Alpha Strike: [An Interstellar Weapons Platform’s Guide to Organized Crime] (Book 3 title)

The boy's leg was nearly mended when the [Wasp] landed on Dr. Maria's shoulder. Its weight was barely noticeable, a soft vibration against the fabric of her sleeve, but the faint metallic click drew her attention all the same.

She didn't look up from her work. "Steady, now," she murmured to the child as she adjusted the final wrap of gauze. The boy winced, then relaxed when her fingers brushed the bandage smooth, and the soft blue glow of her healing energy sank fully into the flesh beneath.

Only when he was smiling again — nervous, grateful — did she glance toward the little drone.

"It seems," Alpha's voice hummed through the comm-link in her ear, smooth and dry as ever, "we have a bite."

Dr. Maria reached for her satchel, plucking a strip of linen from the roll and tying it off with deft precision. "So it would seem," she said, her tone light. Her gaze flicked past the edge of the awning, toward the upper balconies of the teashop. "I know him. Seren Varrin — Guard's Special Interests Division."

"Oh?" Alpha's voice sharpened. "You know him?"

A faint smile touched her lips. "I remember all of my patients, dear." She gave the boy's shoulder a reassuring pat, then rose to her feet, wiping her hands on a clean cloth. "One of the benefits of the Flesh-Sculptor's Art is perfect recall. Provided you're skilled enough to tinker with your brain and not ruin the thing in the process."

Alpha was silent for a beat. Then: "…Have I ever told you that you terrify me sometimes?"

Her laugh came bright and unguarded, startling the apprentice two tables down. A few of the younger healers looked over, curious; she waved them off with a practiced flick of the wrist. "Well, thank you kindly," she said under her breath, amusement warming her tone.

The [Wasp] twitched its wings, the faint hum brushing her ear like a sigh.

"Special Interests, though," Alpha continued. "Not exactly what I was expecting. I suppose it'll have to do."

Maria moved to the next patient — a young woman with a burn along her arm — and knelt, gesturing for her to hold still. "This is likely the best we could hope for in so short a time," she said. A soft blue light blossomed between her palms as she spoke, the smell of salve and healing herbs rising from her hands. "Officially, cases that make it to the SID are deemed of citywide importance. In practice, that means anything that shakes the wrong noble's purse."

"So," Alpha mused, "government-sanctioned enforcers."

"In a way." Maria's voice softened, though her smile remained. "They do occasionally earn their keep, mind you. The last significant case they worked was purging a Cult of Iris cell from the Bronze District. That must've been —" she squinted, counting backward "— five years ago now."

The name drew a pause from Alpha.

"…Cult of Iris," he repeated, slower this time.

Maria felt the faint vibration through the [Wasp]'s chassis, the subtle shift in tone that meant his attention had sharpened. "You've heard of them," she said, though it wasn't a question.

"Possibly," Alpha replied quietly.

Bronze District… Alpha thought to himself, pulling up the map he'd built of Halirosa over the last few days. The city was broken down into five districts.

To the south lay the Iron District, the city's true threshold and its beating, smoke-stained heart. Most travelers entered through its massive gates, where caravans rattled across worn cobblestones and the air hung heavy with the scent of forge smoke and sweat. Rows of modest homes pressed close together, their slate roofs gleaming dull under the sun. It was the city's foundation — dense, loud, and alive with the rhythm of ordinary lives.

At the center rose the Guild District, the seat of Halirosa's power. Grand halls and tiled courtyards sprawled in careful order, housing every major guild, government office, and sect compound. The district doubled as the city's largest market square, where merchants hawked spirit-forged trinkets beside guild envoys tallying contracts. It was both marketplace and throne room, a place where coin and politics mixed freely.

To the west stretched the Silver District, where Alpha and his allies had set their roots. The quarter opened toward the deeper veins of the Crimson Mountains, its streets echoing with the clang of weaponsmiths and the laughter of adventurers preparing for expeditions. Inns and taverns stood shoulder to shoulder with supply houses.

Northward, the Golden District glittered like its name. Broad avenues climbed toward opulent estates whose walls shone with polished marble and enchanted light. The air there carried a quiet kind of arrogance; its gate led to the Serpent's Coast and the Starfall Ocean, zones so lethal that only Second Greater Realm cultivators could even set foot beyond it. Danger fed fortune, and fortune bred decadence.

The Bronze District, to the east, was another world entirely. Its streets wound toward a region of the mountains known as the Cradle, where the Radiant Sea's draining energy thinned the air and tamed the worst of the beasts. It drew greenhorn adventurers and desperate dreamers alike — a proving ground wrapped in rust-colored mist. The district was rough, though never quite crossing into slum territory, but it pulsed with the kind of hunger that made fertile soil for cults and criminals. The hopeless and the reckless were easy prey for promises whispered in the dark.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

If that cult cell had been forced out of the Bronze District, east would have been their natural escape. Alpha thought to himself.

Could they and the group I encountered in the Radiant Sea have been connected? Perhaps even one and the same? Or were they merely separate branches of the same spreading disease?

Cults were like cockroaches, after all — for every one you saw, there were a dozen you didn't.

For a moment, only the sounds of the plaza filled the silence between them — wind snapping through canvas, the low murmur of grateful patients, the rhythmic pulse of dozens of healing spells flickering in tandem.

Maria's gaze drifted again toward the rooftops, to where Seren had stood watching only minutes ago. The sunlight caught her glasses, hiding her eyes behind the reflection.

