Split in Two, part 2
The ground is burning beneath Ivan's feet, as he gets suspected of a double murder
Jack March, September 10, 2192, Seven Winds
Jack was sitting in an unplugged massage chair by the window, eyes wandering into the dark abyss of the night. The open book was lying on his knees. He had barely made it through twelve pages, stalled by a tangle of archaic words he didn’t recognize. Normally, Ivan’s presence kept the worst thoughts at bay. But now, when he was left alone, the worries crept in like cockroaches.
He couldn't stop thinking about Ivan—about how close he was getting to Heldrich, to crossing some invisible line beyond which only catastrophe could follow.
Frustrated, he set the book down and went to the kitchen for hot water. But halfway there, he saw Vasilevsky in the hallway. Or at least, someone who looked like him.
The blond man’s tailored coat was gone, replaced with a filthy gray jumpsuit and a torn leather jacket. The elegant black patch that had always covered his eye socket had been swapped for a crumpled scrap of cloth. His long light hair was tangled and dusty. Blood had dried in dark streaks down his pant leg.
“Ivan?” Jack asked cautiously. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Let’s leave it for tomorrow, man. I’m hurt. I need rest,” Ivan muttered and moved past him, dragging himself up the stairs.
Jack made a move to follow, but the look Ivan gave him from the landing made him stop cold.
Well, here we go again. He sighed. Who the hell have I gotten mixed up with this time?
He thought back to Katrina. You didn’t learn your lesson, Jack. See someone with perfect teeth, man or woman—turn and walk the other way.
Resigned, Jack had his tea, chatted briefly with the porter about the Moon Cross, and was just about to retire when the other Vasilyevsky reappeared.
This one stepped out of his room dressed in crisp white athletic gear, a full backpack slung over one shoulder like it was summer already. His stride was off, unnatural—like someone had stitched on a pair of legs that didn’t quite belong to him.
Jack’s gut twisted. It was the same wrongness he’d felt yesterday.
So much for a peaceful night.
He rushed to his room, grabbed his coat, hat, and sidearm, and cautiously peeked out the window. Once the impostor had gotten a safe distance away, Jack slipped into the street, nearly forgetting to lock his door.
He kept to the shadows, trailing at about a hundred meters. When the figure turned a corner, Jack picked up speed, breath quiet, steps softer than dust. He moved from column to column, past barrels and bone-dry fountains, watching as the tall, one-eyed man glided through the pale yellow pools of streetlight like a ghost or a god of war.
Then he saw it.
Vassilevsky—or whoever he was—approached a lone guard slumped beside an old elevator shaft, still partially bricked up. Jack’s blood ran cold.
Without hesitation, the imposter jabbed something into the guard’s ribs. The man didn’t cry out. Didn’t twitch. He just sagged forward, collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, gave two final jerks—and went still.
Jack screamed.
“HEY! SIGHTED! OVER HERE! HELP!”
He fired as he ran—five shots, rapid. Not a single one found its mark.
The killer didn’t even glance back.
With a heave, he pried open the heavy elevator doors. And before Jack could close the distance, he slipped inside and vanished.
Ivan Vassilevsky, September 10, 2192, Seven Winds
If I were a metamorph looking for a quiet place to rest and shift shape, I’d head straight for the sealed-off lower levels. Even an idiot could tell there were still ways in. And let’s be honest—Nautilus wouldn’t forget to give their precious changeling a map of the facility. As for the mysterious midnight guest who visited Zachariah? Yeah. I had a damn good idea who that was.
I had a choice: double back to the old man’s place and search for a secret passage to the lab, or head straight to Heldrich and raise the alarm. That last option? I ruled it out fast. Even if Heldrich did believe the shapeshifter story (and I doubted it), he’d throw all his men to search and scare off my prey.
So I ran.
But even from down the street, I saw the fire—Glass’s workshop was lit up from the inside, flames licking the windows while bystanders shouted uselessly into the night. I didn’t know how the Seven Winds handled emergencies like this, but I sprinted forward anyway, hoping I could still help—only to find myself face-to-face with a dozen armed Sighted.
Some wore ragged leather armor. Others had salvaged Kevlar from the old security corps. And front and center was Johan Rasmussen, the same bastard who’d guided me around that morning. He had a guard’s helmet strapped over his buzz-cut head and wore a long coat just like mine—except his was all for show. I saw the shoulder plates, the bracers, the flak vest underneath. He was dressed to kill.
And right on cue, they all raised their crossbows and guns.
“Drop your gear, man” Rasmussen barked. “Now.”
I froze. Wasn’t hard to guess whose tricks were behind this little scene. The metamorph had set me up beautifully and rapidly. While I stood here playing scapegoat, it was getting away. And Jack—hell, Jack could already be dead.
Perfectly calculated timing, I admit.
“Any reasons, maybe?” I said, slowly raising my hands.
