Prologue

Annex B does not appear on any map of the PATH. It hides behind a construction hoarding that has promised renovations for nine years, three levels beneath the bank towers of the financial district, where the rumble of the subway comes through the walls like weather. Three F Rank badges came off the press this morning, serial numbers still bright, and one of them is yours.

In the ready room, under the wall clock, Instructor Gabriela Mendoza sets a sealed envelope on the table. She is a compact, silver-haired woman in her early fifties, dressed like any commuter in a gray wool coat and practical boots. The only sign she is SABLE at all is the badge pinned inside her lapel. The rookies trade stories about her. Twenty years in Watch Division, informant networks on three continents, and an old workname, Owl, that senior agents still use with respect.

Gabriela Mendoza: I ran informants for twenty years, and I will tell you what I told every one of them. The best surveillance is the kind where the target buys you a drink and tells you everything. Tonight is simpler than that. Tonight you only have to watch.

Inside the envelope is a photograph of a man in a gray coat, a schedule, and a single page of orders. A subject flagged by Curtain has been meeting unknown contacts at the Harbourfront Night Market after the stalls close. Your cell will take an observation post, log every contact he makes, and report back before dawn.

Gabriela Mendoza: The last line is in red ink, so hear it in my voice. Do not engage. Do not be noticed. If that man so much as remembers your face, this stops being a first assignment and starts being a career problem.

The envelope goes into the burn tray and curls to nothing. Above ground the cold will be the real kind, lake wind funneled between the towers, and the market is a forty minute walk or a short ride on the streetcar.

Gabriela Mendoza: The market closes at eleven and he arrives around midnight. Streetcar or walk, your choice. Any questions before I open this door?

Émile Fournier: "What if a civilian is in danger? You can't expect us to turn a blind eye then. I'll respect what our mission is, but I can't let an innocent die just to stay on mission and observe. I'm certain nothing will happen tonight, but I just want to be clear about that."

Gabriela Mendoza studies Émile for a long, quiet second. There is no anger in her face, only the measured stillness of someone who has weighed that exact question a hundred times under worse conditions.

Gabriela Mendoza: I would be worried about you if you didn't ask that, Fournier. But understand the arithmetic.

She steps closer to the briefing table, tapping the burnt residue in the metal tray with a polished fingernail.

Gabriela Mendoza: If an immediate, lethal threat presents itself to a bystander, SABLE agents protect human life—that is why the bureau exists. But you do not break cover for a suspicion or a scuffle. A premature intervention that spooks a cell or causes an uncontrolled mutation in a crowded market gets twenty people killed instead of zero.

Gabriela Mendoza: You assess, you notify dispatch via your coms, and if blood is about to spill, you act decisively and cleanly. Then you contain the witness perimeter before Curtain has to scrub an entire subway line.

Beside Émile, Piper Vance adjusts the strap of her gear bag with a sharp nod, while Naia Okafor checks the chronometer on her wrist.

Gabriela Mendoza: Good instincts. Keep them sharp, but keep your head cooler than your heart. Now, are we taking the streetcar to Queen's Quay, or walking the PATH?

Émile Fournier: "We'll take the streetcar. I think it'll save us a lot of time." I turn to Piper and Naia and say, "Well, let's do it. Once we finish this, we'll earn our badges!" I smile.

The 509 Harbourfront streetcar hums south along the rails, cutting through the neon reflection on cold asphalt before descending into the Queens Quay tunnel and emerging onto the lakefront.

Piper Vance: Fifty-nine minutes until midnight. If we pick a rooftop near the docks, Biscuit can get top-down opticals without anyone hearing a propeller over the harbor wind.

Naia Okafor: Just keep the drone high, Piper. If Curtain flags us for sloppy surveillance on day one, Mendoza will have us scrubbing incinerator filters until spring.

Harbourfront Night Market

Harbourfront Night Market — Queens Quay West, 23:15

Out on the promenade, the wind off Lake Ontario is bitter and carries the sharp brine of winter water mixed with hot oil, star anise, and roasted pork. Strings of incandescent bulbs sway above canvas stalls, illuminating tourists and dockworkers dispersing into the midnight chill.

Most vendors are already folding up tarps, but near the western piers, a late-night food counter is still steaming under the watchful eye of a tall woman in a merchant's apron. A few paces back, an augmented enforcer in a heavy coat leans against a steel stanchion, idly watching the remaining foot traffic.