"My point being," she said softly. "If the SID has been called, then the right people have already taken notice."

"Optimistic as always," Alpha replied.

"Practical," she corrected, tying off the last bandage with a neat pull. She brushed her hands together and rose, scanning the length of the line that still waited. "Now, if you're done fretting, I have patients to tend. Don't you have someone else to bother?"

The [Wasp]'s wings buzzed once, amused. "I do. But young Jonah's part doesn't begin until the sun sets. That's when the real fun starts."

Dr. Maria smirked. "You know this means they're going to try something, right?" she asked.

Alpha chuckled. "I'm counting on it."

The drone lifted from her shoulder with a soft metallic hum and vanished into the bright air, sunlight flashing red off its wings. Maria didn't look after it. Her focus had already returned to the next waiting soul, her hands steady, her mind quietly ticking several steps ahead.

——————————————————

The night hung thick and cloudy over Halirosa's western quarter. The moon was hidden somewhere behind the black haze of mountain clouds, leaving the rooftops washed in a dim glow from weak spirit lamps.

The masked men moved like shadows across the tiles — dark shapes against darker stone, their boots making no sound as they moved from roof to roof. They leapt the narrow gaps between buildings in silence, hands catching edges with a muted scrape of leather. Only the faint rustle of their cloaks betrayed them, a ripple of motion that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

They stopped often, each time melting into the night at the first hint of sound.

A patrol passed below: three city guards in dented bronze, lanterns swinging at their hips, laughter loud enough to betray boredom. The leader of the rooftop men crouched, one hand raised. The group froze, crouched low along the eaves. One of the men slipped a thin mirror from his sleeve, angled it over the edge to catch the reflection of the street below. The patrol ambled by, never looking up.

The leader's fingers twitched a command. Wait.

They stayed there, silent, until the last echo of boots faded into the maze of streets.

When he finally straightened, he lifted a hand, signaling them to move.

The western roofs grew lower toward the square, where the Silver District's warehouses bled into shops and taverns for returning or departing adventurers. The air smelled faintly of oil, dust, and the tang of metal from the nearby smithies. Somewhere, a drunk was singing half a verse of a tavern song, off-key and oblivious. The intruders gave him a wide berth, skirting a row of chimneys and crossing the narrow street in a single bound.

Their target came into view soon after — two stories tall, its roof patched with tar and its windows dim. From above, it looked utterly ordinary: plain stone walls, shuttered windows, no guards, no lanterns. A single sign hung over the door, its paint faded to an unreadable blur.

The leader raised his hand, and the group halted on the adjoining roof.

He waited until the last of them gathered, then spoke for the first time that night. His voice was quiet, gravel pressed into velvet.

"Report."

A man near the edge of the roof stepped forward, crouching low. "No change," he said. "The shop's been quiet for over an hour. No movement inside except the target. If there's anyone else, they haven't left since we started watching."

The leader nodded once. "And the target?"

A different man — taller, with a faint scar cutting through his brow where the mask didn't quite hide it — straightened."Name's Hugo. No last name on file. Bronze Spirit rank three months back — maybe low Silver now, based on the reports. D-ranked adventurer for the guild before his expulsion. Last seen working with Bosco's crew."

"Silver, is it?" the leader muttered. His tone carried no worry, only a thin rasp of disdain. "This is the man giving us all this trouble?"

The man shook his head. "While the property is under his name, we suspect he's just a front man for whoever's really in charge. Given that he was seen coming into town with Garrelt Riverwalker and Magnolia Greenwood, two of the known leaders of the Guild's recent expedition force, it's suspected he turned traitor for the shop."

A humorless chuckle rasped through the leader's throat. "The shop?"

"Old family property," the scout replied. "According to our sources, the shop originally belonged to his family. After his mother died, Hugo was forced to sell the shop to pay off his debts and start adventuring. The property passed hands several times since, and has gained a sort of reputation for being 'cursed.'"

"Cursed." The leader tilted his head, amusement curling through the word. "How… fitting."

It seemed tonight would only add to that legend.

He reached into his cloak and withdrew a set of thin, dark jade slips, handing them off one by one. Each man accepted his without a word. Faint light flickered within the stones, pulsing once before going still.

"Same formation," the leader said. "Fan out and surround the block. I want all exits covered — street, back alley, and the roof access. No gaps, no line of retreat. We move in fifteen. The boss wants the man breathing."

"What about the shop?" one of them asked, voice muffled.

The leader smirked under his mask and flicked his wrist. The faint light caught the edge of the thin white talisman he now held between his fingers. Its runes glowed from within, a deep, hungry red that pulsed like the ember of a dying coal. The paper hissed faintly, as if it could already taste air.

"The boss wants to leave a message," he said.

The group exchanged silent looks, the kind shared by men too accustomed to violence to need words. A low, restrained laugh rippled through them.

The leader let them have it for all of two seconds before cutting through the sound with a curt motion of his hand. The laughter died.

He turned toward the city lights glimmering faintly through the mist and rain. "You know your marks," he said. "If you see anyone else, you don't ask questions. You don't play hero. You cut them down and keep moving. We're ghosts tonight."

A ripple of acknowledgment swept through the group. Then — one by one — they slipped into motion again, vanishing into the dark like drops of ink in water.

The leader watched until the last shadow was gone. Then he touched the burning edge of the talisman to his glove, just long enough for the rune-light to flare once, and tucked it away again.

Far below, thunder rolled over the city's roofs, and the first cold drops of rain began to fall.