The Legion: Heartson

Focus. Think. Breathe.

The distant voices of men barking orders carried upward, mingling with the faint jingle of equipment. He opened his eyes, the gears in his mind already turning. He turned to Stager, his expression sharper than ever.

Thomas: Alright, I think I get pieces of this now.

He jabbed a finger in Stager's direction. 

Thomas: Cromley. He's some sort of business associate, yeah? You pissed him off—no, scratch that—you pissed off a whole lot of people, didn't you? And now they want you dead.

Harrison blinked, his face pale, but he said nothing. That wasn't good enough.

Thomas grabbed the man by the lapels of his suit, shaking him violently. Harrison let out a startled yelp, but Thomas didn't care.

Thomas: RIGHT?

The word echoed in the stairwell, harsh and unforgiving. Harrison finally nodded, his face a mix of fear and shame.

Stager: Yes... but it's not that simple.

Thomas: Not that simple? 

He took a step back, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

Thomas: Then enlighten me. Why the hell is Obsidian involved? Cromley's grudge I get, but Obsidian? Guards, assassins—this is way too messy.

Stager hesitated, his lips tightening into a thin line. His silence was deafening.

Thomas: Don't you dare clam up on me now, Stager. 

Stager flinched, his eyes darting to the ground. Finally, he spoke, his voice trembling.

Stager: Fine. You want to know? It started when I was younger. Obsidian approached me, offering resources, data analytics, funding. Everything I needed to build my company into an empire. And I... I took it. I took it all.

Thomas listened, his expression unreadable as Harrison continued, each word spilling out like a confession.

Stager: With Obsidian's help, I didn't need Cromley anymore. I cut him out, severed ties with my old associates. My company thrived... until I found out the cost. And when I tried to break away, when I uncovered things I wasn't supposed to see, they turned on me.

Thomas: What things?

Stager shook his head, his eyes hollow. 

Stager: You wouldn't understand. No one would.

Thomas's jaw tightened, frustration bubbling. Whatever Stager had found, it didn't matter now. What mattered was piecing together the rest of this nightmare. A double-crossed co-founder and a rogue client. 

Thomas's scowl deepened, his hands clenching into fists. This wasn't just business. This was chaos, and he was caught in the middle of it. 

But before he could follow that train of thought any further, the sound of boots on metal brought him back to the present.

The gunmen were getting closer.

Thomas turned to Harrison, his eyes blazing. 

Thomas: Stay quiet. Follow my lead. And if you so much as breathe wrong, I'll let them have you.

Without waiting for a response, Thomas moved.

The muffled clatter of boots against the metal stairs echoed ominously, growing louder with every passing second. Thomas crouched low, his muscles coiled like a spring ready to snap. The moment the first man's head appeared above the railing, Thomas leapt into action.

He dropped from above with the precision of a predator, his weight crashing onto the lead gunman like a cannonball. The man let out a strangled cry as he crumpled under Thomas's assault. Before anyone else could react, Thomas seized the man's gun, spinning with fluid grace as the remaining group froze in shock.

These lot… 

They're just businessmen at heart, aren't they? Not warriors.

But me? 

Thomas's fighting style wasn't polished, not in the way of trained soldiers or martial artists. It was raw, unrefined, and animalistic—an extension of his instincts rather than learned technique. He didn't calculate his next moves; he didn't need to. His body acted faster than his brain could process.

He darted toward the second man, dodging wild gunfire as he shoved the unconscious body of the first into the line of fire. Shots ricocheted off the stairwell walls, the confined space amplifying the chaos. Thomas dropped low, sweeping the second man's legs from under him before driving the butt of the stolen gun into his chest.

More men rushed up from below, their faces obscured by masks but their panic palpable. They collided with each other in their desperation to reach him, their coordination faltering in the cramped stairwell. 

He fired shots haphazardly, not aiming to kill but to disable. Knees buckled, arms went limp, and yells of pain echoed up and down the stairwell. Thomas reached for whatever he could find to keep up his assault.

His eyes landed on something peculiar amidst the chaos—a baseball bat, abandoned and oddly out of place. It didn't matter where it had come from. He swung wildly, the dull thuds of impact reverberating as the bat connected with bodies.

Thomas wasn't fighting with finesse or strategy; he was fighting to dominate. The businessmen-turned-gunmen could barely keep up, their lack of combat experience laid bare in the cramped, suffocating space.

Finally, Thomas allowed himself to breathe. He stood at the center of the carnage, his chest rising and falling heavily as he surveyed the damage. Unconscious bodies lay sprawled across the stairwell, some groaning faintly while others were completely still. Blood stained the walls and floor, but none of the men were dead.

But there was no time to rest. He picked up a fresh gun from one of the downed men. He found Stager crouched low near the wall, trembling like a leaf. The man had wisely avoided the conflict altogether, keeping his head down and out of the fray. 

For a split second, Thomas felt a flicker of relief. Stager was alive, which meant the information he needed was still intact. But as he reached out to drag the man to his feet, something caught his attention—a faint sound, barely audible over his own breathing.

