ACT 1: THE FAULT IN THE SYSTEM

Chapter 1: The Runner

Sartre’s club pulsed with the usual riot of City denizens. Legalized harlots in full-body erotisuits oozed synthetic pheromones, designed to lure and intoxicate. Holo bookies hunched under cracked visors, their grimy fingers slick with black-market sim-sweat, making their clients’ comcard prints conveniently untraceable. First Tier aristos slummed it in the corners, well-protected by unobtrusive catmen—silent-forged killers, oathbred and leased by the Pride between contracts. Their claws were veiled, but never dull.

Catmen always made Mitsu’s shoulders twitch. He’d flirted with joining their elite ranks once, long ago. But the idea of some unlicensed neurist—or worse, a cut-rate Third Tier medic—tapping his ‘trodes had killed the plan fast. 

Still, their golden eyes and predatory grace fascinated him.

The assassins gave him a wide berth. Maybe they saw something in him—a flicker of familiarity. Not hardware, but attitude. Or maybe they bought into the rumor that Mitsu had once saved their Shah during a botched Guild raid. Regardless, the two parties shared a mutual understanding that afforded Mitsu untouched passage amidst their ranks.

The assassins left him alone. 

Benito never got the memo.

Dealing with Benito was always a drag—worse when Mitsu was hauling contraband and the City was crawling with Guardians. He was starting to regret his choice of fence. Again.

“Drek. Drek. More drek.” Benito's stubby claws rifled through the deck with disdain, as if each chip personally insulted him. “And—what is this? Not even a petabyte.”

Mitsu swept the room. Two Guardians loitered by the bar, another slouched near the stairwell, and a whole pod blocked the exit. Perfect.

“Benito, mi amico, can we move this along?” Mitsu kept it cool, but one gloved finger tapped rhythmically against his thigh—a mechanical tic, subtle but telling.

“Nervous, R’Ikeda?” The Drego flashed sharp teeth. “Selling me substandard feeds like these?”

“You calling me a grifter?”

“Relax.” Benito shrugged, faux-concern curling every word. “All I’m saying is, if these feeds aren’t clean, our crimson-clad friends’ll be thrilled.”

Mitsu’s hand twitched, missing the weight of his blaster he’d had to surrender at the door. Instead, he mentally cataloged every improvised weapon on him, rating each by its potential to leave a mark on Benito's scaly hide. 

But then he pictured Gunner’s fist in his gut, Kazuhiro’s disapproving shake of the head, and Suka laughing his ass off. 

That cut the fantasy short.

Hold it together, R’Ikeda. Just long enough to get the creds and show the crew I haven’t scragged it again.

“They’re holoed,” Mitsu said flatly. “Customs cleared.”

“Then what’s the rush?” Benito’s grin widened, all teeth and malice. “If they’re clean, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“You’re wasting time.”

“Maybe I am.”

Mitsu counted down from ten, teeth clenched. That static buzz—faint but familiar—threaded under his skin. Not withdrawal. Instinct. Some old fracture wired too deep to forget.

Trouble was an echo. He always felt it before it spoke.

“Mind if I sample?” Benito asked, already waddling toward the Feeder.

“Be my guest,” Mitsu bit out. “But make it fast.”

As Benito plodded off, Mitsu exhaled through his nose. The Drego was a slug, but at least he paid fair, asked no questions, and didn’t mind meeting in sewer ducts during acid storms. Sartre’s was almost too civil for him.

If I didn’t know better…

Mitsu tugged at his ponytail. Glanced at his chrono. Craned his neck in vain for a visual on Benito. 

Screw it. He’d earned a stim.

And that creeping itch? He ignored it. Like always.

He made his way through the haze and chatter, flashing a rogue’s grin at Charybdis, the Shah of the catmen Pride. Char blinked back, amused.

As Mitsu moved past, he spotted the source of Char's good mood. The usually stoic catman was babysitting Senator Sabat, a notoriously hedonistic Firster who spent most of his bribe money the old-fashioned way—gambling and snorting himself into oblivion. A zooted client was an easy client. No fights to break up.

