Adventure of Jostan Ordomo 1

Leonidas rises beyond the freight arcade in stacked neon and rain. Jostan enters with the crowd as blast shutters slam down, sealing every exit except the checkpoint lane.

A compact adult woman in a pearl-gray coat stands beneath the dead deal display, her shaved temple lit by blue interface light. Her gloved hand hovers over the lock controls.

Four rifles pivot toward her. Beyond the crowd, checkpoint officers in black polymer armor advance with scanning drones, their lenses washing faces in sterile white.

The nearest exit is thirty steps away, watched by a hovering camera and two armed buyers. The arcade tightens around Jostan, full of wet coats, nervous breathing, and humming machinery.

Jostan surges toward the nearest rifle before the buyers can settle their aim. His first strike glances off armor, and a second gun slams across his forearm, stopping the attack cold.

The failed rush breaks the buyers' formation instead of breaking their bodies. One staggers into a crate, while the checkpoint drones swing their white scans toward Jostan and Venn.

Venn drives her shoulder into the lock panel. The cage seal flickers amber, not open, while the nearest officer raises a shock baton and the bright checkpoint lane clears ahead.

The cage remains sealed, and the armed buyers recover their aim. Jostan stands between the damaged lock and the luminous lane, with the failed assault having forced every weapon onto him.

Jostan lowers his hands and lets the checkpoint officers close in. Shock cuffs bite around his wrists, and the buyers fall back as officers herd him toward the holding line.

In the confiscation tray, Jostan finds no eolite. The small reserve he expected is gone, leaving only the bitter chemical taste of an empty search and the cuffs humming against his skin.

Subdued among the detained crowd, Jostan watches the checkpoint rhythm instead. During each rotation, the drone's white beam leaves a narrow strip beneath the service console unwatched.

Venn is processed several places ahead, her expression unreadable beneath the blue interface glow. The open strip remains visible, but the holding line begins moving toward the verification gates.

The line advances beneath the rotating scan. As the drone sweeps away, Venn angles her cuffed hands toward the service console, hiding a slim access wafer beneath her glove.

The next rotation leaves the console blind. Venn taps the wafer against its underside, and a maintenance route blooms across the checkpoint glass: an authorized path into Leonidas, bypassing public verification.

The officers unlock the inner gate without inspecting Venn's hidden wafer. Her route carries a corporate exemption stamp, and the checkpoint system accepts Jostan under her custody.

The gate opens onto Leonidas's rain-bright interior. Venn falls into step beside him, close enough to shield the wafer, and the city accepts them both beyond the lockdown.

Jostan offers his cuffed hands as though the restraints make the gesture harmless. Venn studies him, then accepts the handshake without slowing her pace through the rain-bright concourse.

Their hands separate. In the same smooth motion, Jostan's fingers lift the access wafer from Venn's pocket and take the concealed eolite reserve beside it, hiding both against his palm.

Venn keeps moving, her shoulder shielding him from the checkpoint cameras. The stolen wafer lies flat beneath his cuffed wrists, while the eolite disappears into his clothing.

Jostan leaves the checkpoint route and cuts toward Leonidas's deeper districts, following the glow of a drink sign into an alley barely wider than his shoulders. The shock cuffs still hum around his wrists.

The alley walls begin sliding inward with a hydraulic groan. Jostan twists, drives himself toward the widening seam, and clears the crushing passage as the pavement splits beneath him.

The floor opens into a polished chute. He drops, cuffs clacking against the metal, and shoots through a tunnel of red maintenance lights before spilling across a cluttered laboratory floor.

An elderly man waits beside banks of patched consoles. His black skin reflects the monitor glow, rusty orange hair crowns his narrow head, and a stained charcoal coat hangs from his thin frame.

He laughs from behind a cracked respirator grille, then circles Jostan without touching him. Nearby, a diagnostic arm pivots toward the cuffs and flashes a warning amber.

Jostan steadies his breathing and slowly rises. The laboratory resolves around him: patched consoles, red status lights, and the diagnostic arm waiting beside the humming cuffs.

Orin snaps a 9.4 MK pistol from beneath his stained coat. Its slick black frame carries a gold lining from the handle to the cocking mechanism as he swings for Jostan.

Jostan slips aside. The pistol cuts through empty air, and Orin's shot strikes a console casing instead, scattering sparks across the floor.

Jostan lunges toward the diagnostic arm and reaches for its interface, but the machine retracts behind a locking shield before his cuffed hands can connect.

The diagnostic arm remains sealed and unreachable. Shock cuffs still bind Jostan's wrists, while Orin keeps the gold-lined pistol trained across the narrow laboratory.

Jostan's laughter fills the cramped laboratory. Orin's pistol remains raised, but his aim lowers by a few careful degrees as the offer cuts through the standoff.

Orin turns the gold-lined pistol aside and steps to the diagnostic arm. He keys in a command, and the locking shield retracts with a hydraulic clack.

The arm clamps around the shock cuffs, drains their charge, and unlocks them. The restraints fall open, granting Jostan free hands, while Orin stores his pistol but watches for hesitation.

The words come out bright and reckless. Then the chemical hollowing hits him, tightening his jaw and stealing the easy rhythm from his laughter as withdrawal begins.

Orin studies the tremor without mockery. He crosses to a dented storage cabinet, enters a code, and draws out a compact black revolver with a worn silver grip.

He places the revolver within Jostan’s reach, then slides a metal chair forward. The laboratory’s monitors pulse around them as Orin begins assembling the promised job.

Orin watches Jostan’s grin without returning it. The revolver remains on the bench between them, an object in a transaction, not a gift between friends.

He taps the revolver’s silver grip, then points toward a sealed data case beneath the nearest console. His expression stays flat, professionally interested.

A monitor behind Orin displays a freight archive, its access tree layered beneath corporate encryption. He turns the screen toward Jostan, but keeps one hand near his coat.

The partnership settles into the room as a contract with a pulse, stripped of warmth but not possibility. Orin waits beside the glowing archive for results, not companionship.

Jostan lifts the Jimmy revolver, presses it against his chest, and guides it beneath his cybernetic interface. The weapon vanishes into a concealed internal compartment, then deploys cleanly into his palm.

The maneuver succeeds, but his composure costs him. His breath catches, his hands tremble once, and Orin sees the hesitation before Jostan forces his posture calm.

Orin turns the monitor fully toward Jostan. A red route line traces from the laboratory through maintenance tunnels to Dock Nine, where a corporate transfer depot pulses beneath the rain.

Orin closes the archive window and slides the sealed data case across the bench. Jostan now has the Jimmy integrated and the destination confirmed, though the withdrawal leaves a visible strain around his eyes.