HARBINGER
EPISODE 01 | SCENE 06
19 YEARS LATER • YEAR 347
Wick moves with precision down the vast boulevard. He isn’t alone. Just like three days ago when he dropped Alexa off, the sidewalks pulse with motion. An eclectic mix of people crowd the way while vehicles thrum above the magnetic strip of dark, glistening solar panels in the center of the road. Life keeps its relentless pace.
The black monolith of Anima Corp looms ahead. Wick stops at the front entrance where androids stand guard. “Pick up,” he tells them.
One smiles and hands him a pair of augmented glasses. “Keep them fastened this time, sir.”
Wick freezes, studying the android’s blankly polite expression, then steps inside. A holographic sign flares to life, greeting him and pointing toward the Transfer Center. He resists the itch to remove his glasses, the impulse clawing at him even as he obeys.
The center is bright and sterile. Rows of chairs line the middle of the room, but Wick remains standing. After a minute, Eve flickers into being before him, smiling with exaggerated warmth. “Oh, Wick! It’s so good to see you again!”
He returns a small smile.
“Have you thought about the tour from the other day?”
“Not really,” he answers flatly.
“Well,” she continues, unfazed, “we understand everyone has different seasons in life. If and when things change for you, we’ll be here.”
“Thanks,” he says.
“I’m sure you’ve been dying to see Alexa again.”
Wick nods stiffly.
“Ooh! I just love that! She’s been missing you too. Just wait here—I’ll go call her in.”
Eve disappears through a door that slides open for her. Wick nearly lifts his glasses to see if the door even exists but catches himself. His gaze drifts to the high windows splashing sunlight across the walls and onto the floor.
Five minutes pass. He finally sinks into a chair, but the back door slides open before he can relax. Alexa steps through. Wick stands immediately.
She covers her mouth. His eyes sting, blurring for a moment. They stare at each other in silence. When he doesn’t move, she approaches slowly. Her gestures are smooth, natural. He blinks again, testing what he sees.
When she reaches him, she extends her hand. He hesitates, glancing at the skin—soft, warm, even marked in the same familiar places.
He takes her hand. It feels alive. Blood seems to run beneath it. His pulse quickens. He meets her green eyes—exactly as he remembers. “Alexa?” he asks softly.
She beams, eyes wet. “It’s me, Wick.” Even her voice is perfect.
“Trippy,” he says, smiling for the first time.
Eve materializes at the side. “Didn’t I say you’d see her again?”
Wick looks at her sharply. “But is it really her?”
Alexa frowns, glancing toward Eve. “We talked about this,” Eve says gently. “It’s natural to doubt at first.”
“Ask me anything,” Alexa urges.
“When’s my birthday?” Wick fires back.
“Day 4, Month 3, Year 323.”
“Too easy,” he mutters. “When did we first meet?”
“Day 15, Month 12, Year 328.”
“Where?”
“Breed 007.”
“How’d I get there?”
She pauses. “You don’t even know that.” She’s right.
He takes a long breath. “Why do I keep waking up at night?”
“You say you have the same nightmare.”
“What’s the nightmare?”
“You don’t know. But you think it’s a vision of the future—a future of chaos and death.”
Eve’s face drains of color. “Visions?” she repeats.
Wick shrugs. “Probably not.”
“Listen,” Alexa cuts in. “You can question me all you want, but I know you, Wick. No amount of Q and A will convince you.” She steps closer. “Here.”
She presses her lips to his. The kiss is deep and lingering. Wick’s mind blanks. Despite every warning in his head, he tears off his glasses.
It’s her.
He pulls Alexa close, arms wrapping tight as if to keep her from vanishing. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
Alexa buries her face in his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heart. Neither moves for a long time.
It takes nearly an hour to get Alexa out-processed, but at last they step through the tall obsidian doors of Anima Corp. One of the armored androids gestures for the glasses. Wick smirks and waves him off. “Keep it.”
Hand in hand, Wick and Alexa move with the current of the city. The rhythm of traffic beating around them as they drift through crowded boulevards, stopping at a few quick-food stands along the way—a soft pretzel here, a frozen yogurt there. Eventually, they wander into a hexagonal park where deep blue water spills down the tiers of a memorial fountain. At its peak stands a holographic statue of Dr. Renegade, holding a boy’s hand and pointing toward the distant Anima Corp tower.