“Lucky bastard,” Mitsu muttered.

He skirted the bar, wary of the tempting new beverages Hypno was no doubt concocting and the barflies eager to rekindle past flings. One, two stools down, caught his eye—but she was a synth, and worse, a redhead.

He hated redheads. Especially synth ones. Some grudges died harder than others.

“Two clicks in the stim rooms, then I’m out. Benito bedamned,” he muttered, cutting left.

A booth light blinked green as he passed. The redhead inside had legs crossed and a smile a little too ready.

Mitsu slowed despite himself. Legs—his terrible weakness. And her smirk scraped something loose in his memory. Too knowing. Like she’d been expecting him.

Mitsu hesitated, pulse ticking faster. 

The booth display flickered to view-all. She gave a slight tilt of her head—an invitation.

He shrugged and palmed the shield open.

A blast of noise and alc-stink rushed in before the shield sealed them inside their private cloud. Wordless, she offered a stim stick. He declined with a twitch of his mouth, pulling out a cartridge instead. She lit it for him without being asked.

They leaned back, inhaling. That conspiratorial bond of fellow stim addicts was universal.

Mitsu studied the woman through the haze. Static buzz—faint but familiar—threaded under his skin. The signal wasn’t loud, but it was there. Wrong frequency. Off. His instincts had never failed him on the edge of a job.

She was... off. Too poised. Too calm.

If Mitsu hadn’t upgraded his ‘ware last cycle, he might’ve pegged her as an expensive synth lure. But Sartre didn’t run those kinds of scams. Besides, this woman’s eyes—no vidscreen sheen.

So not a clone. But the plastic smile itched like a synth mask.

Against his better judgment, Mitsu decided to linger a little while longer.

But, carefully.

"Ha’llai," he began, two fingers to his brow in the galactic gesture of greeting.

"We're past formalities, sir. You’re already in my booth," she replied, her eyes appraising him, sharp beneath the empty smile.

"In that case, let’s drop the 'sir'. It’s Mitsu."

"He’la. Pre-flight fix, pilot?"

“What...oh.” He glanced down, spotting the pilot pin he’d forgotten to return.

Frag. Jed’s gonna have my hide.

"It's not mine, really..."

"I know."

"I was holding it for—how'd you know?" Mitsu was instantly on alert. If this was a sting...

"Real pilots wear them on the left. I know. I've dated more than my share.”

The woman dragged red-clawed fingers through her hair and pouted, all fabricated allure. Mitsu clocked it instantly. Still, he remained intrigued. The itch hadn’t hit code red—yet.

“Haven’t seen you here before. You a bookie?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Dunno. That bulge in your left breast pocket? Looks like an Atropos comlink.”

The woman lost her languid pose, pupils striating in surprise. She recovered almost instantly, though, crossing long legs encased in body-hugging plasticine and shifting sensually on the couch. Another calculated move. Mitsu didn’t miss how she angled her left shoulder into the shadows.

“Sorry to disappoint, flyboy. How could someone like me possibly have access to hardware like that?” 

“Anything can be had in the City if you just know where to look.” 

“Indeed.”

Mitsu inhaled, letting the stim smooth his nerves while his wetware filtered for details. Normally, he’d have her number by now—a bookie, a runner, maybe some discarded Tier plaything. But she wasn’t playing the usual script. Too calm. Too composed. Something in her smile twisted wrong, like a blade tucked in a sleeve. 

From this angle, he couldn’t tell if she was ‘troded or not. It would’ve been a comfort to know.

A visible port, a silver glint—something to mark her as orgamech, modified like him. Trust didn’t come cheap anymore, especially in the City, but orgamechs had their own honor code—they weren’t likely to play Judas on each other.

The woman watched, silent and steady. Mitsu shifted. The static behind his eyes was getting worse.

“So, Mitsu,” she growled low in her throat, “do you like what you see?”

“Nice dodge.”

“Dodge?”

"Your name? Or do you skip formalities too?"

“I don’t need to be reminded of galactic etiquette.”

“Then use it.” 

