Los Sueños
The neon sign of Los Sueños flickered against the pre-dawn sky, casting art deco patterns across rain-slicked streets. The establishment sat between high-end pleasure houses and desperate street corners – a middle ground where anonymity was the primary commodity.
Vega's enhancement ports pulsed with subdued annoyance as he studied the building from their parked vehicle. Three nights without contact. Three days of operations conducted without their leader while rumors of bloodied cartel soldiers found in industrial districts made their way through tactical channels.
"You sure he's in there?" Torres asked, his neural targeting systems scanning heat signatures through reinforced walls. "Lot of bodies."
"He's in there." Moreno's confidence came from street instinct rather than technological certainty. He bounced his knee in that perpetual motion that drove Torres crazy during stakeouts. "Third time this month. Same pattern."
Diaz's fingers danced through data streams, sensory enhancements filtering ambient information with clinical precision. "No tactical alerts in the system. No hospital admissions matching his biometrics. No morgue reports fitting his description."
"That's your reassurance?" Vega's massive frame shifted uncomfortably in the driver's seat. "He's not dead in an alley somewhere?"
"Yet," Torres added under his breath, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against his sidearm.
"You ladies going to gossip all night, or we getting our jefe back?" Moreno grinned, already opening his door. "Besides, Marta's working tonight. I owe her money."
"You always owe someone money," Torres muttered, but followed him out of the vehicle.
Diaz hesitated, sensory enhancements still cycling through data streams. His hand hovered over the medical kit he'd brought – a habit formed from too many retrievals that ended in emergency treatment. "Chen's going to kill us if she finds out. Last time she caught us covering for him, my enhancement privileges were suspended for a week."
"Then we don't tell her," Vega rumbled, his enhancement ports cycling to combat readiness despite himself. Months of operations had created automatic response patterns – even retrieving their drunken commander triggered tactical assessment.
The doorman recognized them immediately – not by their tactical gear, which they'd left behind for this non-sanctioned retrieval, but by the subtle enhancement signatures that marked them as Association operatives.
"Back again?" he asked, muscled arms crossed over his chest. Enhancement ports pulsed beneath his collar – basic security package, nothing military-grade. "Your boy's been here three days straight."
"Three?" Vega's fingers flexed involuntarily, joints cracking. "He hasn't left?"
The doorman shrugged. "Leaves during daylight. Comes back like clockwork when the sun sets." He studied them with professional assessment. "Boy's carrying something heavy. Seen it before in my military days."
"We all carry something," Torres replied, fingers unconsciously tapping combat rhythm against his thigh. "That's why places like this exist."
The doorman nodded in silent acknowledgment, then stepped aside. "Second floor, third room on the left." He hesitated, then added, "Marisol's been keeping an eye on him. Good girl, that one. Better than this place deserves."
Inside, Los Sueños operated at half-capacity – early morning emptiness making the establishment feel larger than it was. A few late-night customers nursed drinks at the brass-fitted bar, while tired-eyed staff performed professional courtesies with mechanical precision. Music from a vintage gramophone played softly through art deco speakers, creating background noise that masked private conversations.
Moreno spotted a familiar face behind the bar – a woman whose enhancement ports pulsed with the subtle patterns of someone who collected information as valuable currency. He approached with practiced ease, the confidence of someone returning to familiar territory.
"Marta! Still breaking hearts and bank accounts?"
The woman looked up, recognition warming her expression despite professional reserve. "Moreno. Still owe me for information on the Sector Seven job."
"That intel was half-right at best," he countered with the comfortable rhythm of established banter. "Nearly got my ass shot off."
"Sounds like user error to me." She smiled, setting aside the glass she'd been polishing. Her enhancement ports cycled recognition patterns as she noticed his companions. "Your friends look too serious for this establishment."
"They were born serious," Moreno replied, leaning against the bar with deliberately casual posture. "We're looking for someone."
"Aren't we all?" Marta's enhancement ports cycled caution patterns beneath professional flirtation. "Your boss has been keeping Marisol busy. Three nights running."
Vega stepped forward, his massive frame drawing automatic attention. "He's still here?"
Marta nodded toward the staircase. "Hasn't moved since yesterday afternoon. Paid for privacy. Marisol's concerned."
The team exchanged glances – Vega's jaw tightening with protective instinct, Torres's eyes narrowing in tactical assessment, Moreno's smile fading to something grimmer, Diaz's fingers clutching the medical scanner hidden in his pocket.
"Marta," Moreno called back over his shoulder as they moved toward the stairs. "That Sector Seven intel. Put it on my tab."
"Your tab's longer than your enhancement record," she replied with practiced sharpness that carried genuine affection. "But for you, I'll add it to the list."
The second floor corridor stretched into art deco shadows, brass fixtures casting geometric patterns across faded carpet. Quiet murmurs behind closed doors mixed with the building's creaking bones – an old structure adapting to changing times.
The third door on the left stood partially open, warm light spilling into the hallway. Vega took point, enhancement ports cycling combat readiness despite tactical assessment indicating minimal threat. Some habits ran deeper than training.
