ELYSIUM

 

CHAPTER FOUR

Inside Memphis’s Lair

Matt DeSante woke with a jolt.

His head throbbed like war drums beating against bone. The stale air clung to his skin. Faint sunlight crept through a cracked window, casting long bars of gold and violet into the dark room. The sun, rising steadily from the eastern edge of Machine City, glowed like a molten god stirring from sleep. Its rays painted the lair with unnatural warmth—warmth that didn’t belong in this place.

The smell of gun oil, scorched wiring, and spent ballistics coated the air like fog. This was a war zone, disguised as a hideout. And today was mission day.

From the shadows, Memphis appeared.

Silent and sudden, like a bat loosed from the rafters. His figure limped forward, propped on a long black cane crowned with a pale white skull. His sunken eyes gleamed beneath a wide-brimmed hat.

“Matt DeSante,” he rasped. “You owe me.”

Matt sat upright, blinking off the haze.

“Your penance: kidnap the CEO of Whitley Cybernetics—Thomas Whitley. I’ve assembled a crew. They’ll brief you.”

Memphis pointed his cane to the far wall. One by one, four figures stepped from the gloom.

Two wore reinforced exo-suits, their limbs hissing with mechanical precision. The first—Ghost—was a towering soldier of African descent, muscles packed into a green tactical suit. A camouflage bandana clung to his head like a relic from his military past. Slung over his shoulder was a modified cyber-rifle, the kind that discharged electric rounds, designed to paralyze before killing. A worn dog tag rattled against his chest.

The next two—Huey and Sanchez—looked like twins, but weren’t. Same mercenary uniforms. Same haunted stares. Black eyes and tight jaws, they moved in sync, their skeletal exo-suits buzzing faintly with every step. Their faces told stories they never would—stories of pain, betrayal, blood.

Last came Alfred—the technician. Middle-aged, wiry, half-cyborg. Grenades, tools, and spare parts hung from every strap and belt. He moved with quiet efficiency, handing weapons to the others without a word.

“This is Ghost, Huey, Sanchez... and Alfred,” said Memphis, his voice colder than the sunrise behind him. “Your job is simple. One of Whitley’s vehicles has a tracker. Intercept it. Bring Thomas back. Alive.”

The team nodded as one.

“Yes, sir.”

Matt stood, face stiff.

“I don’t know what you’ve got going here, Memphis—but I’m not part of your damn crusade.”

Memphis smiled, showing teeth.

“Need I remind you... we have your wife. Your daughter.”

Matt froze.

“This is the price of their freedom,” Memphis whispered. “Don't play the hero, Matt. Heroes are the first to die.”

He turned away, disappearing into the dark like smoke. Matt stood there, fists clenched, haunted by the faces of his family.

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Moments Later

Armored, armed, and filled with dread, the crew rolled out.

They rode in two modified cars. One: a graffiti-sprayed Toyota Supra, fortified with armor and hidden weapon panels. The other: a sleek black Nissan GTR, loaded with nitrous, exhaust glowing blue. Inside, they sat with their weapons and silence.

The twins bickered in Spanish, voices sharp and rising.

“Ignore them,” Ghost said, glancing at Matt. “Coked out of their minds on brain-jack fluids. They’re lethal, but twitchy.”

Their destination: the outskirts of Elysium—a shining city of glass and privilege, far removed from the rust and rot of Machine City. Word was, Thomas Whitley had a warehouse meeting there. The plan was to intercept his convoy before it reached his jet. There would be no second chance.

They rolled out at high noon.

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Industrial District, Machine City

Where Elysium gleamed, Machine City decayed.

The outskirts were a graveyard of tech. Towering piles of rusted android limbs, severed drone wings, shattered car frames. Decommissioned robots lay like corpses from a forgotten war. The air was thick with smoke and carbon dust. Everyone wore gas masks. You had to.

The convoy approached.

Through his binoculars, Matt spotted the vehicles in the distance—black cyber-trucks flanked by armed robotic escorts. They moved in a smooth formation like a machine organism.

“Positions,” Ghost ordered.

The crew sprang into action.

They rolled wrecked cars into the road, ignited tires into a wall of flame. The trap was set.

“Now!” shouted Sanchez, lobbing an EMT grenade.

A sharp pulse cracked through the air. Sparks erupted from the leading convoy. Two escort droids dropped like puppets with their strings cut. Others deployed, weapons drawn, blue lights pulsing from their helmets.

Gunfire erupted.

The twins went in first, guns blazing. Matt moved to the right flank, shotgun in hand. His rounds tore through synthetic limbs. One robot screeched and spun before collapsing into scrap. More approached—fast, heavily armored, spraying return fire.

“Behind the Supra!” Ghost yelled. Then—bang.

A round hit him square in the torso. He fell, clutching his stomach. Blood soaked the seat as he dragged himself toward cover.

Matt reached for him.

“Get back!” Ghost grunted.

Too late.

A grenade soared through the air and landed beside him.

Ghost vanished in the blast.

Oil and blood mixed in the dirt. The sun burned above them. One of the robots collapsed with a hiss, Matt’s final shell still smoking from the chamber.

The fight died down. Smoke clung to the battlefield. Broken machines sparked and twitched across the cracked concrete.

Matt rushed toward the last cyber-truck. He yanked open the door—found Thomas Whitley slumped inside, hands bound.

“Whitley! You're comin’ with—”

Crack.

A single bullet. Matt staggered back.

The shot had hit him low in the chest. He collapsed, gasping, vision swimming. Blood spilled into his hands as he tried to stop the flow, but the cold was already creeping in.

From above, a low hum filled the air.

Police air patrol.

A black helicopter pierced through the clouds, rotors deafening. A voice boomed from a speaker.

“This is Sergeant Fallon of the Elysium Security Force. Lower your weapons and lie face-down on the ground! This is your only warning!”

They had no choice. The crew—what was left—dropped their guns and raised their hands.

Matt fell to the concrete. His breathing was shallow. Sirens screamed in the distance.

And all he could think was—

What will Memphis do now?

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