SONS OF WAR CORP – DISTRICT III - DREAM CITY
Steam hissed through the tiled room as John stood under a cascade of near-boiling water, letting it hammer away the ache of training. Muscles taut, his breath steady, he washed away the sweat but not the memory clawing at the back of his mind.
Outside, nude under the sky and puffing on a thick cigar like it owed him money, stood Midas Merlin Morkov.
A bull of a man—brash, ginger-bearded, bald, with chromium-steel Bineth hands that gleamed under the rising mist. He was John's longest-standing partner in the Sons of War, third-highest in mission success rate, and carried the social grace of a wrecking ball.
"They're talkin' big this year," Midas barked to no one in particular. "Youngies with hot chromes and hotter mouths, all buzzin' about takin' the flag." He laughed. "The flag, Johnny! Can you believe that, talk about big talk! "
Others inside the locker room were already murmuring about Sakarah Mishima—the so-called girl wonder.
Youngest ever on the Frontline with a third-gen Bineth spine and the reflexes to use it. A prodigy, they said. A problem, Midas thought.
But John didn't hear all that.
Not really.
In the scalding hiss of water, he saw it again.
The Moon.
A high-security transport heading to Earth port. Mr. Mishima, shackled in reinforced chains, sitting next to John with trembling fingers clutching a photo of his daughter.
The eyes in that photo were the same as the girl's now—purple, sharp, defiant.
Then, the explosion.
Flames. Screams. Mishima torn apart in the chaos, blood painting the inside of the vessel. His last words to John lost beneath the roar.
Now, somewhere else—Sakarah stood alone in the showers. Steam rose like ghosts around her. Her chromium spine glinted under the flickering light. Quiet. Still.
Outside, two young recruits swaggered into the changing room, their voices brash, ignorant, and too loud.
"War Games, huh? They say only a few even finish, let alone win."
"Yeah, but we're not just anybody. No way, we are buddies with Team Fox, Karat, they are top contenders, Sakarah won't see them coming, no one will let her win."
"The daughter of a traitor? Please."
They laughed. Joked about Mishima's disgrace—selling Bineth Global secrets. How he died trying to run. Justice, they called it.
Then the laughter stopped.
Sakarah stepped out, steam curling around her. A towel hung low on her hips, fists clenched at her sides.
"Apologize," she said, her voice calm and cold as a scalpel. "Or lose your jaw."
The boys hesitated, their bravado wilting.
"What the... Think you can take us both?"
They stepped forward—thinking she was bluffing.
Then, the door opened.
An inspector entered. Silence snapped into the room like a trap. The boys backed off, muttering curses under their breath as they slipped out.
Sakarah watched them go.
It wasn't over. Not yet.