I'd only been back at the Shadowtask HQ for about 30 minutes. I didn't speak much, I didn't want to talk to anyone in that moment. I spent my time stood on the balcony in the main control room, the balcony Locke often smokes on. A mixture of sadness and confusion lived within me, bubbling away, spilling over as I stood looking out over the city. Suddenly, the comms crackled to life, Locke’s voice cutting through with an edge I hadn’t heard before, snapping me out of my melancholic state immediately. “I need backup. Now. I’m at the canals near Warehouse 17.” I made my way quickly to the mess room
Locke didn’t ask for help—ever. Something in his tone was raw, urgent. “What’s going on?” Clova asked, her voice sharp with concern.
“I don’t have time to explain. Just get here!” he snapped. A faint scream of a woman echoed in the background before the line went dead. Caine cut through on comms "Fuck, of course I'm the other side of the city! I'm not gonna make it back in time guys. Fuck."
Clova and I exchanged a look, Data was already pulling up a map of the area on the holoscreen. “Warehouse 17,” he muttered. “It’s Red Dogs territory. We need to move.”
Before anyone could respond, I was already grabbing my helmet instinctively. “I’ll go,” I said, my voice steady despite the rush of adrenaline building inside me.
Clova frowned. “Wait—"
“No time,” I cut her off.
"You sure you can handle this?" Caine asked sincerely as my bike tore through the streets. My heart was racing as the distance to my destination was being closed fast "I don't know, but I have to try". The sound of the engine echoed against the buildings as I raced toward the warehouse district, replaying the fight against the android over and over in my mind. The strength I mustered, my ability to fight, I needed to channel that energy again. Locke’s voice played over in my head, the tension in it gnawing at me. I didn’t know what I was walking into, but I knew it wasn’t good.
The canal area was quiet when I arrived. Too quiet. The air smelled of damp concrete and stale water, the faint glow of neon signs reflecting off the murky surface of the canal. I parked the bike near the edge of the district, its interface humming softly as it scanned the area for threats.
Locke’s tracker pinged on my visor, leading me to Warehouse 17. As I approached, the muffled sound of shouting reached my ears, followed by a sharp cry of pain.
Inside, the scene was chaos. Red Dogs gang members were scattered throughout the space, crates of narcotics piled high against the walls. In the centre of it all was Locke, cornered but defiant, a woman tied to a steel pole behind him. She was unconscious, her face bloodied.
“Locke!” I called, my voice cutting through the din.
His head snapped toward me, relief flashing briefly in his eyes before he turned back to the men in front of him. “Took you long enough,” he muttered, his tone clipped but tinged with exhaustion.
Two of the gang members charged me before I could respond. My body moved on instinct. The first man swung a crowbar, the metal hissing through the air. I sidestepped and caught it mid-swing, the cold steel groaning under my grip. My other hand shot forward, seizing his collar and throwing him into a stack of crates with a heavy crash.
The second man hesitated, his eyes darting between me and the crowbar now bent in my hand. But hesitation didn’t save him. I closed the distance in two strides, a single punch snapping his head back. He crumpled to the ground, unconscious before he hit the floor.
Locke, meanwhile, was relentless. His bat was an extension of himself, moving with precision and purpose. A faint hiss filled the air as he activated a concealed stun module near the tip of the bat. He swung hard, the crackle of electricity lighting up the room as a gang member dropped like a marionette with its strings cut.
The scent of burnt fabric filled the air as another man lunged at Locke with a knife. Without missing a beat, Locke spun, his trench coat flaring out as he twisted away from the blade. His hand slipped into the coat’s lining, emerging with a sparking device. He hurled it at the attacker, and it detonated on contact with a burst of light and sound. The man staggered backward, clutching his chest before collapsing into a pile of narcotics.
The fight blurred into a symphony of chaos—grunts, shouts, and the dull thuds of bodies hitting the concrete. My bike roared to life behind me, its headlights blazing as it veered toward a gang member attempting to escape on a dirt bike. Tires screeched as the bike cut him off, forcing him to crash into solid steel wall. The impact was deafening, the echo lingering in the vast space.
The rest of the gang scattered.
The dust settled, and the warehouse fell eerily silent. Locke knelt beside the woman tied to the steel pole. Blood streaked her face, her breathing shallow but steady.
“Hey,” Locke said gently, his voice a low rumble as he loosened the ropes binding her wrists. “You’re okay now.”
She stirred, groaning softly as her eyes fluttered open. “They… they grabbed me outside the club,” she whispered, her voice shaky. “Said I should ‘join them.’ When I said no…” Her voice broke, and she looked away.
“They won’t bother you again,” Locke assured her, his tone firm.
I stood nearby, scanning the room for any stragglers. The tang of spilled chemicals hung heavy in the air, mixing with the faint metallic scent of blood. Gelert returned to my side, its presence steady and grounding.