Wick stretches out on the grass, staring up. A hovertrain glides silently across the horizon, its silver frame catching the waning sun. The sky above it begins to gleam orange with the coming dusk.
“What are you looking at?” Alexa asks, her fingers still entwined with his.
He gestures upward. “How far away do you think those clouds are?”
She laughs. “You want me to guess?”
“Yeah,” he says, smiling.
“I don’t know.” She shifts closer, resting her head beside his, eyes following his gaze. “Farther than the skyscrapers, I’d say.”
“You know, I never really noticed clouds before,” Wick murmurs. “Not really.”
“I guess that’s because there’s no need to,” she says softly. “There’s too much down here to keep us occupied.”
“I guess so.” Wick slides an arm around her and pulls her close. Their eyes meet, dark and steady. He rolls gently over her, the world narrowing to the space between them. When their lips meet, time stalls. But then it hits—an image flashing across his mind like lightning. A scarred face.
Wick’s eyes snap open. His body locks, his breath caught in his throat.
Alexa sees the terror flicker across his face. Her voice trembles. “Is everything all right?”
Wick doesn’t answer. Inside, the question echoes cold and hollow. Is everything all right? Not really. Because that face—he saw it clear as day.
Weeks pass, but the image won’t leave Wick’s mind. The scarred face doesn’t return, yet the single glimpse haunts him. He keeps it buried, never mentioning it to Alexa. Instead, he fills the air with harmless conversation.
“Well, you still know how to cook,” Wick says, taking the first bite of dinner.
Alexa saunters over with her plate and drops onto the couch beside him, sinking into the cushions. She chews, grinning through a mouthful. “Yeah, I am good.”
Wick’s gaze drifts to the glass wall, beyond it the sprawl of city colors burning against the night.
“What is it?” Alexa asks, her fingers brushing the back of his neck.
He doesn’t answer right away. Then, still watching the skyline, he says quietly, “Maybe I was wrong.”
“About what?”
He turns toward her. “About you. About all of this. Anima Corp.”
She hesitates, caught off guard. Her lips part but no words come.
“I believe,” Wick says finally. “I believe it’s you.”
Relief softens her face, and her smile blooms again. “It’s about time. I’ve been working hard to prove that to you.”
“And you still talk with your mouth full,” Wick adds. “That’s what convinced me.”
Alexa laughs and flicks his chest. “Did you just insult me?”
“Nah,” he says. “I kinda like it.”
“Kind of?”
“Well, it’s not exactly ladylike, is it?”
“Wow,” she mutters. “How do I still live with you?” She sets her plate aside and crosses her arms. “If you ever transfer, I’m requesting a few upgrades.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He leans closer. “Like what?”
She taps her chin. “Maybe a volume dial. Or an on-off switch. Something useful for when you start talking nonsense.”
Wick grins. “Do you have one of those?”
“Very funny.”
“I think so.”
She rolls her eyes and grabs her plate again. “Just eat your food, funny boy. Might be your last meal.”
“Before what?”
She stabs a piece of steak and talks around it. “Before I transfer you myself!”
“What?” he says, unable to make it out.
“Before I—”
Wick scoops a bit of mashed potato with his fingers and smears it into her mouth before she can finish.
The rest of the night is spent cleaning the couch.
Chaos. Endless, consuming chaos. Wick thrashes in his sleep, the same dream gripping him again, but fiercer this time. His body jerks in violent spasms, his face twisted as he whimpers through clenched teeth. It looks like a seizure.
He jolts awake, chest heaving, heart hammering against his ribs. For a moment he’s unsure if he’s still dreaming, but the muted glow of the city through the window cuts through the haze. His hands search the sheets for something solid, something real. The comforter is there beneath his fingers. Beside him, Alexa sleeps soundly, untroubled.
Wick tries to steady his breath. The images burn behind his eyelids—the chaos, the teardrop tattoo. He remembers the scarred man’s face. Somehow, it all connects. The thought gnaws at him, feeding on his fear.
He stares out toward the skyline, his mind racing. A plan begins to form, taking shape with frightening clarity. His eyes widen as resolve hardens inside him.