Thomas turned his head, his instincts screaming too late as he stared at the barrel of Cromley's gun. The businessman's face was a mask of rage, blood trickling down his cheek where Thomas's earlier bullet had grazed him. His finger rested firmly on the trigger, his eyes burning with fury.

Cromley: Well, well... aren't you full of surprises, child.

For the first time since the fight began, Thomas's smirk faltered.

Cromley's steps echoed against the stairwell walls as he moved toward Thomas, the gun in his hand raised with a deadly precision. The smirk etched across his bloodied face was maddening, and his every movement oozed overconfidence. 

Thomas, for his part, didn't move immediately. His body was stiff, his mind racing to conjure a way out of this mess.

Thomas's gaze flicked down to Harrison, who sat trembling at his feet. His body acted before his brain caught up, and in one swift motion, Thomas grabbed the collar of Stager's suit and yanked him up like a human shield. Pressing his own pistol to Stager's temple, Thomas barked, his voice sharp and commanding despite the panic bubbling underneath.

Thomas: Stop! One more step, and I'll blow Stager's brains out of his skull!

Cromley froze mid-step, his expression shifting. He tilted his head, the gun in his hand still aimed squarely at Thomas.

Cromley: You think I care if that man dies?

For a moment, Thomas hesitated. The smugness in Cromley's tone was palpable, and Thomas could feel the sweat trickling down the back of his neck. But he didn't falter. If Cromley wanted a game of nerves, he'd give him one.

Thomas: You don't care, sure. But what about Obsidian? You think they're going to be thrilled when they find out you let their investment get his head blown off because you couldn't keep your trigger finger in check?

The mention of Obsidian hit its mark. Cromley's expression flickered—just for a second. His finger wavered slightly on the trigger as his mind worked to process the implications. Thomas caught it, his smirk returning as his confidence surged.

Obsidian's got you by the balls, doesn't it? So, sit down, shut up, and let me think for a sec—

Before he could finish the thought, Cromley moved. Faster than Thomas expected, the man raised his gun and fired.

The bullet tore through Thomas's hand, a sharp, searing pain that ripped through his nerves. He yelled in agony, his gun dropping to the ground as blood poured from the wound. The momentum of the bullet carried through, striking Stager in the shoulder behind him. Stager cried out, collapsing back against the wall as Thomas stumbled, clutching his mangled hand.

Cromley smiled, stepping forward with a victorious glint in his eye.

Cromley: See, that's the problem with you young folk. Your problem is bluffing. You're not very good at it. And that's why you lost.

He didn't waste time gloating. With one swift motion, Cromley raised his boot and delivered a brutal kick to Thomas's face, sending the boy sprawling onto the ground. Pain exploded across Thomas's skull, his vision swimming as he struggled to breathe.

Thomas tried to push himself up, his bloodied hand trembling as he propped himself against the cold, unforgiving ground. But Cromley was faster. The barrel of his gun was already pressed against Thomas's temple, cold and unyielding.

Bang, Bang, Bang!

Three deafening shots rang out in quick succession, reverberating through the stairwell like thunder. Cromley's body jerked violently, his smirk fading into a look of shock as he crumpled to the ground. Blood pooled beneath his lifeless head, his once-gleaming watch now dull under the dim stairwell light.

Thomas blinked, his mind struggling to catch up. He turned his head slowly, wincing from the pain, to see Harrison Stager standing shakily a few feet away. The man's hands trembled as he held Thomas's fallen pistol, his chest heaving with shallow breaths.

Thomas: Stager...?

Harrison's face was pale, his eyes wide and unblinking as he stared at Cromley's lifeless body. His grip on the gun loosened, and it clattered to the ground with a metallic clang. 

Thomas collapsed on the cold concrete stairs, his chest heaving, his bloodied hands trembling as he pressed them to his face. His body screamed for rest, but the pounding of his heart wouldn't let him stop. He wiped at his nose, smearing blood across his face and sleeve, then let out a shaky breath. His shoulders slumped, and for a moment, he just let himself collapse further.

The smell of blood and sweat clung to the stale air. Everything felt heavy—the silence, the fatigue, the weight of too many unanswered questions. Thomas let his head hang, his messy hair falling over his eyes as he stared at the ground beneath him.

Too many. Too many bodies on the floor. Too many dead eyes staring back. Too many damn pieces, none of them fitting together. What's the point of all this? 

Beside him, Harrison Stager sank to the steps as well, clutching his shoulder where Cromley's bullet had struck. The man hadn't said a word since he pulled the trigger earlier, and his face was twisted into an expression Thomas couldn't quite place—disgust, regret, anger, or maybe all three at once. His chest rose and fell with labored breaths, but he made no move to wipe the sweat pouring down his pale face.

Thomas glanced at Stager out of the corner of his eye. The man was practically steaming now, his body heat radiating unnaturally in the cool stairwell.