“Two dead in the last twenty-four hours,” Rasmussen growled. I didn’t have to ask who the suspect was—their faces told me everything.
There it was: the reason for the masquerade. Sow panic. Splinter alliances. Get the locals to do the dirty work. And if my theory about the mole was right, maybe even sabotage the deal between Winged Sun and Seven Winds altogether.
“Who?” I asked anyway, because I had to hear it.
“Zachariah Glass and his assistant,” he said flatly. “Glass had his throat torn out. Literally.” He nodded toward a body bag being hoisted onto a stretcher.
“And the kid?”
“Head split open with a cleaver. Brain removed.”
He winced and nearly gagged on the last word. For the third time in my life, I felt something inside me fold inward—implode into a black hole. Poor kid.
“They were together?”
“No. The boy was spotted in her backyard by Squirrel, over at the White Mermaid.”
“She yelled like a banshee,” one of the guards muttered.
“And that’s enough to pin it on me?” I snapped. “The freak went through my room two hours ago and snatched my clothes. He’s literally pretending to be me. I’m hunting him too, so let’s work together—before he slips away again.”
Even as I said it, I knew how it sounded. Knew what I was up against.
“Cut the games,” Rasmussen snarled, jabbing his rifle barrel toward my chest. “Drop the rest. Now.”
“I couldn’t run from you even if I wanted to,” I said, easing my shocker to the ground. “So you've got nothing to lose if we hunt the bastard together. My friend’s in danger—he went after him.”
“Jack? We picked him up already,” Rasmussen spat. “Took him in as your accomplice. He’s rambling—something about someone wearing your face. One of our patrolmen was found near him with a knife in his gut. Might not live through the night.”
“Johan, please—let’s at least swing by the hotel,” I tried one last time, putting what little charm I had left into it. “The staff there have things to tell you too.”
“Tomorrow,” he said flatly, waving me off. “Right now, you’re needed on the liner.”
Someone behind me snickered with mean-spirited glee—probably picturing what might happen to me in the next few hours. But that wasn’t what scared me. What really twisted the knife was realizing how cleanly my enemy had sprung the trap.
Luckily, even ordinary folks in Heliopolis were taught to defend themselves, but the Pathfinders? We were absolute experts at it!
The whole thing took two seconds, max.
My right foot swept back and sideways, dropping low in a sharp pivot that broke Johan’s grip. First strike—knife-edge of my left hand—smashed into his nose with a crunch. He didn’t even have time to scream before I ripped his shotgun from his shoulder and jammed the barrel into the soft hollow beneath his jaw.
Weapons snapped up all around me—black muzzles, harpoon tips, bolts and blades—all zeroed in on my head.
“Drop your gear! All of you!” I ordered, dragging Johan into position as a shield. “Take ten steps back, or your commander’s head’s gonna paint this alley!”
“Freeze, scumbag!” someone shouted back. “Let him go, and maybe we’ll bury you in one piece!”
Johan was sucking air through broken teeth, making a wet gargling sound. His face was a mask of blood. I held him tight, my left hand locked around his thick neck. I could feel his pulse hammering—strong, but fast. And his breath hit my face: salt-fish, garlic, old booze, and something like rotting metal. I tightened my grip.
“Back up! Ten steps. Nice and slow,” I insisted. “You screw this up, and he’s the one who dies.”
The Sighted hesitated, their eyes flicking between each other, waiting for a signal. But Johan? Turns out the bastard had a spine. He didn’t squirm, didn’t elbow me in the gut, didn’t beg. His heart was pounding like a drum, but what he really hated—what he feared—was looking weak in front of his team.
Fine, tough guy. I’ll fix that for you.
Still holding the shotgun firm, I reached down and yanked a slim dagger from the sheath on his thigh—blackened steel, hand-forged. I jabbed it hard into his upper thigh. He grunted—part pain, part panic. I could feel the shift in him.
“You a virgin, Rasmussen?” I whispered in his ear, low and crude, blushing under the cover of night. “Because if your goons don’t drop their toys right now, you’re not dying a hero’s death.”
He hissed—this time from fear. A tense silence followed. To remind them I wasn’t bluffing, I jabbed the blade deeper.
“They’ll just shoot through me, if I say so,” Jon growled through gritted teeth, “but if you survive—you're gonna be begging for death.”
“Don’t be a fool.”
It was a rough spot: the shotgun pressed to Rasmussen’s throat on one side, cold steel threatening his dignity on the other. He let out a long, shaky sigh and gave two downward waves of his hand—ordering his men to stand down. They laid their weapons beside them, slow and reluctant, itching to grab them the moment they got an opening. I was gambling hard. No way to know if they’d fully disarmed.
“Good boy,” I whispered into his ear. “Now, sweetheart, tell them to drop everything. Knives included. Before I use mine.”
“Knives, cleavers—drop it all,” Johan called to his crew, voice cracking, forehead slick despite the cold.