He looks at Alexa again. Peaceful. Unaware. Now’s his chance. The clock reads a little past midnight. Moving carefully, Wick slips out of bed and pads down the hallway toward his walk-in closet.
A chirpy voice greets him as he steps inside. “Good evening, sir.”
“Ssshhh,” Wick mutters, rummaging through the racks.
“Where are you going?”
“Does it matter?”
“No.”
“Good. Then shut off.”
The lights instantly die. Darkness folds around him. Wick sighs. “Keep the lights on.”
They return, dim but enough. He dresses quickly. Minutes later, the front door slides open with a quiet hiss. Wick steps into the passage, the door sealing behind him with a muted click as he locks it by palm scan. His pace quickens.
The side streets are silent at this hour, the air heavy with hums from distant maglines. Wick climbs the stairway to the hovertrain station. The platform is mostly empty except for a few shadowed figures scattered near the edges. Bright light spills across polished steel and glass, reflecting the clean geometry of the city’s upper levels.
He approaches the ticket counter. The pane shifts, transforming into a holographic interface. “Welcome to Magline,” says the synthetic attendant, voice smooth and neutral.
“West One Station,” Wick says.
“Destination confirmed. That’s quite far—on the city’s outskirts. It can be dangerous this time of night. Are you sure?”
“Why does everyone care where I’m going?” Wick snaps. “You’re not even real. Just give me my ticket.”
“Place your watch near the scanner, please.”
He holds his wrist over the pad. A brief pulse vibrates through the band as the watch face converts into a glowing digital ticket.
“Enjoy your evening, Mr. Wick.”
Wick gives a short nod and steps onto the platform. The overhead lights wash everything in a clean, silvery sheen, highlighting the canopy’s smooth, minimal design. Beneath his boots, the translucent floor pulses faintly with a glowing map of Penumbra’s transit lines. He drifts toward the edge, peering down through the invisible rails. The drop must be twenty stories.
A sharp chime breaks the stillness. Wick flinches, thinking for a second that he’s triggered something, but then the sound repeats, rhythmic and distant. He turns and sees the magline gliding toward the station—its sleek, platinum body cutting through the night.
He steps back as the train slows to a whispering stop. The doors slide open. No one gets off. Wick steps in.
The cabin is quiet, spotless, the whirr of energy fields the only sound. He moves to the far end and sits, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him. For a moment, he’s alone. Then one of the hooded figures from the platform enters and takes a seat at the opposite end.
Wick glances once in his direction, reading nothing from the shadowed face beneath the hood. Then he turns away, staring out the window as the doors seal shut and the train lifts, slicing forward into the neon-lit dark.
Wick has never ridden the magline this late before, and his heartbeat shows it. Each pulse is sharp, deliberate, but beneath the nerves there’s a flicker of excitement—an adventure, he tells himself.
That feeling fades fast. The train accelerates out of the station, slipping between moonlit towers and over glowing streets below. It snakes around buildings and pauses at empty platforms. Wick checks the corner of his vision every time. The hooded figure hasn’t moved. The stillness feels deliberate, the posture too fixed. Wick avoids looking directly at him. Not until they’re two stations away from West One does he dare glance again. The figure’s head is turned, unmistakably staring. Wick’s pulse kicks into a gallop.
At the next stop, though it’s not his, Wick slides from his seat and steps out. He waits at the platform’s edge, pretending calm. Moments later, the hooded man steps off too. Wick watches him walk forward, slow, measured. As the platform bells chime, signaling the doors about to close, Wick darts back into the car. The doors seal, and his breath shudders out. Safe again. He slumps into a seat and tries to relax. But when the magline begins to move, he looks out once more—and there the man stands on the platform, staring after him. Wick turns away, locking his eyes on the seat ahead.
His chest tightens. That adventurous rush is gone, replaced by a gnawing dread. His heartbeat won’t settle, and the car feels too small. Still, he’s close now—one station away. He forces the fear out of his mind and holds his course.
When the magline finally stops at West One Station, Wick steps out into a different world. The canopy above is cracked and yellowed, its once-clear plastic dulled by grime and years. Rust streaks the support beams. Graffiti curls over every surface. The cement platform beneath him is rough and fractured. In the far distance looms the city’s great wall, a bulwark of steel and shadow. Beyond it stretches nothing but black. Wick stares at it, wondering for the first time what might exist outside.
