Gatekeeper

Grayson didn’t move. No one did.
The only sounds were the soft whine of Enforcer armor servos and the hollow rush of stale air cycling through the overhead vents.

Tala’s sidearm was low but ready. Jarek’s hand hovered near his sheath.

Grayson’s eyes blinked, his HUD flaring to life automatically. He scanned angles and exits, noting the number of Enforcers ahead, doing the math in his head. Only eight Enforcers against the six of them. He almost pitied them.

His team might not look like much, but every one of them had once held elite ranks within the Enforcers. The only real wildcards were Mr. Black and the Captain. Captains were Special Grades and Grayson knew only he could go toe-to-toe with him if it came to that.

But time was short and he didn’t want a fight.

Grayson raised his hand and stepped forward slowly.

“Captain, If I may…”

“Not another step,” the man cut in sharply, voice clipped with an accent. “And the name is Captain Grant Morrow.”

“Any relation to Rukia?” Grayson asked, casually sidestepping a few inches.

Captain Grant instantly leveled his rifle at Grayson’s head. “Stop moving. And how do you know my cousin?”

Dominic stepped in smoothly, hands raised. “It seems the two of you have a lot to catch up on. If you’d let the rest of us go, we’re already late for a rather pressing appointment.”

“I said, don’t move!” Grant barked. Without looking back, he added for his squad, “First one who flinches… drop them.”

Five rifle barrels clicked into place, each one tracking a member of the crew. Grayson glanced at them and keyed in more information. 

Only six of them had rifles, the rest must not be above Grade C, he thought. A fight was advantageous to them but he couldn't tell just from looking, how many had stun rifles.

Dominic slowly raised his hands higher. “Let’s not be dramatic. We’re freelancers. Not rebels.”

Grant narrowed his eyes. “That’s exactly what a Black Mask sympathizer would say.”

“Any more ideas, fearless leader?” Venn muttered glancing at Grayson.

Grayson exhaled calmly, then tapped his wristpad. A blue holographic ID flared to life—digitally encoded with their credentials.

“We’re not with the Black masks,” Grayson said, voice measured. “We’re here on contract. A Navigation drop.  You can confirm the clearance codes from your registry.”

One of the Enforcers stepped forward with a handheld scanner, scanning the projection. Other than Grant he was the only one without a visor.

'Probably a lieutenant,' Grayson thought. Another special grade.

A moment passed.
Beep.

Beep.

The lieutenant frowned. “ID checks out... but it’s on a provisional whitelist. It’s a level-7 clearance.”

Grant’s expression didn’t shift. He nodded to his lieutenant, then turned back with a grin, approaching Grayson.

“Well then,” he said lightly, “looks like your clearance checks out.” He stepped closer. “A level-7 clearance no less. You must be real VIPs, huh.”

“May we pass?” Grayson asked, tone flat.

“In a moment,” Grant replied smoothly. “Just finishing a report. Since the recent raids, policy requires logs for any movements in the city. They’ve been causing us a lot of problems you see, entering and leaving as they pleased. It was a real head scratcher, but then I figured... they must be using these old tunnels to move freely. I’m sorry for that long exposition, but you get the picture.”

Grayson’s face remained neutral, but he was watching every microexpression. He noticed the Lieutenant whispering something to each of the Enforcers.

“Still, if you don’t mind, I would like to ask you…freelancers some few questions while we wait. Humour me a bit.”

Grayson nodded. “As you wish.”

Grant’s smile grew more pointed. “I’ve been having some difficulty understanding something. If you’re simply freelancers…why use the tunnels and not the main gate. Seems strange for licensed contractors to sneak through dead zones, don’t you think?”

Grayson met his eyes. “Right…we must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.”

“A fair point. But there’s also another problem with your clearance…”

He and Grayson locked eyes, each trying to guess what the other is thinking.

Grayson interrupted. He interlocked his hands behind and sent a signal to his team. Tala saw it and sighed. A signal to prepare for war. 

 “Captain, your lieutenant is still confirming our clearance, yes? Isn't standard protocol is to record holographic credentials for the report. I’ve yet to see any scans or recordings. Almost as if... you’re not writing a report at all.”

Grayson held his breath for a half-second.
Then Grant’s grin stretched wider, slow and cold.

“You got me,” he said softly. “You’re sharp. I like that. You’re not Black Masks operatives, that much is clear otherwise you would have attacked by now. But you’re not clean either, something about you lot is off. And since you seem to be familiar with our protocols, I should also tell you that we recently changed the registry codes. It’s how I know yours are forged, but it was quite impressive. It might have worked…if you met anyone but me.”

For a second, neither man moved—both veterans reading each other’s stance, measuring angles, estimating force and reach like breathing. 

“I’m the Gatekeeper, the only one in this city who can authorize anything above Level-4. I’m placing you under arrest.”

Grant turned his back and waved his Enforcers to move forward.

“I’m looking forward to learning how you got those clearance codes. It's going to be a good chat.”

The Enforcers advanced in unison, their rifles raised.

“Turn around!” the lieutenant barked.

“Your orders, Mr. Grayson?” Jarek asked, rotating calmly.

Grayson sighed. “Was hoping we’d avoid this.”

Venn cracked his neck and grinned. “Showtime!”

The lieutenant reached for Grayson’s arms—but he twisted at the last second, spinning the officer around and shoving him backward, using his momentum to disrupt the squad’s formation.

