The scream acted as the final trigger. As the rusted metal of the revolver caught the flickering light of the market, the heavy tension in the street simply snapped. Mike fired the weapon, aiming the barrel straight up into the corrugated metal awning that hung over the narrow thoroughfare. The roar of the shot was deafening in the enclosed space, and a rain of sparks descended like a shower of hot welding slag.

  The market dissolved into immediate bedlam. Screams erupted from hundreds of throats as the crowd surged in a blind panic, creating a stampede of bodies that rushed away from the source of the noise. Stalls were overturned and fruit was trampled into the oily mud alongside scrap metal. Dust, steam, and trash kicked up from the ground, turning the air into a chaotic gray fog that reduced visibility to a few feet.

  "Hold fire, there are too many civvies," the leader shouted, his voice muffled as he was blocked by the fleeing mob.

  The two flankers were already on Mike. The chaos provided him with cover, but the pain was the price he had to pay to sell the lie. The first flanker did not back off, but instead swung his rifle like a heavy club. The composite stock slammed into Mike’s shoulder with a sickening thud.

  Pain flared through his nerves, hot and sharp. Mike grunted and stumbled back, purposely not bracing for the impact as firmly as he could have. He had to let the blow hurt him to maintain the facade. He allowed himself to fall to one knee, splashing into the cold, oily water of a puddle while his vision swam for a brief moment.

  "Drop the weapon," the flanker yelled, raising the rifle to strike again.

  Mike let the gun fall, watching as it vanished into the thick muck. As the rifle butt came down toward his head, he shifted just enough so the blow glanced off his forearm instead of cracking his skull. The impact bruised the bone deeply, but it did not break. He lunged upward, driving his shoulder into the man’s gut in a messy and brawling tackle. They crashed into a stack of empty plastic crates, sending them clattering across the alley as they rolled together in the filth.

  The second flanker arrived instantly, drawing a serrated combat knife that glinted dully in the yellow smog. He shouted for his partner to hold Mike down. Mike felt the blade slash across his left bicep, tearing the fabric of his coat and leaving a line of fire across his skin. Blood welled up, warm and wet, soaking the gray fabric.

  Bleeding looked human, and Mike knew he had to keep the struggle messy. He rolled over and kicked the knife-wielder in the shin, using a frantic and scrambling flail rather than a calculated strike. The man cursed and stumbled back, momentarily losing his balance. Mike scrambled to his feet while panting heavily. The fog of dust and steam was thick enough now to hide them from the main street, creating a private arena of violence within the alley entrance.

  The leader pushed through the haze with his shock-baton humming with a lethal voltage. He growled that he was done playing and swung the weapon in a vicious arc. Mike dodged, but he ensured he was not fast enough to escape entirely. The tip of the baton grazed his ribs, and the voltage surged through him. His muscles seized and his vision went white for a fraction of a second while the smell of ozone and singed fabric filled his nose.

  He collapsed against the cold stone wall, gasping as his nerves fired randomly. The leader sneered, raising the baton for a finishing blow and telling the others to bag him because Rigg would want to strip this one himself.

  Mike looked up, his hood having fallen back to reveal his face. Blood dripped steadily from his arm and pattered into the mud. He was breathing hard and clutching his ribs like a victim, but beneath the pain, his internal systems were coming online.

  [Adrenaline Glands: Active]

  The world slowed down around him. The shouting of the fleeing crowd deepened into a low and distant drone. He saw the leader’s muscles tense under the leather armor and noted the single bead of sweat on the knife-wielder’s lip. He watched as the first flanker tried to unsling his rifle to take a clear shot.

  He reminded himself not to kill, only to inspire fear.

  Mike pushed off the wall. He did not stumble this time, but moved with a sudden and terrifying fluidity that defied his previous clumsiness. He ducked under the leader’s swing, letting the baton pass inches over his head. Mike stepped inside the man's guard with a movement that was both precise and surgical. He grabbed the leader’s wrist, the one holding the baton, and squeezed.

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  The leader’s eyes widened behind the mask. He tried to pull away, but Mike’s grip was like a hydraulic clamp.

  "Drop it," Mike whispered.

  The leader gasped as the bones in his wrist ground together. The baton clattered to the ground, forgotten. The knife-wielder lunged from the side, but Mike did not even turn to face him. He simply lashed out with his right arm, backhanding the man with a heavy strike. As he moved, he twisted his wrist, aligning the micro-port beneath his sleeve with the target.

