danger, and Emma knew that the choices they made in the moments to come would echo long after they were gone.114Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0KEA5GlgPu
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"Give him some Spice!" Robby barked, and like a pack of wolves, the Foxtrots snapped into action, darting around Steed and Tara with blinding speed.
Tara’s eyes were wide with terror as she watched Steed being seized, his body slammed hard against the crumbling wall by two of the Foxtrots. A voice from within the crowd cried, "Shake him to death!" Another added, "Kill him!" The mob seemed ready to tear him apart.
With menacing glee, Robby moved closer, pressing a drug pad soaked with Spice against Steed’s face. "He's trying to hold his breath," Robby chuckled darkly, savoring the moment. The deadly drug, known for sending its victims into violent convulsions, was inches from Steed's nose.
Summoning all his strength, Steed broke free, wrenching his arms loose from his captors. He dropped to the ground and, in one swift movement, pulled out his weapon. A burst of fire erupted from the gun, tracing a line along a nearby pillar. The sudden blaze caused the Foxtrots to pause, their bravado momentarily shaken.
"We can rush him!" Robby shouted, his voice desperate but defiant. "We can take him again!" But the hesitation among the gang was palpable as Steed, holding his gun steady, swept his gaze across them.
"All right, how many of you want this to be your Lastday?" Steed’s voice was cold, cutting through the chaos like a knife. The threat worked. Slowly, the gang began to back away, leaving Robby standing alone, his bravado faltering.
Steed locked eyes with him. "Come on, Robby," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You burned an Iceman, didn't you? Come on... try me."
Robby stood frozen, his wild eyes darting between Steed and Tara. Uncertainty flickered in his gaze, but after a long, tense moment, he turned and bolted into the shadows, leaving them alone amidst the crumbling ruins.
Steed quickly holstered his gun, then stepped over to Tara, who was visibly shaken by the confrontation. He pulled her close, offering a moment of comfort before retrieving a small device from his pocket. The faint beep it emitted steadily grew louder as he adjusted it, guiding them toward their next objective.
The air hung thick with tension as Steed and Tara moved cautiously through the wreckage, weaving around the broken remains of derelict buildings. Every step was deliberate, a dance through debris. Then, piercing the silence, a scream tore through the distance—the unmistakable sound of another victim caught by the Foxtrots.
“They’ve got someone else,” Steed muttered darkly, shaking his head in disbelief. “Why would anyone come here?” Tara shivered, her face pale as the scream was abruptly cut off, leaving the unsettling quiet of death in its wake.
Steed crouched, gripping the transceiver tightly as its soft beeping grew louder. The signal was close now. He motioned for Tara to stay behind him as they approached a decaying building. With each step, the device's rhythmic pulse increased, guiding them to their target. When they reached the entrance, Steed kicked the door open in one fluid motion, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of life.
Inside, a man huddled in the shadows, his body trembling. His clothes were ragged, his eyes wide with terror. Embedded in his palm was a faintly glowing red crystal, pulsing with the doom of a life out of time. He was a Runaway, his future bleak and inevitable.
The transceiver in Steed’s hand let out a final, sharp beep before he switched it off, the sound dissolving into the stillness of the room. Steed stepped forward with calm authority, his voice steady but firm.
“Runaway!” His call echoed off the crumbling walls, commanding the man’s attention.
For a moment, the Runaway didn’t move, his face frozen in a mask of fear. Tara hovered behind Steed, her eyes darting nervously around the room. Slowly, the man stepped forward from behind a broken beam, raising his hands slightly in surrender, his movements stiff and uncertain.
“There’s been a mistake!” he cried, his voice shaking. “My life-clock—it's broken! I’m nowhere near thirty. Look at me!” His eyes darted from Steed’s face to the glowing red gem embedded in his hand. “I should be green, not red! Please... I’m not ready to die.”