Inside, Kasper sat at the edge of the bed, shirtless and still, staring at nothing. Empty bottles of aguardiente lined the floor – evidence of futile attempts to numb something enhancement rejection had made resistant to chemical intervention. His scars stood out in stark relief against pale skin, each one mapping violence given and received.
Torres's breath caught audibly. Diaz's hand froze halfway to his scanner. Moreno swore under his breath – a string of street dialect that transcended language barriers.
Marisol moved among the shadows, gathering discarded clothing with careful movements that suggested concern rather than professional obligation. Her enhancement ports cycled subdued patterns when she noticed them at the door – relief mixing with professional caution.
"Your timing's good," she said quietly, nodding toward Kasper. "He's been like this for hours."
Vega entered first, his massive frame blocking the doorway as he assessed the situation. "Kasper. Time to go."
No response. Just that thousand-yard stare that battlefield medics recognized as consciousness retreating from what it couldn't process.
Torres moved forward, neural targeting systems highlighting biometric anomalies. "Enhancement rejection's accelerating. Neural cascade imminent if we don't get him to medical." His fingers traced the air above Kasper's scarred shoulder, where muscle had reformed into something almost armor-like. "I've never seen rejection patterns restructure tissue like this."
"Tried to call someone," Marisol said, handing Moreno Kasper's discarded shirt. "He wouldn't give me names. Just kept saying the same thing over and over."
"The void remembers," Diaz guessed, sensory enhancements picking up micro-expressions that others missed.
Marisol nodded, professional distance slipping to reveal genuine concern. "Three days of this. Comes back bloodied each morning. Doesn't sleep. Barely eats. Just drinks until he can't stand, then we..." She gestured vaguely, enhancement ports cycling embarrassment patterns. "It's not healthy. Even for what we do here."
"It's not your job to fix broken hunters," Vega said, the gentleness in his voice surprising his teammates. His massive hands carefully assessed Kasper for injuries, enhancement-assisted strength controlled to avoid causing harm. "We'll take him from here."
"The boy who was found in Sector Five," Marisol said suddenly, stopping them as they prepared to move Kasper. "The one the papers said was rescued from traffickers. Was that him?"
The team exchanged glances, professional caution warring with the reality that rumors had already spread throughout Costa del Sol.
"The void remembers," Moreno confirmed without confirming. The words had become coded acknowledgment – permission to hope without explicit disclosure of operational details.
Marisol nodded, enhancement ports cycling patterns too complex for simple categorization. "Tell him..." She hesitated, then touched Kasper's scarred shoulder with unexpected tenderness. "Tell him we're starting to believe again."
Torres stepped closer to Vega, his hand gripping the larger man's arm. "Chen suspended your enhancement maintenance privileges for a month last time. If she finds out we're aiding unsanctioned operations—"
"She'll have my career," Diaz interrupted, fingers dancing nervously through the air as though sifting unseen data. "My family's protection status is tied to my Association standing. One more violation and they lose their security detail in Sector Three."
"So what's your call?" Vega challenged, massive forearms tensing beneath Torres's grip. "Leave him here until he finally goes too far? Another processing facility with no backup, no retrieval plan? You've seen the biometric readings. He's approaching system failure."
"I'm not saying leave him," Torres snapped, neural targeting systems cycling agitation patterns. "I'm saying we need a cover story. Something that explains finding him without implicating us in whatever he's been doing."
Moreno stepped between them, street-wise pragmatism cutting through tactical disagreement. "We say we found him during routine patrol in Sector Eight. Combat fatigue triggered enhancement cascade. We responded to automated distress signals. Simple. Clean."
"Lying in official reports is career suicide if discovered," Diaz whispered, fingers unconsciously tracing the port patterns at his temple. "Three strikes protocol would apply to all of us."
"Better than the alternative," Vega countered, his gaze returning to Kasper's vacant stare. "At least we'll still have careers to lose."
The unspoken reality hung between them – they wouldn't abandon him, not after Altamira, not after everything they'd seen together. The decision crystallized without further debate, loyalty overriding protocol as it had countless times since they'd been assigned to Kasper's command.
It took all four of them to get Kasper down the stairs and through the main floor. Not because he resisted, but because his body had entered the limp compliance of someone beyond conscious processing. The other patrons studiously avoided direct observation – survival in Costa del Sol depended on knowing when to see nothing.
Outside, rain had begun falling – thin drizzle that transformed neon lights into watercolor smears across the darkened streets. Vega took most of Kasper's weight as they navigated to their vehicle, enhancement-assisted strength making the burden manageable.
"Someone want to explain why our fearless leader's been on a three-day bender?" Torres asked as they secured Kasper in the backseat. "While conducting unsanctioned operations between drinking himself unconscious?"
"Same reason you calibrate your targeting systems three times before each mission," Diaz replied, sensory enhancements monitoring Kasper's vital signs. "Coping mechanisms take different forms."
"Getting drunk and getting laid is a coping mechanism now?" Torres snorted, though there was no real judgment in his tone. "Should've chosen that instead of neural targeting."