  [Bio-Projectile: Venom Spike]

  A tiny bone needle launched from Mike’s wrist at point-blank range, burying itself in the soft tissue of the knife-wielder’s neck. The man froze mid-lunge as his eyes rolled back. The knife dropped from his numb fingers and he crumpled silently into the mud. He lay there paralyzed, his limbs locked in place.

  The first flanker finally got his rifle up and ordered Mike to freeze. Mike used the leader as a human shield, spinning him around with effortless strength. The flanker hesitated with his finger trembling on the trigger, unable to take the shot without hitting his commander. Mike shoved the leader violently into the flanker, and the two men collided in a tangle of limbs and armor before crashing into the mud in a heap.

  Mike stood over them. He was bleeding from the arm and favoring his bruised ribs, appearing to be a wreck, but he stopped hunching. Slowly, he straightened his spine and rolled his shoulders back. He took a deep breath and allowed his predator aura to leak out for a fleeting second. It was a psychic pressure, a primal broadcast of violence that triggered the lizard brain of anyone standing near him.

  He locked eyes with the leader, who was scrambling to find his baton in the mud. Mike’s pupils pulsed, momentarily swallowing the irises in pools of black oil before returning to normal.

  "This isn't worth five thousand credits," Mike said. His voice was no longer high and squeaky, but low and cold as the grave. "Leave now."

  The leader froze. He looked at his fallen comrade, who was paralyzed and twitching in the filth. He looked at Mike, who stood bleeding but utterly calm amidst the wreckage. The enforcer saw something in Mike’s stance that terrified him more than any gun, recognizing a predator deciding whether or not to eat.

  "Get him up," the leader screamed, his voice cracking with panic.

  He grabbed the paralyzed man by the strap of his armor while the other flanker scrambled backward with his eyes wide and his rifle forgotten in the mud. They dragged their fallen man away, stumbling and slipping as they glanced back over their shoulders as if expecting a demon to chase them. They disappeared into the smog with frantic footsteps that faded into the distance.

  Mike stood alone in the alleyway as the dust settled. The crowd was gone and the street was empty save for the scattered debris of the brawl. He let out a long and shuddering breath. The adrenaline crash hit him instantly, turning his knees to water. He muttered a quiet complaint as he clutched his bleeding arm. The pain rushed back in as the combat dampeners faded. The cut from the knife was deep, a jagged line through his bicep, but he could already feel the heat of his metabolism spiking. His platelets were swarming, knitting the skin together with an unnatural speed.

  He leaned against the cold metal of a shipping crate with his legs shaking from the effort of holding back the monster inside. A soft and trembling voice called his name, and Mike flinched. His hand went to his pocket before he recognized the speaker. He turned to find Sara standing at the edge of the alley, clutching a dirty rag. Her face was pale and her eyes were wide with a mixture of fear and disbelief.

  "Go back inside, Sara," Mike breathed, trying to stand upright and hide the way his body was steaming in the cold air. "It is not safe out here."

  "They are gone," she whispered, stepping into the mud. She did not listen to him, but hurried over with her eyes locked on the blood soaking his sleeve. She pressed the rag against his arm, and Mike hissed through his teeth. It was not the pressure that bothered him, but the panic. If she lifted that sleeve, she would not see a wound needing stitches, but flesh moving and knitting itself together like sentient wax.

  "It is fine," Mike said quickly, pulling his arm back gently. "It is just a scratch that looks worse than it is."

  Sara snapped at him not to be stupid, her fear turning into a frantic fussing. She insisted they go back to the stall to use the med-kit under her counter.

  "No," Mike said with too much force. Sara stopped and looked up at his face, noting the sweat on his brow and the strange dilation of his pupils. Mike softened his tone and took the rag from her hand. "I cannot stay. If they come back with reinforcements, I cannot be near you. I cannot let them see you helping me."

  Sara hesitated, looking at the alley where the enforcers had fled and then back at Mike. She realized he was right, as association with the Rat-King was a death sentence. She told him with a sense of awe that she had never seen a Sifter move the way he had.

  Mike forced a weak and crooked smile. He told her that adrenaline was a powerful thing and called it a lucky shot. He adjusted his pack, hiding a wince as his ribs throbbed. He thanked her for the rag and began backing away into the shadows, telling her to lock up and not open the door for anyone tonight.

  Sara called out for him to be careful. Mike nodded once, pulling his hood up to hide his face. He turned and limped quickly into the darkness while holding his arm tight against his chest, feeling the skin seal shut beneath the bloody clot.