The Blue Line hover train hummed quietly as it sped through District I, nearly empty save for two passengers.
In one corner, a teenage girl sat alone, visor over her eyes, playing videos and chatting away with someone through her earpiece. She was smiling—just a regular kid passing time on the late train.
Across the car, an old Retributor sat slumped against his seat. His armor was scratched and outdated, one leg slightly shaking as if reacting to phantom commands. His glowing eye dimmed to a half-lid. Asleep, or pretending to be.
Then, the train slowed with a hiss.
Three figures boarded—scrawny, reckless-looking boys with dyed purple and toxic green hair. They wore patched-up streetwear fused with chrome implants and clunky body-mod tech. Their music blared through a speaker slung over one's shoulder, flooding the quiet cabin with pulsing static noise.
The Retributor stirred.
The trio spotted the girl almost instantly. One nudged the other and grinned. They strutted over, circling her like hyenas. She tried to ignore them, her hands clenching her lap, eyes fixed on the visor.
They didn't like being ignored.
"Hey, nice gear," one said, reaching over and tapping her visor hard enough to jolt her head. "Gimme a closer look."
Another pulled out a serrated blade, chrome edges catching the dim train lights.
"Everything. Now. Strip it."
She looked terrified, frozen. Her lips moved, but no sound came. Then her eyes shifted—toward the Retributor.
He was standing now.
"Why don't you leave the kid alone?" he said calmly, his voice like gravel soaked in old oil. "You three look like reasonable fellas."
The thugs turned. One of them started forward, blade still in hand.
"You serious, grandpa?"
But another held him back.
"Dude. That's a Retro."
The one with the blade blinked. "No way."
"Look at the badge. Look at the eye. You wanna get turned into red fog? Be my guest."
The Retributor's expression didn't change. No weapons drawn. He never needed any.
The tension broke. The trio backed off, muttering curses. One bumped shoulders with the Retributor on his way past, trying to save face.
He didn't react.
The girl, still shaking, looked up.
"Thank you," she whispered.
The Retributor gave a small nod, almost a bow, and returned to his seat.
Then it happened.
His comms crackled—a familiar high-pitched glitch. His body tensed. His eye flickered, then went blank.
He turned back toward the girl.
His expression had changed.
Gone was the calm. His eyes were now murderous, wide and unblinking. Something inside him had shattered—or been switched on.
Thirty minutes later.
The train slid into its next station.
People on the platform waited, chatting idly, ready to board.
The doors opened.
Screams erupted.
Inside the car, blood was everywhere. Red smeared the windows. Seats torn apart. The lights flickered over a butchered nightmare.
Standing at the door was the Retributor, drenched in gore. Motionless. Face slack, but his eye still glowing faintly.
He stepped off the train.
No one dared move.
He walked slowly across the platform. No destination. Just walking.
Then, without warning, he turned to a wall. Stared at it.
And slammed his head into it.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Again.
The sounds were sickening—metal striking ferrocrete, bone cracking, sparks dancing. Until finally, he collapsed in a heap.
Dead.
Silence rippled through the crowd.
Then—
The girl stepped out of the train, her clothes soaked in blood, her face pale and lifeless.
No one spoke. No one reached for her.
They just stared.