MOON BASE — ENROUTE TO EARTH
Plukett sat hunched in the dim passenger bay, eyes closed, the battle replaying behind her eyelids like a cursed broadcast. Spyder had outclassed her—easily. That stung more than any physical wound.
She hated being weak.
She hated being helped.
She hated being a victim—like back when she tore through that lab and killed the scientists who experimented on kids like her. When she'd let one gouge out her eyes just so she could get close enough to drive her fist through his throat.
She wasn't fragile. She wasn't broken. She was a sergeant, a retributor. Not as famous as John maybe, but damn good. And speaking of John…
She waved up her comms.
A half-deleted voicemail blinked to life—John's voice, low and uncertain: "Plukett? You okay?"
She grinned. He still liked her. Probably. Poor John.
Then she stopped smiling.
Her blank eyes focused on a corner of the cabin—on nothing. She stood, stretched, cracked her neck, and walked to the restroom. Closed the door. Turned on the sink. Whistled like she had all the time in the world.
Her comm pinged.
There he was again—disheveled, stuttering, older than she remembered.
Steven Baflin.
Before he could speak, she snapped her fingers. A glowing subtitle hovered between them:
"Switch to this private neural network. Now."
She pinched a code fragment from the air and flicked it to him.
He caught it, nodded—and suddenly they were somewhere else: a virtual garden, green and serene, utterly false.
Steven spoke first. "They're onto you, I see."
Plukett didn't blink. "Thirty seconds. Make it count."
Then she smirked. "Who are they? Estranged lovers or very angry experiments?"
Steven actually chuckled. "The Commandos. The reason you came back empty-handed, I assume?"
Plukett crossed her arms. "Who. Are. They?"
"They're not lovers or victims. They're something worse—survivors. The few successful experiments from Bineth's old program."
He continued, voice quiet now, like it hurt to remember.
"Back when the Horde virus launched its war on humanity, we were losing. Mercenary factions, privatized armies, rogue nations—all desperate. Bineth offered the edge: experimental tech, gear, neuro-linked suits. The exo-bithrete fusion suits those four wear? Deadly. Neural-linked. The body is the limit. And limits break."
Plukett listened.
Steven's voice was dry. "It worked—briefly. But then came the deaths. Heart attacks. Brain collapse. Radiation sickness. Pure, unfiltered violence. It spiraled. The suits were banned. Shut down. But those four… they survived. Barely."
Plukett's jaw flexed. "And Bineth kept them. For what?"
"Private Enforcers, Assassins, Whatever that needed silencing or cover up, those were the guys, they were efficient, Then your kind, the Retributors, came along. Bineth needed the old weapons gone. The four were locked away, left to rot in cryo pods with the illusion of cures for their damaged systems."
"And your partner?" she asked.
Steven looked away. "Then came him. My partner. I don't know his real name. He calls himself Purple Flower."
Plukett blinked. "You teamed up with a guy named Purple Flower?"
"He gave me access, resources, data beyond my imagination. And I took it. For my daughter."
He paused. "I thought we were finding a cure."
Plukett's face hardened. "But?"
"But I was building something else. A world-killer."
His voice broke.
"When I realized it… I stopped. Sent the others away. Went underground."
She leaned in. "What did you do, Professor?"
Steven gave a thin, sad smile. "I can't tell you. I made a deal. I don't care about the world—I care about my world. My daughter."
A pause.
"But I'll tell you this. The answer you want? It's closer to you than you think."
And then—he was gone.
Plukett snarled, "Son of a—"
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Someone was hammering on the restroom door.
She kicked it open, catching the unlucky passenger in the face. His nose snapped.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she grinned, stepping over him. "Didn't hear you quite enough."
He tried to snarl, but stopped short when he saw her eyes—dark, smoky, glowing with residual energy.
"Damn Retributors," he muttered, backing away.
Outside, Plukett stared into the artificial hallway light for a beat. Then she walked on, whistling again, softer this time.
Unseen by anyone else, a man faded into visibility behind her.
A white-bearded figure in a suit. Pale Australian skin. Thin glasses. Cold eyes.
He watched her go.
Then vanished once more.