"Like you had a choice," Moreno laughed as he slid into the passenger seat. "Only way you hit anything is with those fancy enhancement ports. What was your success rate in academy? Thirty percent on a good day?"
"Thirty-eight," Torres corrected automatically, knuckles whitening as he gripped the door frame. "And at least I didn't fail the tactical driving course twice."
"Wasn't my fault!" Moreno protested. "Those simulators were rigged. Nobody drifts a transport vehicle through Sector Nine without losing the rear axle."
"Except you tried anyway," Vega rumbled as he started the engine. "Then argued with the instructor about realistic urban pursuit parameters."
"Because he was wrong!" Moreno's hands painted imaginary driving patterns through the air. "You can absolutely cut through the market district if you time it between vendor shifts."
"You tried that during the Rivera parade security operation," Diaz reminded him, fingers never stopping their dance through Kasper's biometric data. "Crashed into three fruit stands and a ceremonial brass band."
"But I made the intercept point on time," Moreno grinned. "Mission parameters achieved, even if the methods were... creative."
As they pulled away from Los Sueños, the team's banter continued – professional assessment disguised as casual ribbing. Vega drove with careful precision, avoiding potholes that might jar Kasper's semiconscious form. Torres's fingers constantly checked tactical channels for potential threats. Moreno's eyes scanned their surroundings with uncharacteristic vigilance. Diaz's hands never stopped monitoring Kasper's deteriorating biometrics.
"Anyone else notice the pattern?" Torres asked after several minutes of driving through predawn streets. "The operations he's conducting solo. They all target the same subset of cartel operations."
"Child trafficking," Vega confirmed, enhancement ports cycling subdued patterns. "Specifically the processing facilities for enhancement components."
"The congressman," Diaz added, sensory enhancements highlighting connections in data others might miss. "The warehouse in Sector Nine. The processing facility in the harbor district."
"The void remembers," Moreno murmured, street dialect thickening as he glanced back at Kasper's unconscious form. "It's not just operational. It's personal."
The statement hung in recycled air as they navigated through Costa del Sol's emptying streets. Dawn was approaching, sending street merchants and pleasure workers alike seeking shelter before daylight exposed too much reality.
"Operational decisions require objective parameters," Torres said finally, his fingers tapping that unconscious rhythm against his thigh. "Personal vendettas compromise tactical assessment."
"You saying he's wrong?" Moreno challenged, turning in his seat to face Torres directly.
"I'm saying enhanced objectivity exists for a reason," Torres clarified, neural targeting systems highlighting statistical realities he couldn't ignore. "Emotional involvement creates blind spots."
"And removes others," Diaz countered, his sensory enhancements detecting the subtle change in Kasper's breathing that indicated returning consciousness. "Pure algorithmic assessment misses patterns human instinct recognizes."
Vega's enhancement ports cycled acknowledgment patterns as he navigated through a security checkpoint. Association codes transmitted automatically, granting passage without verbal interrogation. "Both have their place. That's why teams exist."
In the backseat, Kasper stirred slightly – not fully conscious, but drifting closer to awareness. His empty enhancement ports seemed to pulse with phantom activity, body remembering what technology no longer supported.
"You know what I think?" Moreno said, voice dropping to match the vehicle's hushed atmosphere. "I think we've all seen enough to understand why he does this." He gestured vaguely toward the city beyond their windows. "The kids. The processing. What they do to them."
"Operational necessity doesn't require emotional justification," Torres insisted, though his neural targeting systems cycled uncertainty patterns that belied his words.
"Doesn't it?" Diaz asked quietly. "We've all seen what happens when operations become purely mechanical. When violence loses its emotional context."
Vega's massive hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel – the only outward sign of agreement he would allow himself. "We manage the balance. As a team." His enhancement ports cycled determination patterns. "That's what he would expect."
The Association headquarters loomed ahead – art deco spires reaching toward lightening sky like brass fingers grasping for salvation. Security protocols engaged automatically as they approached, quantum shielding recognizing enhancement signatures and granting access to underground facilities.
"Chen's going to have our enhancement ports for bringing him in like this," Torres noted as they parked in the secure bay. "Three strikes protocol. She warned us after Altamira."
"Better her than whatever he was doing to himself," Moreno replied, already moving to help extract Kasper from the backseat. "Three days, man. Three days of solo hunting between drinking himself blind."
"And yet," Diaz observed, "six high-value targets eliminated. Three processing facilities neutralized. Seventeen children recovered." His sensory enhancements highlighted subtle patterns in Kasper's physical condition. "All without enhancement support."
"Without sanction," Torres corrected. "Without protocol. Without backup."
"Without limitations," Vega added, enhancement-assisted strength making Kasper's deadweight manageable as they moved toward medical facilities. "That's what scares them. What he's becoming."
The void remembers.
Words unspoken but understood by all of them as they carried their leader through art deco corridors toward necessary intervention. Not just a tactical assessment or operational parameter, but a transformation they were witnessing in real time. Something beyond enhancement evolution or technological adaptation.
A necessary darkness taking form in human flesh.