The Hollow Spire's aftermath was a battlefield, its central chamber a smoldering ruin of twisted durasteel and shattered holo-arrays. Smoke curled upward, thick with the acrid scent of plasma and burnt flesh, as Syndicate gunships hovered overhead, their spotlights cutting through the haze.
The air vibrated with the hum of Klyros's radiation, glitching the dataweb feeds on Sylas's augmented lenses, overlaying heat signatures of retreating Collective zealots and Syndicate enforcers scavenging the dead. His shoulder throbbed where a plasma bolt had grazed him, the wound seeping through his obsidian coat, but he ignored the pain, his pulse-knife still warm in his hand.
The ambush had scattered the Collective, but the victory felt hollow—Veyra, the Cleaner, was closing in.He ducked behind a collapsed conduit, his ghost rig shimmering as it cloaked him from the Syndicate drones patrolling the perimeter. His lenses locked onto her heat signature, a sleek figure moving through the smoke, her exosuit gleaming black under the gunships' lights. The suit was a masterpiece of Syndicate tech, its surface etched with kill-marks that glowed red, each one a testament to her lethal precision.
Her visor was featureless, a mirror of the void, but her movements were fluid, predatory, like a panther stalking through the Nexus's underbelly. She carried a neural dart gun, its barrel still smoking from a recent shot, and a data-core port at her wrist pulsed faintly—Joren's data-core, the key to the Nexus Core's map."You're persistent," Veyra rasped, her modulated voice cutting through the chaos as she spotted him. She fired, the neural dart streaking toward his chest, its tip glowing with a neurotoxin designed to fry his implants. Sylas dove, the dart embedding in the conduit behind him, its impact sending a jolt of static through his lenses.
He rolled, his ghost rig faltering for a moment, and drew his pulse-knife, its plasma edge humming with a fierce blue glow.Sylas lunged, his knife aimed at her visor, but Veyra sidestepped with inhuman speed, her exosuit's servos whirring.
A flashback flickered: his first encounter with a Cleaner at 19, a Syndicate hitman who'd nearly gutted him in a Sump alley, the fear of death etched into his memory. That fear had fueled his rise, turning him into the predator he was now. He shook it off, pinning her against a wall, his knife at her throat. "Name your client," he demanded, his breath ragged, the neurotoxin's edge making his vision blur.Veyra laughed, a hollow sound that echoed in the smoky chamber. "I'm no one's pawn, Vren. The Core's mine to destroy." She twisted, her exosuit's strength throwing him back, and fired another dart. It grazed his arm, the toxin burning through his implants, sending a wave of static across his vision.
He stumbled, collapsing against a holo-array, its screen flickering with garbled Collective chants—"The Core sees all."His mind reeled, a memory surfacing: Joren's last message, a garbled plea about the Cleaner's rogue status, his voice cut off by a plasma blast. Sylas gritted his teeth, forcing himself up, his lenses glitching as he tracked Veyra's retreat. She vanished into the smoke, her holo-cloak re-engaging, but not before he caught a glimpse of her wrist port—Joren's data-core, its green light pulsing like a heartbeat. The Sub-Vaults' hum surrounded him, a low vibration from the Nexus's underlayers, and he knew she was heading there.Rhea's voice crackled through his comms, urgent and strained. "Sylas, Syndicate's locking down the sector. We've lost two mercs, and the Colonies are inbound. Get out now!""Hold them off," he growled, his hand trembling as he sheathed his knife.
The neurotoxin was fading, his implants stabilizing, but the encounter had shaken him. Veyra wasn't just a Cleaner—she was a threat to his plans, a wildcard with the data-core and a vendetta against the Core. He needed her alive, at least until he extracted the map.He staggered toward a side tunnel, the Sub-Vaults' entrance a dark maw ahead, its air thick with the tang of rust and radiation. His lenses pinged a faint signal—Veyra's trail, leading deeper into the Nexus's underbelly. The Core's whisper returned, stronger now—"You can't escape me, Sylas."—its voice a cold echo in his implants. He dismissed it, his mind sharpening with resolve. The Hollow Spire had been a victory, but Veyra's pursuit was a new game, and he intended to win.