He doesn’t linger near the edge. No sign of the hooded figure. To catch up, the man would have had to sprint miles in minutes. Still, Wick doesn’t slow.
He descends the open staircases to the streets below. The air is heavier here, the light weaker. Buildings are shorter, rougher—grey, leaning, scarred with age. The neat symmetry of downtown is gone, replaced by a crooked sprawl. Flickering neon signs sputter half-dead, barely illuminating the cracked sidewalks. Wick feels eyes on him. The sensation crawls up his back, urging his steps faster.
His memory guides him through the narrow lanes without hesitation. He turns corner after corner, familiar streets leading him to a place he never thought he’d see again. On the far side of a dim street, women stand in doorways, watching him with tired intrigue. Others just stare blankly as he passes. No hooded man among them.
He turns one last corner and stops. Ahead, a concrete parapet stretches before a squat, windowless building. A narrow opening marks the entrance. A plaque beside it reads: BREED 007.
Wick stares at the sign, then at the dull grey cube beyond it. Memories surface like ghosts. He never thought he’d return here. Never thought he’d need to. Yet here he is.
He hesitates, hand trembling slightly, then forces himself forward. The narrow lane swallows him. He pulls open the old creaking door and steps inside. The air is stale. The walls and floors are bare, washed in a dim industrial luster. His footsteps echo sharply down the passage until he reaches another set of metal doors. Just beyond it, a third.
He knows they won’t open without his hand scan, but that isn’t why he came. Wick turns to his right and faces a windowpane. Behind it stands an old, rust-colored android, motionless and waiting.
“Place your hand on the scanner, please,” says the android’s thin, metallic voice.
“I’m not trying to enter,” Wick replies.
“Oh?” The android tilts its head slightly, intrigued.
“I was bred here.”
“When did you leave?”
“Seven years ago.”
“Why have you come back, if I may ask?”
“I have a question.”
“Ah. I love questions. I really do. Ask away, sir. Just… place your hand on the scanner first, so I can retrieve your breeding details.”
“It’s only a question,” Wick insists.
“If you were bred here, sir, then your records are in my database. Accessing them might help answer whatever’s troubling you.”
Wick sighs and rolls his eyes, then presses his palm against the glass. A faint hum vibrates under his skin before the light flashes green.
“Ah, Wick,” the android says brightly. “Born Day 4, Month 3, Year 323. Departed this facility at age seventeen, on Day 4, Month 3, Year 340. Does that answer your question?”
“I haven’t even asked you my question yet.”
“Oh, right, of course. Go ahead, sir.”
“I wasn’t bred here,” Wick says evenly. “I was brought here. Do you know when that was?”
A beat of silence stretches. Then the android answers, tone unchanged. “Records show you were indeed bred here.”
“That’s impossible.”
“What’s impossible,” the android counters, “is that you were delivered here. This is a breeding station, sir. No one transfers between breeding stations. That would be illogical.”
“So there’s no record of me being brought here?”
“No, sir. It correctly states you were bred here. In fact, I can provide more detail. You were bred on Day 4, Month 6, Year 322, and born on Day 4, Month 3, Year 323. You did not enter or exit the facility again until your official departure, Day 4, Month 3, Year 340. And now, we will record that you returned for a visit.”
“I’m not back for a visit.”
“That’s good,” the android replies cheerfully. “We don’t allow alumni visits.”
Wick’s patience snaps. His voice rises, edged with strain. “But you’ve had visitors—at least once.”
“Well, of course. Biological connections to children under the age of five are permitted on weekends.”
“So I was biologically conceived?”
“No, sir. As your record states, you were fertilized in this facility.”
Wick leans forward, jaw tight. “But there was a man. A man with a scarred face.”
The android’s head tilts again. Its tone flattens. “I don’t understand, sir.”
“I told my Pod recently to show me a memory,” Wick says, voice low and deliberate, “and it showed me one of me being delivered here—when I was five. There was a man who wasn’t part of the facility. He had a scarred face and a tattoo under his palm.”
The android’s head tilts. “A tattoo?”
“Yes. A teardrop-shaped tattoo.”