What's running through his head? Maybe he's not thinking at all. 

Whatever it is, it's too damn late for guilt trips now.

Thomas forced himself to move, dragging his exhausted body upright. His legs wobbled, but he stayed standing, determined not to let the weight of his fatigue crush him. He reached down, grabbing Stager by the collar and pulling him to his feet. The man staggered, leaning heavily against the wall, but Thomas didn't let him rest for long.

They stumbled their way up to the rooftop. Thomas couldn't stop the flood of thoughts racing through his mind. 

The stairwell's heavy metal door creaked open with a groan, and the cold rooftop air slammed into Thomas like a wave. His lungs welcomed it, despite the sting it left against the ache of his ribs. Dragging Harrison Stager up the last step, Thomas nearly collapsed, his knees buckling as he stumbled forward.

Thomas dropped Stager onto the ground near a rusted pipe, letting the man slump against it like a discarded bag of laundry. For a moment, all was quiet except for the distant hum of the city below and their labored breathing.

And then it hit.

The explosion tore through the night, shattering the stillness with a deafening roar. A brilliant array of dust and concrete erupted in the distance, painting the dark skyline. The ground beneath them seemed to tremble, the vibrations reverberating up through the rooftop and rattling the worn metal fixtures around them.

Thomas staggered, one hand instinctively grabbing a nearby vent for balance. His eyes snapped to the source of the explosion, wide and searching, heart thundering against his ribs.

Claire? No she's downstairs in the lobby. No, it's gotta be Grace and Kazuki. Right? But that doesn't add up either. 

Thomas: If Obsidian's so desperate to get their hands on you…

Then why the hell would they send Astral users to guard you in the first place? Why hire them, only to turn around and pull a stunt like this?

Thomas exhaled sharply, pacing a short line on the rooftop as the question hung in the air. His tone shifted, frustration seeping into his words as he continued, addressing no one in particular. 

Thomas: It's like they're playing both sides of the board. One moment, they're your loyal protectors, throwing Grace and Kazuki into the mix like they're here to keep you alive. The next, they're tearing apart your building with Cromley and his crew. What's the game here?

Stager's eyes flickered up to meet Thomas's for a fleeting second before darting away, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Thomas: This whole situation—it's a puzzle with half the pieces missing. And every time I think I've got a handle on it, something else gets thrown into the mix.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to punch something, to tear apart the mess of confusion swirling in his head. 

He wanted to go home.

Thomas clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as a bitter laugh escaped his throat. What an idiot he was. No, not just an idiot—a damn fool. 

He had truly believed, hadn't he? Believed he could be the one. The one to save everyone. The one to walk through fire and ash and somehow emerge unscathed, dragging everyone else to safety without a single sacrifice. 

He had failed.

Margarett was dead because of him. That innocent woman—dragged into a nightmare because he had chosen to meddle.

Cromley was dead, too. Thomas replayed the moment over and over in his head—the sound of the gunshots, the look on Cromley's face as his body hit the ground. That man hadn't been a saint, far from it, but his death… it was unnecessary. Pointless.

He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe.

Thomas pressed the heel of his palm into his forehead, grinding it against his temple as if sheer pressure could force clarity into his spinning thoughts. He let out a heavy, frustrated sigh.

If only I were a little brighter, I could probably figure this whole thing out in one go huh. What a disaster.

He glanced back at Stager, who still hadn't moved or spoken. The man was a broken puzzle piece himself, but Thomas knew one thing for sure—he needed him alive. Stager was his key to Obsidian, to Mason. 

With Stager's help, the path ahead seemed clear enough—or at least as clear as things ever got in a tangled mess like this. If anyone held the answers to finding Mason, it was the man slumped against the rooftop access door. 

Stager had knowledge, connections, and—whether he wanted to admit it or not—a heavy hand in the chaos around them. It was a simple enough plan: extract the information, regroup with Claire, and get the hell out of here.

But still...

Thomas' gaze drifted back toward the horizon, where a faint column of smoke rose in the distance, marking the site of the explosion. His fists clenched at his sides as a pang of guilt shot through him. 

Grace and Kazuki. 

Those two were still out there, still fighting, still holding the line for reasons Thomas couldn't begin to understand. 

It wasn't right.

How exhasting.

Thomas groaned. Every muscle in his body protested, but he ignored the pain. Turning back to Stager, he managed a crooked grin, his voice light despite the weight in his chest.

Thomas: Be good and sit tight, yeah? And when I get back, I want all the juicy details. 

Stager blinked, looking up at him with confusion etched across his face.

Stager: Where are you going? Hey! Who are you? What the hell are you even doing all this for?

Thomas paused, scratching the back of his head as if the question were too much effort to answer. Then, with a shrug and a small, tired smile, he replied.

Thomas: Hell if I know.

Before Stager could argue, Thomas turned and sprinted toward the edge of the rooftop. Without hesitation, he leapt, his feet finding purchase on the next building as he slid down a ladder and kicked off toward the explosion.