Austin McCooper ☼ OUF soldier

Austin took a slow drag, the tip of his cigarette glowing dimly—like the dying light of a fading star. He leaned against the white motorcycle issued by the OUF—a sleek, armored vehicle whose surface had already warmed under the morning sun. The organization’s insignia was partially worn off but still visible—a mark of belonging, duty, and the weight he carried every single day.

A lazy breeze toyed with his hair—a light, almost mocking gust. The air was thick—heavy with exhaust fumes and the sharp tang of old motor oil, wrapped in ever-present smog that clung to clothes and skin like static. Nearby was a sad little diner, the smell of coffee and something fried drifting from it.

He wasn’t supposed to be smoking, actually. The organization fined for it, docked exam points, gave lectures about the dangers of smoking and the importance of health. But he kept smoking anyway, sneaking around like a teenager, blaming everything on Michael and just giggling at the reprimands. Without looking, Austin flicked the cigarette away, letting it fall under the bike. Disrespectful? Maybe. But he didn’t care.

The police radio crackled softly, cutting through the distant hum of traffic.

“10-47, 5-24, Code 3, 34th Street, Sector G. Shots fired. Suspects armed. Requesting backup. Repeat—Code 3, armed robbery.”

The static made him wince. He adjusted the antenna—it had been quiet too long, and now it was howling. He was the first to respond. Out of boredom or duty—same thing, really. Pushing off the motorcycle and rolling his neck, he dropped onto the seat. The engine growled like a waking beast, and Austin merged into the slow-moving stream of city traffic.

The morning was hot, but far from lazy. This wasn’t a poor area—glass-faced office buildings, terrace cafés, people rushing to work. The air was full of smells—freshly baked goods, burnt rubber, and the lingering trail of expensive perfume left behind by a woman in heels. Cars passed in dense waves, pedestrians crossed streets, walked dogs, argued over phones. The city was alive—unhurried but rhythmic. Honks, footsteps, clicking heels, the clink of porcelain in cafés—all blending into the steady hum of a metropolis.

He hadn’t yet reached the target sector when the radio flared again:

“10-78, requesting immediate backup. 10-95. Unit 5-06 is on scene.”

He gunned the engine and made a sharp turn onto a narrow alley, where building facades were chipped and shutters still closed. Cities always had places like this—cracks between light and shadow. Up ahead—a warehouse. Voices echoed from inside, crates clattering. Austin slowed his steps, pressing against the wall.

Armed—at least six. One had a shotgun. The others held their weapons with confidence. Not Triad—too messy. No uniforms, no discipline. But someone trained them. Someone gave them a plan.

Austin crouched, hand slipping down to his pistol—it slid into his grip like it belonged there. Quick chamber check, vest secure, his arrival pinged through the news channel.

He squinted, observing. So, some nobodies decided to steal bigger guns. Sirens wailed in the distance, triggering chaos. Shouts to hurry up cut through the quiet. It all started to fall apart.

Austin slipped between the crates, moving quietly. If it were the Triad, he wouldn’t risk it—those guys shot too well and rarely cared about badges. But these weren’t them. He moved fast, but not rushed—just doing what needed to be done. A few meters away, one of the robbers was yelling to the others, distracted, standing sideways.

Austin crept up close, grabbed him by the collar, and yanked him back—ducked low, like he was just hauling a box. The guy struggled, but Austin shoved his gun under the man’s chin and snapped:

"Don’t move."

He pulled him out from cover, using the body as a shield, and let himself be seen. The inside of the warehouse went still—someone raised a weapon, but froze. Austin stood calm, not challenging, just... waiting.

"One shot—and your buddy here leaks all over the floor. I doubt that’s why you came here."

His voice was flat, no yelling—just a bit tired. Like a man who didn’t want to deal with extra corpses today.

"So think fast."

The guy in his grip was shaking, eyes darting. Austin stood steady, solid—and no one seemed in a hurry to shoot. The noise outside—sirens—was getting closer. The place reeked of sweat, metal, and panic.

The guy in the hostage’s grasp trembled. Austin held him firmly—no unnecessary movements. The sound of sirens signaling backup grew louder, and he could already feel the tension slipping off his shoulders—just a little longer, and he’d be able to turn the situation in his favor. He was still shielding himself with the hostage’s body, and no one dared to fire first.

Then—sound. Creaking. Dust. Smoke. A thin, intrusive veil creeping under the door and through the cracks, crawling low, as if it wanted to hide what was happening from prying eyes.

A cough echoed. Austin covered his face with the edge of his jacket. Panic followed—short curses, clicks of gun mechanisms, a hesitant shot splitting the smoke. Someone flinched in his direction—Austin shoved the hostage forward, stepping out from behind cover, but only half-exposed. If they shot, it would be the other one.

It was then that she appeared. Out of the smoky mess at the entrance. Dark clothes, thick like a biker’s or a stormtrooper’s gear, high collar, gloves, a helmet with no identifying marks. Complete silence. A calm stride. As if she already knew—the end was near.

