The walls of the arrival chamber pulsed with sterile blue light as Sayua staggered out of the extraction pod. Her boots scraped against the composite floor panels, every step vibrating up into the base of her spine echoing in her bones. Extraction by the Council of Twelve was never gentle. Not like the smooth, controlled jump cycles her Communicator handled. The Council's version tore through her insides, turning her nervous system into exposed wire leaving her guts gnarled raw.

  The pain wasn’t new.

  Her stomach twisted.

  Her cybernetically reinforced spine throbbed at the base, where human muscle fused with hardened titanium and high-density nerve mesh. The extraction had flared the J.J.E. embedded in her arm—bright veins of blue lighting up across her skin like angry lightning scars.

  The doors hissed open.

  She rolled her shoulder slowly, feeling the grinding tension in the synthetic joints. Sparks of electric feedback flickered across the interface between her bicep and her forearm, where the J.J.E. had overheated mid-execution.

  She stepped into the homicide department and was met by dim lights, humming interfaces, and the sting of synthetic applause and too many fake congratulations.

  “Alright, Sayua!” someone jeered across the room. Clapping followed—not celebration, but mockery, hollow and sharp. They chose sarcasm versus congratulating someone for doing an outstanding job.

  Sayua didn’t look at them.

  Her back straightened instinctively.

  The artificial sinews in her legs compensated for fatigue. She walked as if she felt nothing. Not the pain in her shoulder, not the tremor in her neck, not the judgment behind every smirk.

  The sting was more in her core than in her ego.

  Still, she walked straighter than she felt, keeping her face set to default neutral. Her cybernetic enhancements made it easy to suppress muscle tremors, but not pain.

  That was still all too human.

  Her eyes—mechanically precise, telescopic, unblinking—registered each tracker by name, facial tension, pupil dilation. Laughter reads 38% disingenuous.

  She didn’t need analytics to know they were mocking her.

  “Sayua, great show tonight.” A. Pemberley chuckled. “Sayua,” called A. Pemberley, leaning back in his chair like he’d been waiting for her return. His long fingers drummed a lazy rhythm on his desk. “Nice show out there. Almost missed my bet.”

  She stopped just short of her own desk. “Bet?”

  “Yeah. On whether Simmons would make it to the vehicle. I had five on him getting disintegrated mid-step.” He smiled, wolfish. “You did not disappoint.”

  Another one, Hunter Downings, chimed in as she walked past him to get to her desk.

  “Sayua, great show you put on tonight. That was a track to remember. You brought that one down.” Hunter tried to disguise his obvious laughter as a cough.

  “Yeah, hilarious, you two. Remember, he wasn’t guilty when I went to bring him in. The operative words,” She nodded her head, “bringing him in.”

  A. Pemberley, with furrowed brows, “You always have to be ready for changes.”

  “I didn’t expect that last-minute shift,” she snapped, her voice sharpening.

  A. Pemberley, “If you haven’t learned by now…” He shrugged. “Weren’t you a soldier?”

  “I was.” Sayua sat down, mechanical legs folding under her. “And yeah—I know orders change.”

  “Good.”

  Hunter Downings gave a sympathetic smile. He leaned in, voice softer now. “Sayua, it takes some of us more time to adapt.” He tilted his head, looking toward A. Pemberley. “Which is why you get to go to class instead of…”

  “Hunter. She needs to speed up on getting acclimated to this department.”

  “To detach, you mean.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Anyway, I won the pool! Called it. Simmons wouldn’t make it to the driver’s seat.” He eagerly collected his tokens. “We bet if he would get away with the zig-zag moves like the other guy did.”

  The laughter came to an abrupt halt.

  Silence.

  “What was that guy’s name? You know that guy I am talking about?” He rubbed his head and frowned. “You know the one that got away from Bernard.”

  Hunter laughed gave Sayua a confident look. “We bet he’d zig-zag like that tier-two runner—I don’t remember the guy’s name.”

  Sayua ground her teeth.

