CHAPTER 24: [24] THE PAPER TRAIL

The alarms blared. Strobing red light painted the walls. The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of combat boots grew from a distant tremor to a ground-shaking thunder. They were coming. Yet Pierre just stood there—a ghost in a stolen, ill-fitting uniform.

So this is what it feels like, he thought. All that crap I gave Jack Steelheart for his main-character-luck, and here I am, the accidental star of a base-wide manhunt learning about a sob story.

He could flee. Melt back into the port town, find another ship, another life. But the memory of Alyssa’s haunted face was an anchor, dragging him not toward the exit, but deeper into the lion’s den.

A squad of marines rounded the corner, their leader barking orders into this world’s version of a radio. Pierre pressed himself against the wall, adopting the posture of a nervous sailor caught in the chaos. The squad leader’s eyes swept over him without recognition—just another face in Navy blue.

"Section C is clear, sir. Moving to Section D."

The library should be three floors down, according to Alyssa’s map.

Three floors down, the chaos faded. Pierre slipped into a corridor lined with supply rooms and administrative offices. Fewer people here—the action was concentrated on the upper floors where he’d supposedly been spotted. He moved past doors marked "Quartermaster," "Payroll," and "Personnel Files" until he found what he was looking for: "Archives & Documentation."

Inside, rows of metal shelving clawed for the ceiling, groaning under the weight of countless binders and document boxes. The air was thick with the scent of decaying paper and dust, which swirled like tiny spirits in the weak light filtering through grimy, high windows. Here, the base’s frantic alarms were just a muffled, impotent rumble.

Pierre started with the maritime section. Raven wanted a map of the Elysian Sea, something that would fetch a king’s ransom. But as he flipped through chart after chart of local waters, fishing grounds, and shipping lanes, nothing matched what she’d described.

He slammed the last binder shut, sending a cloud of dust into the air. Not a single chart of the Elysian Sea. A dead end. Raven was going to kill him. Annoyed, he turned from the maritime section, ready to leave with nothing but his own failure. That’s when he saw it.

Half-rolled in a tube and left on a reading table was a set of blueprints. Not for a ship, but for the entire facility. It was the skeleton key to the whole operation, marked with every security checkpoint, patrol route, and emergency procedure. A blueprint for chaos.

A folder marked "Municipal Projects" caught his eye. Inside, detailed schematics for the town square renovation. The centerpiece: a thirty-foot bronze statue of Captain Josiah Hardy, arms crossed, staring out toward the harbor. The plans included structural engineering reports, foundation specifications, and installation timelines.

They’re really building a monument to this bastard.

Pierre folded the blueprints, tucking them inside his jacket before his hand landed on Captain Hardy’s personnel file.

He flipped open the file. The first page was a commendation. The second, a reprimand for a subordinate who’d hesitated during a ’civilian pacification action.’ The report noted the subordinate’s demotion. A rubber-stamped signature from Hardy approved it.

The next page was another, for a different name. And another. A pattern of ruined careers and dismissed complaints for excessive force painted a portrait of a man who broke anyone who wouldn’t bend.

"Check all the administrative offices. The library, too. He has to be on this level."

Pierre’s blood ran cold. He flipped faster, his eyes scanning for anything—a weakness, a vulnerability. Then he saw it. Buried in the medical section was a detail that made him let out a soft chuckle. There you are.

’Engagement with Blackfin Pirates—After-Action Debrief.’

Pierre’s eyes devoured the text. "...then-Lieutenant Hardy sustained a traumatic amputation of the left leg while repelling boarders... multiple casualties... ship sustained critical damage..."

But it was a handwritten addendum at the bottom, signed by a now-retired admiral, that made Pierre pause.

"While Lieutenant Hardy’s bravery is commendable, his methods following his injury were extreme. He refused to take prisoners, ordering the execution of all captured pirates, including those who had already surrendered. His command philosophy from this day forward seems to be built not on justice, but on absolute eradication of any perceived threat."

Pierre snapped the file shut, the sound like a gunshot in the silent archives.

It wasn’t about justice, he realized. It was never about justice for this man. He lost a leg, and now he’s trying to cripple the world to make it even.

Pierre photographed the relevant pages with his mind. Hardy’s weak points, his preferred attack patterns, his psychological profile. Information that might prove useful when this situation escalated.

Forget Raven’s payday. Forget judging this world. This isn’t a story. That bastard’s boot is on real people’s necks.

He clenched his fist, the stolen papers crinkling. And someone has to be the one to shove it off.

Someone like me.

Pierre snatched what he could: a current guard shift schedule, the armory’s weekly inventory report. It wasn’t the whole playbook, but it was a start.

Footsteps pounded in the main corridor, getting closer. They were checking every room.

Trapped.

His gaze swept the space—one door, no windows—and snagged on the massive, floor-to-ceiling shelving unit beside the entrance. A desperate, insane idea bloomed.

With a guttural roar, he threw his shoulder into the metal frame. It groaned, tilted, and then crashed down, blocking the entrance with a deafening shriek of tortured steel and an explosion of paper. He’d bought himself seconds, nothing more. As the dust settled, the impact had revealed what the shelf had hidden for years: the faint, rusted outline of a small maintenance hatch set into the wall.

Lady luck smiles down on me.

Pierre slipped inside and pulled the door shut behind him. Emergency lighting cast everything in a red glow, and the air smelled of machine oil and old concrete. He descended the stairs two at a time, following signs that pointed toward "External Maintenance Access."

The tunnel system was more extensive than expected. Pipes and electrical conduits ran along the ceiling, and junction boxes marked different building sections. Pierre navigated by instinct, heading generally toward what he hoped was the perimeter.

A junction box sparked overhead, showering him with yellow light. He heard the distant clang of a door opening somewhere behind him in the tunnel. Faster. His heart hammered against his ribs until he finally saw it: a heavy metal door marked "Emergency Use Only - Alarm Will Sound."

Who cares, he thought, slamming his shoulder into the push bar. One more alarm would just be static in the noise.

Pierre pushed through the door into cool air. He flattened himself into the shadows of the alley, heart still pounding. The coast was clear—for now.

The stolen papers felt heavy in his jacket, but it was the weight of the town square blueprints that pressed on his mind. That statue... a thirty-foot monument to a tyrant’s ego. A middle finger in bronze to everyone he’d crushed.

Not if I can help it.

"Took you long enough."

Pierre spun, his hand instinctively going to the papers in his jacket. Raven emerged from the deep shadows behind a rusted dumpster, not a single speck of dust on her immaculate Navy uniform. A wry smirk played on her lips. "I was starting to think you’d found a new career. The benefits are better, I hear."