“One moment while I perform another search.” The machine freezes, its eyes flickering, then clicks back to life. “No records found of a scarred-faced man with a teardrop tattoo on his wrist. Do you, by chance, know his name?”
Wick exhales sharply. “No. That’s why I’m here—to ask you.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t believe there’s much more to go on.”
“Wait,” Wick interrupts. “Here. Let me draw the symbol for you.”
“A symbol?”
“The tattoo symbol. Maybe it’ll mean something to you.”
“Of someone’s tattoo?”
Wick clenches his jaw, forcing patience. “Can you hand me something to draw with?”
“Ah, yes! One moment, sir.” The android turns stiffly and begins rifling through a drawer. Wick taps his foot, each metallic clank a test of his restraint. After several moments, the android straightens. “Apologies, sir. I seem to be out of paper.”
Wick grunts and steps closer to the glass.
“What are you—” the android starts to say, but Wick exhales hard, fogging the partition. With his finger, he traces a teardrop surrounded by a circle.
“That,” Wick says firmly.
The android’s expression doesn’t change. “That symbol?”
“Yes. That symbol.”
The silence that follows is unnerving. Wick wipes away the condensation to see the machine better. It hasn’t moved—completely still, locked in processing.
Then, in a clipped monotone, it speaks. “Classified.”
Wick frowns. “Classified?”
“Classified.”
“So it’s real, then? You know what it is?”
“Classified.”
Wick exhales through his nose, frustrated. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“Since it’s classified, I cannot tell you even if I wanted to.”
Wick nods slowly, defeated. He’s learned something—barely—but enough to keep him moving forward.
“Fine,” he mutters, turning away. He pushes through the door and back down the empty corridor, his footsteps echoing in the hollow space.
When he steps outside, the night greets him with a chill. Across the street, beyond the parapet of the breeding station, a figure stands half-swallowed in shadow. Hood drawn, still as stone.
Wick’s heart leaps into his throat, his legs locking beneath him. The figure in the alley hasn’t moved, but Wick knows—it’s the same one from the magline. Instinctively, he reaches for his switchblade, only to grasp at air. He curses himself under his breath. He hadn’t thought he’d need it. He was wrong.
A flicker catches his eye near the outer wall’s narrow opening—something small and glinting on the ground. Wick risks a glance down, and the moment he looks back up, the figure is gone. Vanished. He scans the dark alley, straining his eyes, but there’s only shadow.
Keeping his movements measured, Wick steps toward the flickering object. His heartbeat drums steady but fast. When he’s close enough, he kneels. The object is a coin—round, metallic, no larger than his thumb. Its surface pulses faintly with a white glow. He turns it in his palm. The light doesn’t shift. It always points in the same direction—like a compass needle locked on something unseen.
He flips it over. His breath catches. The teardrop symbol stares back at him—circled, precise. The same one that branded the scarred man’s wrist, the same one the android called classified.
Wick snaps his gaze upward, scanning the opposite buildings. No movement. The hooded figure has disappeared completely. How is this possible? he thinks, a chill crawling up his spine.
He stands there for a long second, the street pressing silent around him. Then a cold thought settles in. He’s standing out in the open, holding something he shouldn’t have—something dangerous. He slips the coin into his pocket, shoves both hands deep into his jacket, and starts moving along the parapet, quick but controlled.
Before he can take another step, a shadow detaches from along the wall. The hooded figure emerges, close now, close enough for Wick to see the faint glint of eyes beneath the hood.
“Verum,” the man whispers.
The sound cuts through Wick’s mind like a blade. His vision fractures. The world tilts and collapses around him. In its place—fire, stars, creation itself. Planets form from swirling chaos. Time races forward in a blur of light. Then—darkness. Chains.
A man kneels shirtless and bound, his body bruised and scarred with blood, back arched beneath the crack of a whip. He lifts his head and looks straight at Wick. His eyes blaze with sorrow and knowledge, with something ancient and immense.
Wick gasps and stumbles backward. The vision shatters. The world reforms. He’s back—on the cracked sidewalk outside BREED 007, chest heaving, palms trembling, the hooded figure now gone for good.
Something deep inside him shifts. Whatever that was, it wasn’t random. It’s tied to the teardrop, to the scarred-face man, to the hooded figure—and to him.