  Sayua didn’t remember ‘the pool winner’s name. She never did. She always referred to him as the Arse, especially right now. She and most everyone else viewed him as a jackass in moments like this.

  She only remembered the pattern: sarcasm, erasure, forget. The system didn’t wipe their memories. But it degraded context. Blurred the details that didn’t fit cleanly into mission files.

  A thought crept through her.

  Who bet against me?

  “I don’t remember his name. But he was a tier-two track,” A. Pemberley said. The name of the tier-two was right on his lips in the corner of his memory.

  “Has Bernard returned to homicide?” Sayua asked.

  “Still suspended,” Pemberley said. “Might be back in two years. If they reassemble him.”

  She dropped her bag onto the desk with more force than necessary. “He wasn’t guilty when I went after him.”

  “That’s Council work for you,” Hunter Downings added, sidling over. “They change the verdict mid-pursuit and then flag you for not stating your name during eradication. Classic.”

  Sayua said nothing. Her name, protocol, identity—none of it had mattered when the blue beam reduced Paul Wayne Simmons to ash, only that the Council deemed it justice.

  “Anyway, what are you doing here, Sayua?” Pemberley asked, suspicious now. “You have thirty-six hours of mandatory wait time. Did we miss count your jumps?” A Pemberley sounded concerned, she always followed protocol.

  In the last thirty-four hours, Sayua made three consecutive time jumps. The protocol of thirty-six hours out means out of the department as well.

  She turned to her screen, activating it with a touch. “Yeah, I know,” Sayua said, wanting him to mind his own business. “I am only getting a few things from my desk. Then going straight home and then to my bed.” The lie tasted like copper.

  Three jumps in thirty-six hours. Her body wasn’t just sore—it was degrading. Muscle grafts separating at seams. J.J.E. overheating. Memory loops stuttering. But she wasn’t ready to rest.

  “Did they give you the citation form yet?” Pemberley asked, mock sympathy coating his words. “Or did you choose time off?”

  “No Pemberley. I’m going to attend school.” Sayua retorted with a slight puff of air.

  “The Council of Twelve went easy on you.” Hunter Downings sounded surprised at her statement.

  “Depends on how you see it.” Sayua allowed a tight smirk. “I’ll write the essay,” she said, voice clipped. “Then take my mandatory downtime. That enough for you?”

  “Just concerned for a fellow tracker. That’s all.” A. Pemberley smirked and turned away.

  She hated how easily they all adjusted to this job. How execution had become routine. How sarcasm papered over guilt.

  She waited until their attention turned elsewhere before opening her unofficial case file.

  Sayua opened her personal terminal. A blue screen flickered to life, displaying the blinking “Merciless: Active Case – Informal Classification” file. She glanced toward the cameras in the corners of the ceiling.

  Watching. Always watching.

  She disabled visual output, just in case.

  Her fingers hovered over the embedded screen on her forearm. The data synced with her terminal, displaying the Paul Wayne Simmons footage from the mission. She fast-forwarded to the moment before the execution.

  There. Just before he was hit.

  Simmons had shouted, “I am not guilty!” not in desperation—but in certainty.

  He’d been running toward his vehicle. Not away from her.

  The system flagged no anomalies, but Sayua caught something. A flicker. A shadow in the realm just before impact. She rewound again, slowed the footage.

  There.

  A temporal ripple—barely detectable. Not from her jump.

  She froze the frame.

  Subject location: Flux ripple detected. Source unknown. Deviation margin: 2.31 seconds.

  Tracking anomaly logged. Contact supervisor? [Y/N]

  She tapped “N.” No way she was reporting that. Not yet.

  Not until she understood what she’d seen.

  Simmons had used illegal tech—there was no other explanation. But where had he gotten it? His profile showed nothing. Low income. No flagged purchases. No elite connections.

  But he’d had a vehicle prepped for a realm jump. That wasn’t cheap. And that wasn’t casual.

  Sayua synced the anomaly data to a secure drive. If the Dark Hidden Market was involved, she’d need to be careful. They had eyes everywhere, and the Council barely kept them contained.