Grant fired.

Grayson moved instantly—pivoting as the Grant’s Plasma shot flew past his cheek. He surged forward, two steps and he was inside Grant’s range, slapping the barrel upward and driving a punch toward his jaw.

Grant blocked and twisted, bringing a brutal elbow into the back of Grayson’s neck. They collided, grappling in a blur—two elite tacticians in a violent ballet.

Backwards from them, the lieutenant swung a stun baton at Tala. She dodged left, dropped low, and slammed her palm into the gap on his armor, in between his ribs. The Lieutenant stumbled but tried to swing again.

She pivoted, struck again under his arm and swept his legs out. One final strike to the head. The man dropped instantly.

“Don’t underestimate them!” she barked.

Two Enforcers charged Jarek with shock-batons. Jarek exhaled and pivoted calmly. One baton struck his shoulder—he rolled with it, trapping the arm, then launched the attacker with a hip throw.

The second rushed with another baton. Jarek spun low, twisted under the strike, and redirected the force, flipping the man hard to the ground. 

In a blink, both were down and disarmed.

A female Enforcer fired plasma bolts. Jarek jumped and rolled, then drew his blade from its sheath with a whispering shhhk, and flung it—a precise arc. Non-lethal, with just enough force to pierce into the her visor. The bolt sputtered mid-shot.

Venn was already moving toward the female Enforcer before she could react. He crashed down punching through her —shattering it—and rupturing her eye in the process. She dropped down blood coming from his eye.

“My eye…!” she howled.

“Shut up,” Venn growled, kicking her unconscious. Then he grinned and removed the knife from her eye licking the blood.

Dominic ducked low, plasma bolts slicing past so close the heat curled the edges of his coat. An Enforcer lunged grasping his suit. The moment hands closed around his coat, Dominic twisted slipped free and used the back of his gun to hit the attacker’s ear.

“Not a fan of hugging,” he muttered, disarming the soldier and slamming a knee into the man’s face. “This suit is tailored, hands off.”

Dust and broken concrete rained down as the far wall cracked under another Enforcer volley.

He bolted toward the collapsed column where Mr. Black stood behind a shattered stone. He pulled out his dual pistols while jumping, twisted his body and shot twice, striking an Enforcer’s chest. The Enforcer fell down writhing in agony from the electric rounds before passing out.

Dominic slid beside the shattered stone, slammed a fresh mag into his own weapon with a practiced snap, then grabbed Mr. Black’s collar, dragging him deeper into cover just as another burst of fire carved through the air they’d occupied seconds ago.

Mr. Black struggled, trying to break free. “I can help....I can fight....!”

“No, you can’t,” Dominic hissed, pinning him against the wall. His voice stayed low but fierce. “You’re not ready for this, bro. Not yet.”

Mr. Black’s hands twitched at his sides, torn between anger and fear, but Dominic was already turning, eyes sharp, sweeping the battlefield, recalculating.

“Stay down,” he warned one last time, before vaulting over the rubble and disappearing back into the fray.

Meanwhile—

Grant shoved Grayson off and spun, launching a precise roundhouse that clipped Grayson’s temple. Grayson staggered, but recovered fast, blocking a jab and retaliating with a palm strike into Grant’s throat.

Grant choked and stepped back, rubbing the impact.

He grinned as he saw a number of Enforcers crowding the  back entrance of the tunnel, right where Dominic and Mr. Black were taking cover.

“This fight’s over. My backup’s arrived. No point dragging it out.”

Grayson took a fighting stance.

Grayson raised his fists. “If you spent half as much time punching as you do talking, you might actually win.”

Grant smirked.

Instantly, the room seemed to shrank around them. They circled each other like two predators on uneven ground—every breath between them thick with calculation.

Grant’s eyes narrowed. He reached behind his back and unsheathed two collapsable batons. He flicked them both extending into full length with a sharp crack of compressed metal. He tossed the second baton toward Grayson.

“Don’t like fighting unarmed opponents,” Grant said, his tone deceptively casual.

Grayson caught it mid-air, twirled it once behind his wrist, settling into a low stance—knees bent, shoulders relaxed, weight balanced against the magnetized grip of the baton.

He smirked.
“Funny. We both favor the same weapon.”

“They do say a weapon is only as good as the wielder,” Grant remarked. “Let’s find out who’s better.”

The first exchange was a blur.

Grant struck low, sweeping at Grayson’s knees. Grayson jumped over it and came down with a vertical counter aimed at Grant’s collarbone. Grant pivoted, absorbing the strike along his forearm, using the momentum to twist and drive an elbow toward Grayson’s throat.

A tuck and a roll beneath the elbow, Grayson came up behind Grant’s left flank and lashed out with a spinning backhand —the baton slamming into Grant’s ribs. He grunted but recovered fast—snapping his baton upward in a reverse grip, catching Grayson’s jaw with a jarring uppercut strike that snapped his head sideways.

Grayson staggered, but his footing held.

Their weapons clashed again—baton against baton—each hit sending tremors up their arms, metal biting against metal in rapid percussion.

“So,” Grant said catching his breath. “How do you know my cousin?”

“Huh?”

Grayson evaded a back kick.

“Don’t play dumb. Are you one of Rukia's love interests?”

Grayson chuckled. “Nothing so crude. She’s only a comrade I used to know, that’s all.”

“Interesting. You can tell me more after I put you behind bars.”

To be Continued....