According to the dossier, the subject in the gray coat is expected to arrive within forty-five minutes. You have the choice of slipping into the closing crowd at ground level, taking high ground atop the storage containers to the east, or setting up along the boardwalk overlooking the moored boats.

Émile Fournier: I'm going to use my awareness to see which of those options is the best. While I look around, I tell Piper, "Get your drone in the air, have it do some recon while we come up with our plan of action."

Scan Harbourfront Night Market to evaluate vantage points and spot potential surveillance angles — Rolled 2d6+1 — Result: 6

Piper taps a sequence on her wrist console. With a muted, high-pitched whir, Biscuit lifts from her shoulder, climbing sixty feet into the gloom where lake gusts mask the rotor hum.

Piper Vance: Biscuit’s up. Feeding opticals to your biomon now. Thermal is a mess because of all the noodle fryers, but line-of-sight is clean.

Émile scans the terrain, matching his sharp eye with the incoming aerial feed. It's a crowded, shifting grid, but the angles become clear:

The Storage Containers (East): Gives an unobstructed view over the entire concourse and docks. However, the halogen floodlights from the marina wash across the top, meaning anyone up there will need to stay low to avoid casting a sharp silhouette against the sky.

The Waterline & Moored Boats (West): Deep shadows beneath the piers and constant wave noise will completely conceal voices and movement. The drawback: there is only one narrow ramp back up to the main deck, leaving you boxed in if the target turns down the jetty.

The Market Aisle (Ground): Blending into the perimeter near Mama Okonjo's stall lets you hear close-range conversations. But the augmented bruiser in the heavy coat—Theo Markos—is pacing that exact lane, scanning faces like a man expecting trouble.

Naia Okafor: If we split the angles—one vantage on high and two of us closer to the ground—we won't lose him if he ducks under the awnings. What’s the call, Émile?

Émile Fournier: "I'll blend in by the market stalls, I'm the most stealthy of us all so I'll take that risk. Piper, you should go to the Storage Containers. You can stay low without losing any awareness because you have your drone. Naia, you should stay here and hidden just in case, I don't trust the Waterline for you. I'll give you a signal on comms if there is any trouble, but water doesn't mix with your fire. Just keep an eye on the perimeter and let Piper and I know if trouble is coming our way."

Slip past Theo Markos and establish a concealed observation position among the market stalls — Rolled 2d6+5 — Result: 11

With the effortless, coiled grace of his reflex grafts, Émile slips into the alley between two spice stalls. He steps through deep shadow, timed perfectly to the scrape of Theo Markos's heavy boots as the enforcer turns his back to check a side gate. Theo doesn't even glance toward the canvas flap where Émile settles into cover.

Piper Vance: I’m flat on top of the blue container. Wind’s freezing, but Biscuit’s lens has the whole dock in 4K. Rear perimeter is clear.

Naia Okafor: Holding the east archway. Street traffic is dead. You're clear, Émile.

As the distant chimes of a harbor clock tower strike midnight, footsteps sound along the wooden planks from the boardwalk. A tall, composed man in an immaculate gray wool coat emerges from the lake mist. He moves with an unnatural, fluid precision—the unmistakable cadence of high-tier spinal augmentation.

The man in the gray coat walks straight to Mama Okonjo’s steaming food stall. He doesn't look at a menu. Mama Okonjo wipes her hands on her apron and sets a heavy insulated thermos on the counter with a quiet thud.

Mama Okonjo: Grade-A marrow extract from the north line. Freshly rendered before the Curtain cleanup team even cordoned the railyard.

Elias Wren: The Center appreciates your discretion, Mama. Mutual benefit is always cleaner than salvage.

The man slides a data-chit across the counter. Through Émile's biomon and Piper’s drone telemetry, the transfer is crisp and legible: an illegal biological sample from an unlogged Outbreak is changing hands right in front of them.

Émile Fournier: "Looks like it's Mama Okonjo. Piper, get some clean shots of the man in gray, I also want you to give remote access of your drone over to SABLE command so they can keep tabs on his location while we take this back to Mendoza. We don't ahve to worry about Mama Okonjo, she's a market regular, we have all the information we need to track her if she tries to run, and she's no reason to think she has to. Good job everyone."

