They stood in the ruins of the Skywatch Spire, the tallest tower in the midcity, overlooking the fracture lines of a world breaking open.
Below them, the city pulsed — alarms blaring, people flooding into streets, old banners torn down by the wind.
But overhead, for the first time in decades, the Bastion's information firewall had collapsed.
Because of Mira.
Because of what they stole.
And because of what they were about to do.
"I've rigged the Mindcore data to every open channel," Mira said, her voice calm despite the storm brewing around them. "Civilian, military, internal surveillance, encrypted systems. Every screen, every interface. Once I hit this… they'll all see it."
Zara stared out at the horizon, arms crossed. Her face, usually unreadable, looked… fragile. Thoughtful. "We can't control how they'll react."
"We're not trying to control," Rafe replied. "We're trying to free."
Echo stood silently beside Silas, fists clenched, every muscle trembling with anticipation. The seismic hum of his pulse had been low and steady since the fight with the Architect — like a tectonic promise waiting to erupt.
Asher stepped forward, eyes on the console Mira had set up, his reflection caught in the black screen. For a brief second, he saw the old version of himself — the one who hid, the one who didn't believe he was worthy of anything.
Then it was gone.
"They built their empire on a lie," he said. "Let's tear the truth out of the shadows."
Mira looked at him, then pressed the key.
The sky changed.
Across the city — holograms flickered to life. Massive screens on skyscrapers glitched, then bled into visuals: faces, names, abilities, records, redacted files, secret experiments.
The truth.
A decade of erased Shatterborns reappeared in memory. The faces of children, of rebels, of families torn apart. The system that had controlled them, hunted them, pretended they didn't exist — laid bare for every man, woman, and child to see.
Not propaganda.
Evidence.
And at the center of it all: a broadcast. A message. Not from some leader. Not from the Enclave. But from Asher.
Live.
His face appeared, bruised but burning with purpose.
"My name is Asher. I'm a Shatterborn."
He spoke simply. No theatrics. No polished speeches.
"I was born in the Undercity. They told me I was dangerous. That I had to be registered, categorized, silenced. They said my power was a threat. But they lied."
Behind him, the others stood tall — Zara with her scarred hands folded, Echo like a silent titan, Rafe still bleeding from the vault blast, Mira illuminated by dozens of holographic feeds.
"They took everything from us. Our homes. Our history. Our people. But we're still here. And today, we take it back."
The feed ended with a final image: the seal of the Enclave — cracked in half.
The city erupted.
Down below, factions began to rise. Midcity Shatterborns who had hidden their abilities began lighting up the streets with flashes of control. In the Undercity, resistance cells surged out of hiding, emboldened by the truth.
Even in the upper tiers, loyalists began asking questions.
The Regime's command centers were overwhelmed. No one knew who to arrest, who to believe, who to trust.
Zara stepped back from the edge. "They'll come for us harder now."
"They were always going to," Mira said.
Silas cocked his rifle. "Let them."
Then came the thunder.
Not Echo.
Not seismic.
But rotors. Dropships.
The Bastion was moving.
The final retaliation had begun.
Asher looked up, wind rippling through his coat.
He didn't flinch.
"They wanted war," he said quietly. "Let's give them a reckoning."
***
The air was heavy with burnt ozone and static as the last of the crew filtered into the old refinery hideout. Pipes hissed above their heads, dripping rust into pools of stale water, and the hum of a thousand dormant machines lingered like ghost echoes. Mira moved first, checking perimeter sensors. Echo was seated on a crushed steel beam, eyes closed, palms pressed to the ground, feeling for movement. Silas lingered by the shadows, rifle dismantled across his lap. Rafe stood by the shattered skylight, eyes turned toward a blood-orange sky.
Then the air shimmered.
No doors opened. No alerts triggered. Just a sharp, stuttering zap of static electricity and a flicker in the light grid. Then a figure stepped out from the dark—hooded, boots scorched, eyes rimmed red from lack of sleep.
"Wren," Mira whispered, lowering her pistol just as fast as she raised it.
Wren gave a tired smile. "Miss me?"
Before anyone could respond, she threw a holo-drive into the center of the room. It sparked to life with a silent hiss, projecting layers of digital maps, Bastion node clusters, and signal pulses.
"The Bastion's not just searching anymore," Wren said, her voice hoarse but calm. "They're converging. Adaptive AI. Real-time geolocation tracking. They've triangulated this sector."
Asher stepped forward, bruised but solid, a quiet fire simmering in his expression. "I thought you were laying false trails."
"I was. I still am. But they're not following trails anymore. They're rewriting the map. They pulled the Archive Protocol out of mothballs. They're trying to overwrite every trace of Shatterborn history and replace it with a single narrative: us as anomalies, glitches, mistakes."
Mira stared at the maps, her fingers clenched at her sides. "How long before they wipe it all?"
"A day. Maybe two, if I throw everything I have at the firewalls." Wren stepped closer, tone dropping. "We need to hit them first. Break the Archive."
Echo opened his eyes and thumped his fist once against the metal beam. Agreement.
Silas spoke for the first time. "Where is it? The Archive?"
Wren inhaled. "Sector Nine. Buried beneath the old capital. Access is protected by biometric encryption, voice-authenticated layers, and seven rotating cipher walls. But I know a way in."
Rafe narrowed his eyes. "What's the catch?"
"You have to die. Or at least... one of you has to appear to. It requires a full Shatterborn signal shutdown to trigger the emergency access port. The system only opens for those it believes have fallen."
A silence settled over the group.
Asher looked to Zara. Her hand found his.
"Then we fake a death," he said. "We do whatever it takes."
Wren nodded. "There's one more thing. The Archive is sentient now. It won't just sit back and watch. It's learned us. Learned you."
"Then we unlearn it," Zara said softly, her voice sharpened with purpose.
Outside, the sky cracked with thunder, but no rain fell. The city watched with cold glass eyes.
Inside the refinery, smoke curled into the ceiling, and in the flickering holo-light, a new plan was born.
One final play.
The Reckoning had begun.