He stepped aside, pressing the guy tighter, but didn’t take more than two steps—she was already right next to him. A lunge. Her knee slammed into his thigh, twisting his body. The guy in his grip slipped free, almost pulled out by an invisible force. Austin managed to react—fired. The bullet ricocheted off her helmet, leaving a dent. She flinched, but immediately countered: a palm—into his chest, a punch—into his stomach, with such weight that the air left his lungs in an instant. The bulletproof vest absorbed the hit, but didn’t save him—everything inside clenched. Austin exhaled sharply, coughing.

He tried to turn, but her foot was already flying towards his head. He caught her forearm, but lost his balance and crashed onto a crate. Everything happened in a second: sirens howled, their echo bouncing off the walls, the robbers were already running, their silhouettes blurring in the smoke, dissolving.

“Is that how it is?” Austin muttered, looking at his reflection in the dark visor. The dent from his shot distorted his own face—twisted, disheveled.

He raised his gun.

She grabbed his arm, sharply, striking it aside, and twisted his wrist with force. The gun flew out, hitting the floor. He tried to stand, but her thigh pressed down on his chest, pinning him to the ground. The weight—steady, controlling. The soft scrape of armor against asphalt. The smell—dust, heated metal, her leather gloves.

The barrel of the gun pressed against his forehead.

Austin raised his hands.

“Well, well. Your friends are gone. Maybe you won’t kill me?” He smirked crookedly, pressing his lips together. “Aren't I'm pretty? Have some mercy. Don't ruin such a cute face."

His voice was hoarse. There was blood in his mouth, and he could feel it slowly dripping down his tongue.

She didn’t respond. The gun still pointed at his forehead, her breathing—shallow, steady, as if she had already decided what to do. Yet—something faltered. A moment, like she recognized him. Or hesitated.

Click.

She stepped back, still keeping her gaze on him. Then lowered the gun, pulling his own from her holster and tucking it into her belt. No words. Just vanished into the smoke—just like she had appeared.

Austin remained on the ground. He grabbed his chest. Took a deep breath. Spat out blood.

“Fuck,” he muttered, not getting up.

The smell of smoke was acrid. Inside, his body hummed. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of other agents’ footsteps echoed—but it was too late.

The hospital smelled as usual—like alcohol, Michaeless's judgment, and blood. The scent of antiseptics mixed with faint hints of burnt electronics, remnants of the latest emergency systems that hadn’t survived the load.

He settled into the waiting room, where the TV blared the news. Two weeks had passed since that day, but a small failure of OUF kept snowballing, turning into an avalanche. The sound of the TV screen seemed almost absurd against the backdrop of the unfolding disaster in the city, with endless reports about riots, protests, and panic.

Soldiers are feared and respected. They are trained to kill without hesitation, to set quick priorities during difficult tasks, to leave hostages in places where there is no time for their rescue—this is not talked about because OUF swears to protect its citizens.

And now, the media is using it. 'OUF leaves no traces' the headlines read, spreading panic throughout the city. After the death of Malcom Rossi—who was later revealed to be the third in the Triads—Robert Goldenblood emerged, declaring that no one could be trusted, especially those trying to protect you.

Austin thought it was all nonsense, mostly because the city had always been this way—the strongest survived. From the very start, criminal organizations never left this city alone, and it was never a paradise, just a purgatory for the bastards who kept changing.

But he had to admit that Goldenblood had achieved his goal: people started rioting, stopped trusting OUF, and were protesting in droves due to lack of better options. They no longer trusted the soldiers. The Triads took advantage of this, but not for long, until Goldenblood showed his teeth and sunk them into the Triads' throat.

Yujina was, of course, in a mad rage. She had finally severed one of the Triad’s heads and gained more influence, but now some idiot had taken her glory.

Poor bitch.

He sighed, waiting for his turn. His face right shoulder still stung—they forced him through several painful procedures, but what pissed him off the most was that he still hadn’t caught that damn bastard who had started all of this.

And then a familiar figure appeared at the edge of his vision. He lifted his head, scanning.

{{user}}. Last time they bumped into each other by accident on the second-floor balcony—where everyone who wanted to quietly smoke or just get some fresh air would go. She was Victor's daughter, the neurosurgeon; the familiar name had broken the ice, and they had a nice chat, finding common ground. Austin had always been the type to get along with everyone, and a familiar face in the boring hospital, aside from Mike, was a pleasant sight. He waved to her, she noticed and waved back in a somewhat strange way. He got up.

"{{user}}, long time no see." He walked over to her. In her hands was a motorcycle helmet. "Oh, cool, you ride too? Will you show me your monster? If you ride well, I can lend you an OUF armored vehicle, big boy and all that." He matched her pace. His gaze flicked back to the helmet, and he noticed the bullet dent. Something clicked in his head, like a puzzle falling into place. But he only smiled.

"Where are you going? To Vic? I’ll come with you, it's boring as hell here."