Where the Styx Runs Cold, Ch 5: The Auracium Pipeline Pt. 1

Hawke answered Cromwell's summons with the ghost of Medved clinging to him. Four months of hollow routine had done nothing to scrub it away; some lines, once crossed, could never be uncrossed.

The last four months were a study in forced normalcy, a grind of SHEPARD's lower-priority assignments. They'd tracked a minor arms dealer in Vienna and provided overwatch for a diplomatic conference in Geneva where the biggest threat was stale croissants. Hawke's structural biokinesis was reduced to checking the building's old plumbing. He even ran training drills that felt like hollow pantomimes of their true, brutal capabilities. The work was designed to keep them sharp, occupied, and lulled back into uncomplicated duty. It hadn't fully succeeded, at least with him.

The secret of Epsilon, Rho, and Sigma was a constant, silent companion, a low thrum beneath his every interaction, especially with Rita. They rarely spoke of it - the risk of surveillance was too great - but it was there, a shared weight in the space between them. He saw her watching him sometimes, her gaze holding a shared acknowledgment of the dangerous precipice they now stood on. He relied more on her intuitive readings, of missions and of the ethical quagmires they waded through.

Shroud, Kenji Sato, was a tangible reminder of their last high-stakes operation. Reports were cautiously optimistic. He was conscious, recovering, but the neurological trauma from the Alpha Subject's blow was significant. His sensory dampening field remained offline. Doctors spoke of months, maybe longer, before knowing if he could return to active duty. His absence was a hole in their formation, a missing frequency in their comms. Patch, Evie Hayes, had taken it hardest, her professional concern overlaid with personal anxiety. Hawke ensured she got every update.

The rest of the team seemed to have settled back into rhythm. Breaker, Cole Hendricks, chafed at the inaction, finding outlet in brutal sparring. Ricochet, Javi Herrera, remained his usual unflappable self. Static, Aisha Qadir, immersed herself in new tech. And Lancet, Lena Kholodova, was… Lancet. A pillar of icy calm. They were a finely tuned weapon, idling, a state that rarely lasted long.

The summons was expected, but its tone carried weight. A curt, encrypted message on Hawke's private terminal: "Styx Squad, Director Cromwell. Urgent briefing, 0800 Zulu. Secured channel. Full attendance mandatory, active personnel only." Cromwell's digital signature carried an uncharacteristic priority, reserved for critical threats.

As Hawke walked to the secure briefing room in their Swiss Alps bunker, he felt a familiar shift. The weariness and anxiety of the past four months receded, replaced by the operative's cold focus. The old trust in SHEPARD's mission was a cracked foundation under his feet. He found himself dissecting Cromwell's likely words before they were even spoken, searching for the agenda coiled beneath the objective. He saw SHEPARD's gears turning behind every briefing, a complex mechanism of power with its own hidden appetites.

He met Rita at the entrance. A fleeting glance passed between them, a whole conversation in a microsecond. Whatever was coming, they would face it. But their footing was different, their compass recalibrated by choices made in shadows, far from SHEPARD's unblinking eye.

The hollow routine was over.

The briefing room was cold, utilitarian. Styx Squad - Hawke, Rita, Breaker, Ricochet, Static, and Lancet - assembled around the central holographic projector. Patch was absent, consulting on Shroud's care, a small mercy sparing her this. Hawke noted the tension, the way Breaker's knuckles were white, Lancet's eyes narrowed. They sensed it too.

Director Cromwell's image shimmered into existence, life-sized, the usual mask of command tightened, pulling at the corners of his eyes.

"Styx Squad," Cromwell began, his voice clipped, forgoing preamble. "For four months, SHEPARD has been tracking a disturbing phenomenon: the proliferation of highly refined Auracium on the global black market."

Auracium. Refined Auracium implied advanced processing, new technology. Hawke felt the distinction flag in his mind.

"This is refined Auracium processed to near-perfect purity," Cromwell continued, as holographic images appeared: glowing sapphire crystals, complex molecular schematics, blurred surveillance photos. "Potent. Volatile. And unequivocally weapon-grade."

A murmur went through the room.

"Our primary concern," Cromwell stated, "is a shadowy organization codenamed 'Serpent's Coil'." A coiled serpent insignia appeared. "They are a composite force with obscure motives, ruthless methods, and considerable capabilities."

He paused. "Intelligence confirms Serpent's Coil employs Mages, individuals using refined Auracium to fuel powerful magic. Eyewitnesses describe their hands igniting with dark green flames." Shaky footage showed figures wreathed in emerald fire, unleashing concussive energy, erecting shimmering shields.

"Furthermore," Cromwell pressed on, "Serpent's Coil employs superhumans whose natural abilities have been dangerously amplified through controlled Auracium intake. These operatives' powers are stable, controlled, and effective." More blurred images showed figures with unnatural speed and strength, their eyes or energies tinged dark green or intense blue.

