Chapter 98 Ninety eight
The freight elevator ride from Sub-Zero to the surface felt like it took a lifetime.
When the heavy doors finally hissed open at the street level, the deafening mechanical silence of the Citadel was instantly shattered by the roar of the perimeter. Coldwater’s main gatea towering, sixty-foot barricade of reinforced durasteel and auto-turretswas buzzing with chaotic, frantic energy.
Dax, Sienna, and I sprinted up the metal grated stairs to the catwalk running along the top of the wall. Tank and Reaper were already there, peering through the tactical binoculars mounted on the parapets.
"Tell me it's not a Vanguard fleet," Dax ordered, stepping up to the edge and grabbing the railing.
"It ain't a fleet, Prez," Tank said, lowering the binoculars. A massive, disbelieving grin split his scarred face. "It's a migration."
I stepped up beside Dax and looked out over the edge.
The terraformed wasteland, usually a quiet ocean of bioluminescent blue and violet flora, was completely illuminated. But the light wasn't coming from the Origin-Code. It was coming from hundreds of headlights, scavenged halogen torches, and burning flares.
A sea of humanity was pouring out of the glowing jungle.
There were heavily modified transport rigs belching black diesel smoke, hovering skiffs held together by duct tape and prayers, and hundreds of people walking on foot, leading massive, mutated pack-beasts laden with supplies. They were wearing rags, scavenged corporate armor, and tech-wear patched with animal hides.
"They heard the broadcast," I breathed, my hands gripping the cold steel railing. "The whole hemisphere heard it."
"And they came knocking," Reaper added, his sniper rifle resting casually over his shoulder. He pointed toward the front of the massive column, where a distinct, highly organized faction had formed a vanguard line. "But they aren't all refugees, Prez. Look at the heavy iron at the front."
I followed Reaper's gaze.
Idling at the very edge of the jungle treeline, acting as a heavily armed escort for the weary scavengers behind them, was a pack of about fifty outlaw bikers. They didn't ride sleek hover-tech. They rode massive, ear-splitting combustion choppers, rusted and spiked for wasteland warfare.
Even from the top of the wall, I could see the patches on their heavy leather cuts. They bore a single, jagged word stitched in crimson: Revers.
At the head of the column sat their leader on a monstrous, elongated chopper. Across his rusted gas tank, a brutal, unforgiving motto had been spray-painted in thick white letters: Blood on the asphalt.
Dax stared at the Revers, his amber eyes narrowing as he evaluated the threat. He recognized the look of a hardened crew that had survived the apocalypse by refusing to yield to it.
"Mercenaries," Captain Reyes said, stepping onto the catwalk behind us. She looked down at the chaotic army with deep suspicion. "You broadcast an open invitation, Steele. You didn't just invite the innocent. You invited killers, thieves, and opportunists. And I guarantee you, Neo-Angeles has spies mixed into that crowd."
"I know," Dax said, his voice a low, calm rumble.
"If we open the gates, we lose the security of the perimeter," Reyes warned, her tactical conditioning kicking in. "We don't have the food to feed thousands of people. We don't have the infrastructure. And if the Revers decide they want this city for themselves, you’ve just let a Trojan Horse through the front door."
Dax turned to face the former Paladin. "You think I don't know the math, Captain? I know exactly what's sitting outside my wall. But we can't fight the Founders with twelve riders and six kids. If we want to hold this world, we have to build it."
He looked back out at the glowing jungle, his eyes locking onto the leader of the Revers.
"Open the gates," Dax commanded.
"Prez?" Tank asked, raising an eyebrow. "Just like that? Wide open?"
"Just like that," Dax confirmed, a fierce, reckless grin touching his lips. "But I'm going out there first to set the ground rules."
Dax turned and took the stairs two at a time, sprinting down to the street level where his matte-black Interceptor was parked. I didn't hesitate. I vaulted down the stairs right behind him, swinging my leg over the Sovereign.
"You aren't going out there alone," I told him, kicking the engine to life. The deep, flawless Origin-Code combustion purred beneath me.
"Wouldn't dream of it, Ghost," Dax said, pulling his bandana up over his nose.
The massive hydraulic gears of Coldwater’s main gates groaned. Dust and rust fell from the hinges as the sixty-foot durasteel doors slowly parted, revealing the sprawling, chaotic army waiting outside.
The roar of the crowd died down instantly. Thousands of eyes locked onto the gates.
Dax and I rode out slowly, side by side, our tires transitioning from the asphalt to the glowing mud. We didn't draw our weapons. We just rode with the quiet, terrifying confidence of the Speedrun King and the Architect of the New Game.
We stopped ten yards from the leader of the Revers.
Up close, the mercenary leader was a mountain of a man, covered in tribal tattoos and scars, a heavy chain wrapped around his knuckles. He revved his chopper, a deafening challenge that echoed through the jungle.
Dax didn't flinch. He hit the manual switch on his Phase-Gauntlet. The iridescent blue aura wrapped around his fist, a silent reminder of the power that had cut a Prime Forge in half the day before.
The Revers leader cut his engine. The sudden silence was heavier than the noise.
"You're Daximus Steele," the leader rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. He looked past Dax, staring at the ruined, severed upper half of the Prime Forge still smoking near the checkpoint. "We saw the flash from twenty miles out. Heard you gutted a Founder war machine."
"I did," Dax said casually, resting his phased hand on his thigh. "And who am I talking to?"
"They call me Jax. President of the Revers," the massive biker said, leaning forward on his handlebars. He tapped the Blood on the asphalt painted on his tank. "We don't bow to corporations. We don't bow to the Board. And we sure as hell don't bow to the Founders."
"Good," Dax said. "Because nobody bows in Coldwater. We stand."
Jax narrowed his eyes. "You put out a call for an army, Steele. We brought one. But my riders don't fight for free, and these refugees don't eat air. What’s the play?"
"The play is survival," Dax projected his voice, letting it carry over the Revers to the thousands of desperate, hardened faces watching them. "Inside these walls, there is power. There are hydroponic farms the Board left behind, and armories filled with kinetic tech. But the Founders are coming to take it all away. If you ride through these gates, you ride under the banner of the Iron Wolves. You follow my rules, you defend the walls, and you bleed for the person standing next to you."
Dax pointed his thumb back at the towering black glass of the Citadel.
"You want a home? You fight for it. Anyone who breaks the peace, steals from the pack, or spies for Neo-Angeles... I won't banish you. I'll format you myself."
The crowd was dead silent.
Jax stared at Dax for a long, tense moment. The two Alphas silently measured each otherthe warlord of the wastes and the King of the New World.
Then, a slow, grim smile spread across Jax's face. He reached into his heavy leather vest, pulled out a crushed cigar, and lit it with a flare lighter.
"Blood on the asphalt, Steele," Jax grunted, extending a massive, leather-clad hand. "The Revers ride with the Wolves."
Dax reached out and gripped the man’s forearm, sealing the pact.
The wastelanders erupted into a deafening roar. Horns blared, engines revved, and torches were thrust into the night sky. The migration surged forward, pouring through the massive gates of Coldwater.
I sat on the Sovereign, watching the chaotic, beautiful mess of humanity flooding into our city. Captain Reyes was rightit was a logistical nightmare, and there were definitely spies in that crowd.
But as I looked at Dax, watching the army he had just built with nothing but a radio broadcast and sheer force of will, the sapphire Origin-Code in my veins hummed with anticipation.
"Mia," Dax called out over the roar of the engines, turning his bike back toward the gates. "We've got the numbers. Now we need to arm them. Wake up the Code-Born. It's time to teach them how to forge weapons out of light."