I mounted my bike as Locke bent down, carefully lifting the woman into his arms. She was in shock—dazed, confused. Her lips trembled as she muttered, “Thank you for saving me,” the words soft and fragile, as if they might break under their own weight.
I checked my helmets navigation. The hospital was half a mile away. She was in no condition to balance herself on the back of my bike, her body limp and barely responsive. Without hesitation, Locke decided to carry her the distance.
We moved together through the quiet streets, Gelert purring steadily beside me, its self-piloting system keeping perfect pace. I offered to help carry her, but she clung weakly to the bloodstained sleeves of Locke’s thick trench coat, as if he were her lifeline.
The journey was silent except for the sound of Locke’s boots crunching against the uneven pavement. He walked with deliberate focus, adjusting his steps carefully to keep her secure. The soft glow of the hospital’s lights came into view, their harsh brightness a stark contrast to the darkness we were leaving behind.
By the time we entered the hospital car park, the woman had passed out completely, her body slack in Locke’s arms. Urgency replaced the quiet as we stepped into the lobby, where a pair of nurses rushed toward us. Locke laid her onto a hospital bed, and without a word, they wheeled her swiftly through the double doors at the end of the corridor.
Locke stood there for a moment, watching as she disappeared into the patient area. The fluorescent lights above cast sharp shadows across his face, but his expression was unreadable. Finally, he turned and headed outside.
The cool night air greeted us as Locke reached into his trench coat, pulling out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. For a brief moment, the folds of his coat shifted, revealing a glimpse of the bat strapped to his side, nestled in a holster alongside a few compact attachments. The metal gleamed faintly under the light of the hospital sign.
He lit a cigarette, the faint click of the lighter breaking the silence. Taking a slow drag, he exhaled a thin cloud of smoke that curled lazily into the air. His voice was low and gruff when he finally spoke.
“That’s some bike you’ve got there.”
“It’s far more helpful than it looks,” I replied.
Locke nodded slightly, the silence stretching between us as he took another drag. His gaze shifted to the glowing constellations of skyscraper lights above, his expression distant.
“You just… showed up out of nowhere,” he said finally, his voice slow, deliberate. “No memory. No answers. And tech that doesn’t make sense. You get why that makes me uneasy, right?”
“I do,” I said simply, meeting his glance.
Locke hesitated, his expression flickering with something between distrust and understanding. “I don’t mix well with people. Learned it’s easier not to trust them—it’s less hassle when they let you down.” He shrugged slightly. “Or worse.”
He tilted his head back toward the skyline, exhaling again. “But… you helped that woman back there. You helped me. Didn’t hesitate. That counts for something.”
I nodded, sensing the unspoken thanks in his words. It wasn’t much, but for Locke, it was.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
“You know Caine almost died while we were gone, right?” I said, my voice cutting through the stillness.
Locke stopped mid-drag, his jaw tightening. “The kid?”
I nodded. “Data said it was close. Too close.”
Locke’s expression hardened, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Caine’s a pain in the ass,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Gets himself into trouble just to make my life harder.”
“A pain in the ass is putting it lightly,” I said, a faint smile tugging at my lips.
Locke let out a low chuckle, the sound rough but genuine. “Can’t even keep himself alive without me.”
The chuckle faded, and the silence returned. But this time, it wasn’t uncomfortable. It hung there like a thread between us—fragile, but steady. Still, curiosity gnawed at me.
“Where were you? Before this?” I asked, glancing at him.
Locke took one final drag from his cigarette before tossing the butt to the ground and crushing it under his heel. He exhaled slowly, the smoke curling in the cool night air. “I’ve got an old place near the canals in Prospect 7,” he said. “Sometimes I go there when I need to keep my head down.”
He paused, his tone softening as his eyes drifted toward the horizon. “When you mentioned Green Lake, I headed out because… my old family home is there too. Hearing you read that address out hit me like a freight train. From the shadows, I watched as you pulled up—I had to see what was waiting for you.”
I nodded, letting his words settle over me. I’d heard the details of Locke’s past from Data—how Arketeq’s negligence had stolen his family, how it had left him with nothing but ghosts and anger. But Locke didn’t know I knew. The raw emotion in his voice told me he wasn’t ready to share more, and I wasn’t going to push him.
For the first time, though, I felt like I understood him. Locke wasn’t just angry or mistrustful—he was haunted. He was shielding the fragments of a life that had already been taken from him.
“Coming back to HQ?” I asked eventually, kicking my bike into gear. The bike rumbled softly, the sound of its engine filling the pause.
Locke lit another cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his face. His expression was hard to read, his mouth tugging downward slightly. “No. I’ll stay here for a bit. Make sure she’s alright.”
As I pulled out of the hospital parking lot, the city stretched out ahead of me, golden streaks of light smearing across the dark sky. Gelert's purr beneath me was steady, comforting—a rhythm that felt almost alive.