"Serpent's Coil is aggressively destabilizing key regions," Cromwell declared, his voice hard. "They are arming rogue factions, eliminating rivals. Their network is sophisticated, their funding substantial, their access to refined Auracium unprecedented."

Hawke processed it. Refined Auracium. Impossible without state-level sponsorship. Why deploy us now? An asset must be threatened.

"Your mission, codenamed 'Operation Blue Venom'," Cromwell announced, "is to dismantle Serpent's Coil. Identify their leadership, trace their Auracium pipeline to its source, and neutralize their capacity. Capture of key operatives is a priority. You are authorized to operate with extreme prejudice."

Extreme prejudice. Capture for analysis. Hawke heard the implications. SHEPARD was dissecting a new form of power, with Styx Squad as the scalpels. Serpent's Coil had clearly rattled cages in high places.

"The intelligence package is uploading now," Cromwell concluded. "Your initial deployment will be to Rotterdam. We have intel of a major Auracium transaction in the next seventy-two hours. Questions?"

Hawke was silent, sifting Cromwell's words. He glanced at Rita. Her expression was neutral, but he sensed the same skepticism. They would have much to discuss.

***

Rotterdam met them with a damp wind and the ceaseless thrum of its vast port. Four months since Marseille, since their quiet, defiant decision.

It had settled within Rita, a steady recalibration. She saw the world with harder edges now, more critical of the narratives spun by power, especially by SHEPARD.

Operation Blue Venom's start was a familiar dance: setting up a deniable base in a warehouse district. While Arthur oversaw tactical setup, Rita immersed herself in the city's undercurrents, listening for whispers missing from official reports.

She listened differently this time. The horrors of Medved and the dignity of Rho, Epsilon, and Sigma had sharpened her focus on the lies in official pronouncements. Cromwell called Serpent's Coil a destabilizing force. Rita sought the story behind that story.

The "blue stone," as refined Auracium was known, was spoken of in hushed, greedy tones. But whispers about Serpent's Coil carried a different resonance. Fear, but also awe, or primal dread, especially about their mages. "Those with the dark green fire," one informant stammered to Ricochet, "they ain't natural. They burn a different kind of cold." A chilling contradiction.

Rita extended her empathic senses. She felt fear, but also a strange pull, a dark charisma. Their discipline, untouchability, and terrifying power created a dark legend. This was colder, more purposeful than Volkov's subjects, almost religious.

She discussed this with Arthur in a private moment. "Cromwell called them a 'shadowy organization'," she said, looking at the rain-slicked rooftops. "But what I feel is a focused, dark light. A frightening certainty. It's about an ideology, I think. Centered on the Auracium." She paused, remembering the Medved survivors. "They see it as a gift, a path to transcendence."

Arthur listened thoughtfully. "An ideology built on power," he mused. "The oldest story." He looked at her. "And SHEPARD's ideology, Rita? What does that feel like to you these days?"

The question hung in the air. After Medved, after hiding the three, Rita perceived SHEPARD's narrative of order and control differently. She felt its immense, crushing weight, its cold calculations valuing assets over lives. She sensed the hidden hands of Neil Klein, a puppet master pulling strings from an even deeper darkness.

"It feels," Rita said softly, "like a cage, Arthur. A very large, very well-constructed cage."

He nodded slowly, the bleakness mirroring his own convictions. This hunt was another test, a descent where lines between good and evil, order and oppression, were blurring. Their shared secrets felt like fragile sparks against an overwhelming darkness.

***

The warehouse loomed out of the Rotterdam drizzle, a colossal, rust-streaked box. From their observation post atop shipping containers, Hawke surveyed the target.

Everything was wrong. Too clean. Too quiet. Smugglers were messy. The sentries here moved like trained soldiers, their gazes methodical, heart rates steady.

"Static, are their comms shielded?" Hawke subvocalized.

"Encrypted, military-grade, cycling frequencies," Aisha Qadir's voice replied, tinged with respect. "They're good."

"Understood," Hawke said. His team was in position, waiting. Breaker and Lancet were with him for direct assault. Ricochet and Rita provided overwatch. "All teams, prepare to engage on my mark. Three… two…"

Before he could finish, the warehouse's massive door groaned upwards, revealing two armored trucks and a smaller armored sedan. A transfer, happening now. The timetable had accelerated.

"Scrap the plan," Hawke's voice cut through the comms, stripped of all inflection. "Breaker, Lancet, with me. Hard entry. Ricochet, disable the sedan's tires. Static, hit their comms. Go!"

They rappelled down, landing silently. As they sprinted forward, two figures emerged from the shadows near the trucks, their hands erupting in writhing, deep emerald flames. The fire burned without heat Hawke could feel, a pure, magical energy. Mages.

One mage thrust his hands forward, and a shimmering dark green shield materialized, deflecting Ricochet's projectiles. The other unleashed a concussive blast that cratered the asphalt where Breaker had just been.