  “Night all. See everyone in a little over thirty-six hours.” Said Sayua, she finished adding a few journals and files to her bag.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  As she left the department, Sayua analyzed the track of Paul Wayne Simmons. A downright dangerous odd jump for him.

  Sayua wondered, why did he time jump back to before committing the murder? He intended to create two versions of himself.

  Not only dangerous and reckless, but it is also illegal, and for good reasons.

  He wasn’t like Sayua and the other trackers regarding time jumping.

  The communicator, along with the J.J.E. forearm implant, keeps only one presence during a time jump for the tracker. The trackers become merged with their own body with the knowledge of the past and the present.

  They have one mind: to follow the orders given.

  The Dark Hidden Market is the only place to acquire the technology of that sort. He took a gamble with his life to use unauthorized tech.

  Only the top elites of society have the ability to not only acquire this type of illegal technology but also use it. You have to be of the upper echelon to use it without The Ultimate Control’s knowledge.

  Another law enforcement division surveils The Dark Hidden Market. Occasionally, they stop the illegal technology. The rarer the technology, the more likely they are to capture and control it.

  Paul Wayne Simmons was a humble man with barely any assets. How was he able to get his hands on that type of illegal tech?

  The Council of Twelve doesn’t even have access to that type of tech.

  [Sayua’s Apartment – Sector 7]

  The door recognized her biometric signature and slid open. Designated Name: Ovid Her C.A.T. unit, padded forward on silent chrome paws.

  “Welcome home, Sayua.”

  The faux-fur exterior of the Centurion Acuity Translocator rippled slightly as he adjusted his form, tail curling like a question mark.

  She tossed a ration pack onto the table, then moved to her desk. The room was small, clinically neat, dimly lit. No color. No clutter.

  Just files, neatly stacked in hardcopy.

  They assign all homicide trackers a C.A.T. the home invader of The Ultimate Control for The Council of Twelve capable of many tasks from the known tasks ranging from helping with directions to reporting illegal activity.

  Something about the Paul Wayne Simmons still bothered her. But she put the case out of her mind. Sayua didn’t trust the monitored systems. Not for this.

  She fed Ovid and retrieved the oldest folder: Merciless – Victim Analysis.

  Her mind shifted gears.

  She knew time was running out for the next victim.

  What she knew of ‘Merciless’ killings was the discovery of the body in an open field near a major highway. The five victims either had a very high intelligence or were very fit. The fifth victim was both.

  They were the people who could think or fight their way out of a problem if necessary. None of the victims had other similarities. None of the five victims were from the same social level and had no friends in common.

  So how did they all become Merciless’ victims?

  They had nothing in common other than becoming a victim of a very heinous murderer.

  The current body count stands at three males and two females. All scalped and missing their entire middle finger on both hands.

  Possible trophies for Merciless.

  Each victim looked terrified. As if they died in extreme agony.

  When found, Stage-one decomposition. No sign of restraint.

  And the look in their eyes?

  Terror. As if they'd seen something not just terrifying—but impossible.

  The more Sayua looked at her files, the more questions she would write. This was at least the tenth time she looked at the victims’ files not as individuals but as a group.

  She lost count of how often she studied the files of each victim.

  She traced her finger over victim five. The only one who had both markers: brilliant and strong.

  Then she saw it. A line of code embedded in their background report. A private circuit tag. Same one flagged in Simmons’ vehicle trace.

  Sayua sat back.

  A thread had formed.

  And someone had just pulled it taut.

  Engrossed in her unofficial ‘Merciless’ files, time slipped away from her, Sayua realized she needed to write her citation essay before beginning a deeper dive.

  An essay on why she did not say her full name before proceeding with the execution of Paul Wayne Simmons. She would have to write an excellent essay or face ejection from the class and being downgraded again.

  “Ovid,” Sayua spoke to activate the system for interaction with her C.A.T.

  “Yes, Sayua, what can I do for you?” Ovid’s voice was a mellow male voice; unlike the mechanical voice of her capture embed.