Mitsu crushed the stim and glared. The haze wasn’t working anymore. The cracks in her act were too clean, too rehearsed. Something didn’t add up—and his instincts were already halfway out the door.

Her laugh was smooth, practiced. 

His hackles rose. He stood.

The same itch that had tempted him to stay now told him to run. 

Fickle bastard.

“Listen, lady,” Mitsu held up a palm as she reached to stop him. “I’m not in the mood. Thanks for the booth. Shame about the decor.” He flicked his gaze up and down her body insolently.

The woman gritted her teeth but held her poise like it was bolted on. She took another drag from the stim stick, vacuous smile intact although fraying at the edges, and tried another tack. 

“What’s wrong? Am I setting the legendary Mitsu R’Ikeda on edge?”

The runner’s internal alarm system finally hit overdrive. 

She knew who he was. Probably had all along.

The woman was toying with him. 

At the moment of his dawning realization, her smile widened. It wasn’t flirty or fatuous anymore—just cool, sharp-edged. A look that said: I know exactly what you are.

Mitsu had seen that look before. Just not on someone unarmed.

Anger spiraled through him like a juiced 'trode.

"Who sent you?" he growled.

“Ah, that is the million-cred question, isn’t it?”

“I’ll ask again nicely,” Mitsu said, voice flat. “I don’t do nice a third time.”

She flicked ash from her stim stick without flinching, then sank deeper into the couch like this was all some private joke. 

"Touchy,” she yawned.

She wasn’t scared. Not even curious. Just... amused. Like none of this mattered. Like he didn’t matter. The way First Tier used to look at him—curious, then dismissive.

Mitsu’s jaw clenched. “Let’s see if I can hold your interest.”

Before she could blink, his gloved hand shot out, knocking the smoldering stick to the floor. It hissed against the plast mesh as Mitsu seized her biceps and hauled her upright, every muscle coiled.

Wild violet eyes, threaded with ‘trode gold, bore into hers.

“Now,” he snarled. “One last time. Who sent you? Who are you? What do you want from me?”

Mitsu punctuated each question with a fierce shake.

She didn’t flinch. If anything, her gaze sharpened—cold and assessing, like she was evaluating a malfunctioning unit.

Mitsu recognized that look. He’d seen it on First Tier doctors watching an asset bleed out in triage. No fear, no empathy. Just calculation.

Something curdled in his gut.

And then—

She moved.

A blur of muscle and control, too fast for a casual drunk. She hooked her legs around his neck like a pit fighter, twisting with brutal precision. His air vanished. His grip faltered. Stars flared behind his eyes.

Mitsu hit the floor, gasping hard, the floor spinning like a broken gyro. 

That bitch! That fragging bitch nearly killed me! What the—?

His gaze snapped from the tips of her boots to her glowering face. She stood over him like judgment made flesh, eyes blazing. Then, with deliberate scorn, she palmed her left shoulder— 

And the holo dissipated. 

His blood ran cold.

Shit.

No more black hair. No more come-hither eyes or faux-synth curves.

In their place: close-cropped red hair. Icy green eyes. A crimson uniform with its sharp seams and blood-memory. He hadn’t seen one in years—but his body remembered.

Mitsu’s stomach dropped.

Shit.

“Get up, Mitsuru Ikeda.”

He flinched. That name belonged to someone else—someone he’d left behind.

“Party’s over. It’s time to go home.”

The way she used his name left no room for doubt.

As she hauled him none too gently on his feet and snapped a pair of magnetic binders on his wrists, Mitsu flicked his ponytail back and snarled.

“Lady, when I get these clinks off me, I’ll show you what I’m made of.”

She had the audacity to laugh in his face.

“I’d like to see you try.”

Want to keep reading?

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Thank you for reading A Fierce Allegiance.

This is the story I needed to tell.
The one that refused to stay quiet.
The one I wrote across years, lives, and sleepless nights.

It may evolve again—books often do.
But this version? This is whole. This is true.
And it’s yours now.

Please enjoy it for personal reading only.
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With gratitude,
—M.S. Edwards