"Mages confirmed! Target spellcasters first!" Hawke roared as superhumans emerged from behind the trucks, forming a protective line, their eyes glowing faint blue-green.

Breaker met a hulking super whose fists could dent steel. The impact forced Cole back a step. "He's strong, Hawke! Unnaturally so!"

Meanwhile, Lancet's cold beams struggled against the mages' shields. The energy was something else entirely. "Shields are non-thermally reactive!" she reported, frustrated.

This was a disaster. Their tactics were being dismantled. As Hawke coordinated, another super, impossibly fast, broke through their line, knife glinting, aiming for him.

No time to draw a weapon. Hawke felt the super's alien bio-signature - a jarring, volatile hum. He reached out with his senses to the entire Coil contingent and pulled.

He siphoned their energy. The sensation was nauseating, like drinking liquid nitrogen and lightning. The speed-super faltered. Hawke, a blur of borrowed speed, deflected the knife and struck the super's temple with enough force to crack its dermal armor.

The brief respite was enough. One mage's shield flickered. Lancet's beam of absolute zero hit his hands. He screamed, green flames extinguished, hands encased in frost.

The loss broke their coordination. Breaker overpowered his opponent. The remaining Coil operatives attempted a retreat, but Styx Squad seized momentum.

The battle was brutal, efficient, and merciless.

Lancet, a wraith of ice, incapacitated a dozen operatives. Ricochet and Static picked off the stragglers. Breaker and Hawke pursued the two mages, their hands still blazing, trying to flee.

Hawke caught up with his. The mage tried to incinerate him, but his fire was feeble, the emerald flames sputtering.

"What do you want?!" the mage gasped, as Hawke knocked him down and disarmed him.

"Where did Serpent's Coil get this refined Auracium?" Hawke demanded, his tone flat.

"I don't know, I swear!" the mage cried, terrified. "I'm just a supplier! Please, have mercy!"

"Who ordered this transfer?" Hawke demanded, tightening his grip.

"I don't know, some guy, he paid cash, I never saw him before!" the mage blubbered, sobbing.

"How does the pipeline work?" Hawke snarled.

Before the mage could say anything, the other mage, defiant, unleashed a bolt of magic at his comrade. A dark green lance streaked through the air, striking the man in the head. He fell, screaming, his skin and bones liquefying.

In a second, the mage was dead.

In the aftermath: several Coil operatives neutralized, Breaker with a possible fractured rib, and two captives - the frostbitten mage and the speed-super. A crate had tumbled from a truck, spilling crystalline shards of brilliant, pulsating blue stone, radiating cold power.

Hawke stood amidst the wreckage, the foreign energy receding, leaving him scoured and hollow. He looked at the disciplined enemy, the seamless integration of magic and superhumanity, the cold poison they'd secured.

Cromwell's briefing had been a gross understatement. This was a dedicated paramilitary force.

***

The air in their temporary base was thick with ozone, antiseptic, and unanswered questions. During the fight, Rita had felt the psychic shockwave: Serpent's Coil's cold ferocity, her team's pain and desperation, and the enhanced supers' alien, volatile thrum. The conflict was chillingly focused, almost doctrinal.

Now, she stood near the containment cell with the captured mage. He was conscious, his frostbitten hands being treated by Patch. He refused to speak, his mind a fortress of conviction. Rita felt no fear from him, only profound contempt and unshakeable belief. He was a priest whose holy site had been desecrated.

She moved to the debriefing area, where Arthur stared at a recovered "blue stone" on an analysis table, its cold light seeming to drink the room's warmth. She could feel his own disquiet.

"His faith is absolute," Rita said quietly. "The captured mage. It's a religious fervor. The refined Auracium is a sacrament to them."

Arthur looked up, eyes dark. "His fanaticism matches their tactics. Their technology. The refinement in this," he gestured to the crystal, "the stable enhancements… this requires immense resources, knowledge, and years of R&D." He paused. "The question is, who is their benefactor?"

"Cromwell wants us to believe they're a self-contained anomaly," Rita mused. "But the narrative feels… incomplete. Manipulated." She sensed a grand, hidden design. "This feels more like a priesthood, with Auracium as their god. And someone, somewhere, is teaching them the holiest rites."

The metaphor resonated with Hawke. He picked up a datapad with the mission parameters.

"He stressed 'destabilization'," Hawke said, his voice low and dangerous. "He wants us to focus on Serpent's Coil as the problem. But what if they're a tool, or a competitor that's become too successful?" He met her gaze. "SHEPARD isn't trying to stop this. They're trying to acquire it."

Rita looked at the "blue stone." Its sapphire hue was shot through with faint veins of dark green. It was beautiful and terrifying.

"They're selling power," Hawke whispered. "A whole new paradigm. And SHEPARD wants to know who their supplier is." He met her gaze. "Or perhaps, become it."

***