Iron Pulse

The door clicked shut, locking out the night and everything that waited beyond it.

West stood still for a moment, listening to the mechanical hum of the city through the steel walls. The same hum he'd heard for years. Routine. Reassurance. A reminder that the world hadn't burned entirely… not yet.

He looked around his unit.

No comforts. No luxuries.

Just the bare essentials: a rusted cot bolted to the wall, a makeshift rack of weights welded from drone parts, a cracked mirror, and a cold steel floor that hadn't known warmth in a decade.

But to West, it was enough.

He moved to the pull-up bar, muscles aching from the fight, and began his routine—because the world could fall apart, but discipline? Discipline was eternal.

Ten reps.

Twenty.

Thirty.

Each one slower than the last, ribs burning where Tork had landed his first blow.

But he didn't stop.

He never stopped.

Afterward, he opened a hidden panel beneath the floor. Dust billowed up, thick and dry. From the compartment, he pulled out an old footlocker, military-issue, still bearing the faded emblem of the 13th Dustline Unit.

A fingerprint scan.

A hiss.

The lid creaked open.

Inside lay what remained of another life.

A black tactical harness, frayed but functional.

A combat knife with a chipped ceramic blade.

An armband with a long-forgotten insignia.

And a silver star medal, cracked in two.

West picked up the medal and held it in his palm.

The crack ran clean through the center.

Just like everything else.

He stared at it in silence for a moment, then set it aside. He wouldn't need it. Not anymore.

He geared up. Methodically. Like a man preparing not for a fight, but for a reckoning.

The moment he tightened the last strap on the harness, something stirred at the edge of his mind.

A memory. Vivid. Unwelcome.

"Evac route is gone!"

"Accord drones burned the valley!"

"We fall back—those are the orders!"

"There are civilians down there!"

"Not our mission!"

"Then get the hell out of my way."

He'd gone into the fire alone.

They said it was madness. He called it duty.

Thirty-seven civilians had walked out alive.

But command never forgave him.

Rhys never forgave him.

West shook the memory off like sweat. No time for ghosts. Not yet.

He left his unit and moved through the industrial corridors of Sector-R5, hood drawn over his head. Surveillance cams flickered when he passed. Faces turned away. Nobody wanted trouble.

But everyone knew who he was now.

The man who broke Tork.

The soldier who didn't die.

West didn't go to the meeting point the masked stranger had given him. He went somewhere else. Somewhere old.

A collapsed monorail tunnel. Long abandoned. Powerless. Quiet.

Near the far wall, hidden behind debris and a crumbling transit sign, he found what he was looking for—an ancient communications terminal, gutted and silent.

To most, it was junk.

But West knew better.

He tapped a series of numbers on the cracked keypad. The screen buzzed once, then came to life with a low-pitched whine. Static danced across it. A voice—filtered, synthetic—came through.

"This line is restricted. State your designation."

"W-13," he said, clear and calm. "Reactivating under protest. I need access to Grid-Zero schematics. Full-layer clearance."

The line went quiet.

Then:

"Didn't think we'd hear from you again."

"Neither did I."

"You're already flagged. Accord's got eyes on Sector-R5."

"Let them watch."

"They'll come for you. For what's in your blood."

"Let them."

Silence.

Then the screen blinked once.

"Transmission accepted. Stand by."

West stepped away from the terminal, the low static still humming behind him.

He knew they were listening.

He wanted them to.

That night, West sat in the dark of his unit, gear laid out before him. Knife sharpened. Harness cleaned. Gloves folded.

He didn't sleep.

Instead, he stared at the ceiling, remembering faces that no longer had names.

Campfires. Laughter. Orders shouted through smoke.

And Rhys.

Rhys, with his calm voice and perfect uniform, telling the tribunal West had disobeyed a direct order.

Rhys, who hadn't lifted a finger to stop it.

West clenched his jaw.

"They said I broke protocol," he muttered. "But protocol doesn't pull children from rubble."

He turned back to his blade.

Methodically, deliberately, he began to sharpen it.

He wasn't doing it for defense.

He was getting ready.

Because if Grid-Zero was waking up...

Then so was he.