Steed took a careful step forward, his tone measured. “Don’t be afraid—"
But the man’s terror overwhelmed him. With a wild, desperate cry, he lunged at Steed, his panic driving him into reckless action. Steed reacted instantly, grabbing the man’s wrists and forcing him back, but with restraint. His grip was firm, yet gentle, a show of control rather than brute force.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Steed said through gritted teeth as he pushed the man down, the Runaway collapsing to the ground in sobs, his body shaking with despair.
The Runaway rose slowly, his eyes filled with confusion and hopelessness as he glanced between Steed and Tara. The room felt smaller with the weight of his desperation. Steed reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, ankh-shaped symbol and holding it in the air.
“Sanctuary,” Steed said, his voice soft but deliberate. “Do you know what this is?”
The man stared blankly at the symbol, the flicker of hope in his eyes dimming as he failed to understand. Steed sighed, then reached into his coat and produced a sleek electro-truncheon. “Take this,” Steed said, offering it to the man. “It’s charged. Use it if you need to defend yourself.”
The Runaway hesitated, his trembling hands reaching out to grasp the truncheon. Steed stepped closer, showing him how to hold it and where to press to activate its electrical charge. “Push this button. It’ll knock someone down, but don’t linger. It’s not about fighting—it’s about surviving. Run when you can.”
The man’s grip tightened around the weapon, his fear still present but tempered now by a glimmer of hope. Tara approached, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. He nodded weakly, his eyes meeting Steed’s in a silent plea for understanding.
“Why are you helping me?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Steed paused, a faint smile flickering across his lips. “Not all of us follow the rules, lad. Now go.”
Without another word, the Runaway bolted, disappearing into the shadows of the dilapidated asylum, his footsteps fading into the night.
In the darkness outside, a pair of cold, calculating eyes watched. Emma stood concealed in the shadows, her expression unreadable as she observed Steed’s act of mercy. Her gaze hardened as she processed what she had witnessed—a marked man set free by an Iceman! Her grip tightened on the gun as she aimed toward Steed and Tara, who were quickly disappearing into the rubble. For a brief moment, her resolve wavered. The weapon remained steady, but her mind was at war, unsure whether to pull the trigger. She watched, uncertain, as they vanished into the darkness.
Shivering slightly, Emma turned her gaze toward the broken window. “Goodbye,” Emma said coolly, her voice steady and unwavering, even as a glint of determination flickered in her eyes.
Before the boy could react, she raised her weapon. The flash of her shot lit the dim space like lightning, and the boy’s startled expression twisted into one of horror as the energy beam struck him.
In an instant, his body ignited, flames consuming him in a spectacular burst of fire that illuminated the forsaken hallways. The smell of burning flesh mingled with the dust and decay of the asylum, filling the air with a sickening aroma. He fell to the ground, lifeless, leaving nothing but smoldering ashes in his wake.
In the distance, the men waiting at the Glide-cab platform exchanged uneasy glances. The unmistakable sound of the man's death cry echoed through the air, sending a shiver down their spines.
Steed and Tara, hearing the blast, turned just in time to see the flash of Emma’s gunfire. Their eyes locked with hers for a brief, charged moment. Then, with a sharp tug, Steed pulled Tara away, urging her deeper into the shadows.
Emma stood there, the echoes of her actions reverberating in her mind. She was both elated and horrified, the adrenaline coursing through her veins. She quickly activated her communication device, her fingers deftly moving over the controls as she transmitted her report to Iceman Central.
“This is Emma-8-Peel reporting. Target neutralized. Runaway was identified and eliminated. Requesting immediate extraction,” she stated, her voice clear and professional, masking the tumult of emotions swirling within her.
As the transmission ended, Emma felt the weight of her decision settle upon her shoulders. She had acted decisively, but at what cost? Steed’s figure loomed in her thoughts, a mixture of admiration and confusion battling for dominance. She had not entirely understood his motivations, nor did she care to, but the consequences of their actions in this unforgiving world were beginning to take shape in her mind, intertwining their fates in ways she had yet to comprehend.
She pocketed the device and turned away, the weight of the night’s events pressing heavily on her shoulders.
ns 15.158.61.42da2