  “How does this sound? I am deeply saddened by my lack of care in the capture and eradication of Paul Wayne Simmons. My assignment was to capture Paul Wayne Simmons regarding the nightclub murder. While in pursuit, my orders changed. Please give consideration to the issue of his attempt to get away from capture. Wanting to complete my new orders, I failed to say my name. Pardon me for the lack of saying my name when in the process of his execution and eradication.” Sayua, with proud approval, finished her statement.

  “Your official statement needs work, Sayua. You forgot to let Paul Wayne Simmons and his family know who was ending his life. This is an extremely serious matter.”

  “Ovid, I am not taking this lightly.”

  “It sounds as if you are. You need to rewrite your statement. Try again later.” Ovid was very matter-of-fact sounding as he ended communication with Sayua.

  Sayua thought, how could a nonhuman system still make her feel like she was wrong?

  Her J.J.E. interface buzzed.

  C.A.T. Companion Ready – Centurion Acuity Translocator Online

  “Ovid,” she said quietly. The sleek feline unit powered up, synthetic muscles stretching under its chrome exoskin. Its eyes pulsed yellow. Warm, attentive.

  “Yes, Sayua?” Ovid’s voice was soothing, almost human—much less sterile than the Council’s standard AI.

  “I need location history on Paul Wayne Simmons’ vehicle. Possible connection to the Uneven Flux Realm.”

  “You are not authorized for interrealm surveillance requests during a cooldown period.”

  “I’m not requesting surveillance. I’m requesting interpretive data from my last mission,” she said.

  A pause. Then Ovid responded: “Very well. Compiling extrapolated data from sector traffic logs. One moment.”

  Sayua sank back into her seat, pain crackling behind her eyes. Her body was still recalibrating from the jumps. Muscle spasms pinged where nerves hadn’t fully re-synced.

  File received.

  She pulled it up.

  And froze.

  The vehicle had been coded to a dual-jump algorithm. One destination in Sector 6—her timeline. The other in a fractured subrealm—The Uneven Flux.

  Two versions of Paul Wayne Simmons?

  She stood, heart pounding. The tracker system didn’t allow that. The J.J.E. synced body, memory, and position. Only illegal hardware could create a temporal duplicate.

  So the Paul she’d disintegrated?

  Might not have been the original.

  Sayua lay back on the recovery table, chest rising slowly as the re-synchronization cycle hummed. Her J.J.E. glowed faintly. She stared at the ceiling.

  Five previous trackers assigned to Merciless.

  All dead.

  Paul Wayne Simmons wasn’t part of that case. But somehow, his death had opened a door.

  Sayua reached for her tablet and opened the unofficial Merciless case again. She scanned the victims’ profiles.

  No connection.

  Until now.

  One of them had used the same market circuit Simmons accessed. A private tag. Hidden in sub-code.

  Sayua’s eyes narrowed.

  A thread had formed.

  And she was going to follow it—even if the Council didn’t want her to.

  Right After Sayua’s Extraction – Execution Site | Flux Ripple Registered

  The Ultimate Control detected a tiny realm riff at the site of the execution and eradication of Paul Wayne Simmons.

  The capture system watched and recorded.

  A shimmer broke the alley’s surface like heat on metal.

  Two misshapen men emerged from The Uneven Flux Realm. One tall, built like a slab of war, with skin warped from temporal radiation—Bleged. The other even taller, twitchy, nervous—Wes.

  They could see the vehicle still running.

  They searched for something or someone.

  The driver’s side door open, but no signs of Paul.

  “This is his vehicle. But where is he?” Bleged said as the two moved around to the driver’s side.

  Pointing to the pile of gray ash, Wes said, “That might be him. Or at least part of him.”

  Bleged knelt, picked up a pinch of gray dust. He sniffed it. Bleged stood.

  “And when we find the one who did this?” His teeth glinted in the dark. Gritted his razor-sharp teeth.

  In a guttural tone, “Someone is going to pay hell for this.”