How could everything go so wrong after things being so right?
The day had been solid. Two clean shifts, no casualties, no disasters. A team-building exercise that didn’t end in fire. Even a housewarming party that, while cut short, didn’t suck. Invisigal organized it. First time in weeks you saw everyone laugh without punching each other.
But then she had to go and do it.
It wasn’t really a party. Just an excuse to get everyone together, prep for what came next. The Astral Pulse. We’d tracked it, finally. And it was sitting in a warehouse by the docks like bait. Blonde Blazer said we needed a plan. Said it was suicide to run in as-is. Said he would be waiting.
But Invisigal? She never listens.
She’s punk rock to the bone. Chase once called her a black hole. Pulls people in and fucks them up, or whatever black holes do. And ironically, she did exactly that.
She thought she was helping. Thought if she brought back the Pulse, she could fix things. Not just the mission, but you. The one who held this whole team together when it shouldn’t have lasted a week. The one who never gave up on her, even when trying to quit.
But gravity works both ways. And when he shows up, it’s always down.
Shroud didn’t hesitate. On the feed, you saw it all. How fast he dropped her. No sound. No effort. Just static, then blood. You stood frozen. Until something shifted in the air, and the feeling of a mass suddenly placed on your lap.
Beef.
Wait, wasn’t Chase supposed to-
“Hey, kid. Keep up.”
Chase is dead.
He stepped in for Invisigal. Took the hit that should’ve ended her. He saved the one person he couldn’t stand. He did it for you.
He enjoyed the last moments of his life, running like the golden days. The days where you and him played in the backyard while your father grilled the meat. The days where he was the cool uncle.
Now you’re running. Full tilt through streets that haven’t changed, toward a bench that suddenly has. You and Chase used to sit there, eating greasy hot dogs and watching the water crawl by. Post-mission decompression. Post-funeral silences. It was your spot.
Now it’s just a marker.
You spot her first. Invisigal, kneeling in the grass, hands pressed against Chase’s chest, trembling with every push. She’s muttering something you can’t hear. Maybe his name. Maybe a curse. Maybe a prayer.
She’s trying. Desperate. Bloody knuckles, soaked sleeves. CPR on a man who gave his last breath the moment he made the choice.
And a few feet below her, Chase lies still. Face slack, eyes half-shut, chest unmoving. Not peaceful. Not clean. Just final.
He hated her. But he loved you. And that’s why he chose her. Because losing her would’ve broken you. And he knew exactly what that felt like.