A soft chime hums across the encrypted squad frequency as Piper's console locks on. Optical sensors capture Wren's profile from three distinct angles—high-resolution facial geometry, thermal silhouette, and gait analysis—before tunneling the telemetry directly into SABLE Watch's automated city grid.

Piper Vance: Biometrics captured and packet transferred to Watch HQ. SABLE orbital relay has his transponder signature tagged. If he catches a water taxi or steps into a subway car, Command will know before he takes his seat.

Down on the dock, Elias Wren settles the insulated canister into an interior pocket, gives Mama Okonjo a courteous nod, and turns toward the western boardwalk pier. Theo Markos remains oblivious, tossing a cigarette butt into the dark lake water as the man in gray melts into the midnight mist.

Naia Okafor: East exit is clear. Let's pull out before the market shifts its shifts. Smooth work, Émile.

PATH Concourse Annex B

PATH Concourse Annex B — Late Night, 01:15 AM

The rookie cell slips away from the lakefront without a ripple. Within forty minutes, the 509 streetcar and underground corridors bring them back behind the plywood renovation hoarding of Annex B. The fluorescent hum and scent of burnt coffee welcome them back to the subterranean tactical bay.

Agent Gabriela Mendoza looks up from her holoterminal as the three walk into the debriefing cubicle. The raw drone footage and biometric dossiers are already populating her screens.

Gabriela Mendoza: Curtain just pinged me. Clean opticals, uncompromised cover, and zero collateral disturbance. In twenty years of watching rookie cells fumble their first stakeout, this might be the first time nobody kicked over a vendor's stall or fired a warning flare into the lake.

Gabriela Mendoza: We pulled the match on your man in gray: Elias Wren, Voice of the Center. That canister was Outbreak marrow from an unlogged incident on the northern rail line. You three just handed us a thread straight into the Center's local supply chain.

Émile Fournier: "Let me guess, most of them attack first, ask questions later?" I raise an eyebrow as I motion to give Piper and Naia high-fives.

Piper meets Émile's hand with a sharp, resounding slap in midair, adjusting her optical visor with a grin. Beside her, Naia laughs, returning the high-five with enough warmth that a brief flicker of orange ember sparks playfully across her knuckles.

Piper Vance: First live op and zero casualties. Well, except for that terrible lake wind trying to freeze Biscuit's rotors. I consider that a flawless run.

Naia Okafor: Speak for yourself. Sitting by the perimeter waiting for alarms that never went off was almost harder than fighting. But I’ll take a quiet night over scrubbing blood out of my jacket any day.

Mendoza sets down her styrofoam cup with a dry chuckle, leaning back in her creaking swivel chair as she taps the authorization codes into her terminal.

Gabriela Mendoza: Most rookies think having augmented tendons or pyromancy means their first job is to blow a hole in the waterfront and leave Curtain to explain why Lake Ontario caught fire. You gathered clean intelligence, avoided an armed escalation with a known syndicate cell, and kept the cover intact. That’s how agents actually live to reach E-Rank.

Gabriela Mendoza: Your stipend for the stakeout has been credited to your accounts, plus an operational commendation on your file. Take a breather, get some real food, and review the quartermaster's requisition boards. When you're rested, we'll see where this Elias Wren lead takes us next.

Émile Fournier: "Thanks for the credits, promise we won't spend it all in one place." I wink at Mendoza. \[OOC: I want to spend 4xp to unlock Piercing Strike II\]

Mendoza shakes her head with a faint smile, clicking closed the terminal file with a flourish of her hand.

Gabriela Mendoza: Spend it on better armor plates or hot noodles, Fournier. Just make sure you're ready when the call comes. You've earned the downtime.

Piper Vance: I’m already eyeing some signal booster chips in the annex depot. Don't worry, Émile, we'll leave enough in the budget for your fencing polish.

Down in the annex sparring ring, under the hum of fluorescent gym lights, Émile runs through his extension drills. Channeling stamina through his modified knee and hip tendons, his lunging extension sharpens—stretching his reach to an explosive ten feet with punishing, pinpoint precision.

Feat Unlocked: Piercing Strike II - Cost: 4 XP (4 XP remaining) - Effect: 3 Physical damage, Melee (Lunging 10 ft reach), 1 Action, Costs 3 Stamina.