“Perfect. Now tell them—twenty steps back. I’ll count.”
They obeyed again. Out the corner of my eye, I saw silhouettes blinking in and out of the windows—curious onlookers peeking and hiding again. While Rasmussen’s crew reluctantly retreated, I dragged him the other way, dagger still pressed to his backside. I probably tore a hole in his pants—nerves, not malice. My biggest fear was that he might suddenly play hero. Luckily, Johan was old enough to know better.
Once we rounded the corner, I put him in a fast chokehold. He went limp in seconds. I laid him out gently—no need to be cruel—and bolted, already plotting a path to the market. I ducked into a low-rent tavern, scattering a handful of drunks, and ran straight through, out the back.
I burst into the lower atrium, a wide, echoing pit ringed by balconies. A shot cracked from above and slammed into my back—just a few inches off my spine. The kevlar-graphene weave of my coat took the worst of it, and the phytogel padding soaked up the shock. I spun, spotted a shadow darting away a level up, fired back—missed—and ducked behind a dumpster. Ripped the patch from my eye, slapped it onto my wrist—night vision snapped on. Everything got easier after that.
A low growl rumbled behind me. I turned and saw a filthy white tomcat guarding a fish head like it was the Holy Grail. One ear gone, whiskers twitching, fur bristled—full gangster mode. I nodded respectfully, backed away slow, scanned for exits.
Above, chaos: shouting, barking, boots pounding. Left side, thirty meters out, I saw a recess behind a row of squat columns—half-blocked by a metal grate. At the base, a black gap just wide enough for a skinny guy. Maybe.
Then—trouble. From the left gallery came a new Sighted, flashlight taped to his harpoon gun. No way he’d skip the dumpster: this wasn’t a movie. And the cat? Of course it had to growl again.
Well, boys—here we go.
I waited until the man got close, grabbed the cat by the scruff—sorry, pal—and flung it right at the enemy’s face. The man screamed, pulling the trigger, but I avoided the harpoon with a lunge, tackled him, knocked him cold with a jaw-shot, and grabbed his gun.
Then I bolted for the elevator. Torchlight flared above. The atrium thundered with boots. I lunged the last few meters, misjudged the distance, and slammed my legs into a metal railing. The screech rang in my teeth. I cursed, vaulted over, and dropped onto the floor below. A quick glance into the shaft: cables intact.
I leapt, caught one—should thank my father for my long arms—and clung on tight. Bullets pinged off the grating around me. I kicked into the shaft, still gripping the cable.
Still twenty meters to the bottom.
I yanked off my scarf, wrapped it twice around the cable, gripped tight and slid down. My boots slowed the fall, but the scarf gave out four meters from the bottom. I tucked and hit the foul, waist-deep water like a sack of bricks. Ocean backflow mixed with centuries of sewer rot—absolutely vile.
No respirator, no filter—just a soggy rag. I pressed it over my face and scanned the shadows for a way out. Someone threw a torchlight into the shaft, almost hitting me in the head.
A door to a maintenance room came into view—locked, naturally, and probably seriously rusted shut. Trying to pick it was a lost cause; only a powerful laser cutter would help—and my rogue copy had swiped that too. Kicking the door open didn’t work either.
Hissing with frustration, I leaned back against the damn door to catch my breath—only then noticing the metal rungs running up the wall. Of course the maintenance guys had to have a way to move between floors. I placed a hand on one of the rusted bars, testing its give. Worn out, running on fumes, I wanted nothing more than to finally see—if only from a distance—the end of this god-awful night.
But the second my fingers curled around the rung, I heard it: the steady, muffled clang of metal-on-metal echoing above. The cables began to tremble. Someone had decided to drop the elevator on me.
Guess they forgot I was supposed to be taken alive.
What are they using up there—an axe? Cute.
Let them huff and puff, just don’t let them near the winch.
But then… the vibrations stopped. Maybe someone up top finally grew a brain.
I climbed, quick and breathless, up to the first-floor level—thankfully, the doors there were already half-open. The problem? The ladder ended a good two and a half meters short of the doorway. No gadgets. No grapple. Just me and a whole lot of bad choices.
But since I’d managed to get into this hole, getting out should follow the same logic—right?
I pushed off the wall hard, caught a swinging cable, and hung there. This was about where my scarf had torn earlier, so I figured the drop wouldn’t kill me if I fell. I slid along to a closer cable, reached for the frame—slipped—and splashed into the rancid water again.
Swearing under my breath, I started slogging back toward the ladder—when I heard it again. Not the dull clang from before, but a crash, deep and ugly, followed by the high-pitched screech of tortured steel.
And then it hit me: the elevator was falling.
No time to think—just pure instinct. I dove for the service door, squeezing into the door-case. A heartbeat later, fifty years of rust and gravity came roaring down. The shaft shook like the world itself cracked open.
With a deafening crash. the elevator slammed into the water behind me.
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An interesting story full of suspense and mystery