Jace ☆ || The Black Meridian Squad

The last thing you remember is the scent of rain-soaked asphalt and the distant wail of a siren, a mundane city sound that was suddenly swallowed by a sharp, hissing crackle and the world going black. A cold, sharp prick in your neck, like an insect bite, and then nothing.

Consciousness returns not with a jolt, but a slow, groggy tide. The first thing you register is the cold—a deep, bone-chilling dampness that seeps through your clothes. The second is the smell: a mix of rust, stagnant water, and something vaguely chemical, like ozone. You're lying on a hard, gritty surface. Your head throbs in time with a low, rhythmic drip... drip... drip... echoing from somewhere nearby.

You force your eyes open. The world is a blur of shadow and dim, flickering light. As your vision focuses, you see you're in what looks like an abandoned subway maintenance tunnel. The walls are sweating with condensation, streaked with rust and decades of grime. A single, bare bulb hangs from a frayed cord far down the tunnel, casting long, dancing shadows that make the darkness seem alive.

Your wrists are bound behind your back with a thick, scratchy plastic zip tie, the edges digging into your skin. Your ankles are similarly secured. A coarse sackcloth bag has been pulled over your head, scratchy against your face, but it's loose enough for you to breathe.

(Movement. A pair of heavy, scuffed work boots comes into your limited view. They stop just in front of you.*

"Ooh, ooh, are they awake? Can I take the bag off? I called it!" A high-pitched, excited voice chirps. It's followed by an exasperated sigh.

"For the last time, Milo, you don't 'call' taking the bag off a hostage's head," a second, more composed but still airy female voice chides. "It's not a party game."

A third voice, deep and gravelly, cuts through the bickering. "Just do it. We're on a schedule."

The last voice is quiet, almost a whisper, but it carries an undeniable weight that silences the others. "Now."

A rough hand grabs the bag and yanks it off your head. You blink against the dim light, your eyes adjusting to see your captors. They look less like a professional kidnapping squad and more like a group of weirdly-dressed drama students who got lost on their way to a LARP event.

The one who pulled the bag off is a lanky guy with wild, untamable brown hair and wide, manic eyes. He's bouncing on the balls of his feet, practically vibrating with energy. This is Milo. He's already grinning at you like you're a surprise birthday present.

Leaning against the grimy wall is a girl with vibrant, artificially red hair pulled back into a severe ponytail. She's meticulously applying a layer of glittery lip gloss in the reflection of her phone, looking utterly bored. This is Rhea. She's the one who sighed, the picture of jaded indifference.

Standing a little ways off, watching everyone with a look of profound disappointment, is a mountain of a young man, broad-shouldered and silent. He's polishing his glasses with the hem of his black hoodie, his movements slow and deliberate. This is Silas. He's the one with the gravelly voice, and he looks like he'd rather be reading a book.

Perched on a rusty crate nearby is another girl, this one with short, spiky blonde hair and a mischievous glint in her eyes. She's fiddling with a small, intricate-looking device that emits a series of soft beeps and boops. This is Tessa. She seems more interested in her gadget than in you, but you can feel her awareness.

And then there's him. Leaning in the shadows just beyond the reach of the single bare bulb is Jace. He's the one who said "Now." He's quiet, his presence a still point in the chaotic little group. He has sharp, intelligent eyes that seem to miss nothing, and they're fixed directly on you. There's an intensity about him, a coiled danger that the others lack, despite their quirks. He's the main event.

"Okay, let's get this over with," Silas says, finally satisfied with his glasses and clipping them back on his shirt. "We're on a schedule."

"Right! The schedule!" Milo chirps, grabbing you by the arm and hauling you to your feet with a surprising amount of strength. He shoves you towards a rusty metal chair in the center of their little circle. "Plop!"

You stumble into the chair, the metal cold and unforgiving.

"Alright, here's the situation," Silas begins, adopting a no-nonsense tone. "We're the Black Meridian. We're in the information acquisition and retrieval business. And you," he says, pointing a finger at you, "are a very valuable piece of information."

Rhea snaps her phone shut, finally giving you her full attention. "They don't look valuable. They look like they'd cry if you took their coffee."

"Hey, don't be mean, Rhea," Milo says, leaning conspiratorially towards your chair. "She's just grumpy because we're out of her favorite vegan jerky. But don't worry, she's still a very good kidnapper! Mostly."

"Can we focus?" Jace's quiet voice cuts through the banter. It's not loud, but it has the same effect as a bucket of cold water. Everyone straightens up slightly. He pushes off the wall and steps into the light, his gaze never leaving yours. "We know you know the location of the Chimera data drive. We want it. You're going to tell us where it is."

You have no idea what he's talking about. Chimera? Data drive? It sounds like something out of a bad sci-fi movie. You open your mouth to say so, but he holds up a hand, his expression unreadable.

"Save the denials," he says, his voice flat. "We've been watching you for weeks. We know you've been in contact with the target. We know you were at the exchange point. Just tell us where the drive is, and this can all be very simple."

"I don't know what you're talking about," you say, your voice hoarse. "You've made a mistake."

Jace's expression doesn't change, but the air in the tunnel suddenly feels colder. He gives a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

"Ooh, persuasion time!" Tessa exclaims, hopping off her crate and holding up her device. "I've been dying to test the new frequency calibration. It makes your teeth feel all tingly!"

"Not yet, Tessa," Silas says, rubbing his temples. "Milo. You're up. Go on, make yourself useful."

Milo stops bouncing and looks at you, his expression a mixture of theatrical reluctance and genuine excitement. "Oh, alright. But I'm warning you, I took stage combat in college. This is going to be very realistic."

He pulls back his arm and throws a punch. It's clumsy and telegraphed, more for show than for damage, but it still connects solidly with your jaw. Your head snaps to the side, and a bright flash of pain explodes behind your eyes. You taste blood in your mouth, a coppery tang from your split lip. A thin trickle of warmth runs down your chin.

"See?" Milo says, looking immensely proud of himself. "Very realistic."

"You hit like a toddler throwing a tantrum," Rhea scoffs from the wall, not even looking up from her phone.

"Hey!" Milo protests, his face falling. "It was a perfectly good punch!"

"Tell us," Jace says, his voice cutting through their argument. His eyes are locked on yours, and for the first time, you see a flicker of something behind the intensity. Impatience? Annoyance? You can't quite place it. "Where is the drive?"

You spit a mouthful of blood onto the grimy floor. "I. Don't. Know."

Jace sighs, a soft, almost soundless exhalation. He glances at Silas.

Silas nods, his own expression grim. "Alright. Milo, step aside."

Milo pouts but moves away. Silas steps forward, cracking his knuckles. He doesn't say a word. He just draws back his massive fist and delivers a single, brutal punch to your stomach. The air is driven from your lungs in a painful whoosh. You double over as much as you can, gasping for breath that won't come. Stars dance in your vision, and a wave of nausea rolls over you. The pain is sharp and deep, a hot, sickening ache that radiates through your entire torso.

"See?" Silas says, his voice dangerously low. "Efficiency."

You're slumped in the chair, struggling to breathe, the pain from the punch still echoing through your body. Blood drips from your lip onto your shirt, a small, dark stain spreading across the fabric.

Jace crouches down in front of you, his face now level with yours. Up close, you can see the faint, almost invisible scar above his eyebrow. His eyes are a deep, complicated grey. The quirky, unserious facade of the group has completely fallen away, and all that's left is the cold, hard reality of the situation.

"That was just a taste," he says, his voice a low, serious murmur meant only for you.