The bells of San Miguel Arcángel cut through New Karenan's morning heat like bronze prayers carried on Caribbean wind.
Kasper adjusted his collar, feeling strange without the familiar hum of enhanced gear. He and Aldair had agreed—no exoskeletons in church. A gesture of normalcy, of trust. Of trying to be human again instead of weapons disguised as men.
"Ready, mijo?" Aldair asked, his own movements careful without mechanical assistance. After years depending on steam-powered joints and brass servos, walking felt like relearning how to breathe.
Three months since the family had attended mass together. Three months since Kasper nearly killed Marco Moretti and everything shattered into sharp pieces that still cut when touched.
Carmen walked ahead with Isabella, her mantilla catching morning light that filtered through palm fronds and brass lamp posts lining the cathedral plaza. Behind them, Camila kept deliberate distance—still angry, still hurt, still seeing her brother as the monster who'd brutalized her boyfriend's friend. The space between them felt like a canyon that kept widening no matter how carefully Kasper tried to bridge it.
Inside the cathedral, colonial stones mixed with art deco brass fittings created sanctuary from more than just Caribbean heat. Four hundred years of prayers seemed to settle into Kasper's bones, quieting the tactical assessment that never stopped running in his enhanced mind.
They found seats in the back pew—his choice, giving clear sight lines to exits where steam-powered carriages and modern automobiles shared the plaza outside. Old habits. But for once, the hypervigilance felt less like paranoia and more like... preparation for peace.
Father Martinez's voice echoed through vaulted ceilings decorated with both traditional saints and art deco angels, speaking of redemption and forgiveness in cadences that had comforted souls since Spanish conquistadors ruled these waters. Kasper knelt during the Consecration, his enhanced hearing mapping the congregation—Mrs. Rodriguez's labored breathing amplified by her brass hearing aid, the soft whir of mechanical rosary beads, children's whispered prayers mixing with parents' gentle corrections. Normal people living normal lives in this strange blend of old and new, gathering to find comfort in shared faith.
This is what you fought for in Costa del Sol. People having the freedom to worship without fear.
For the first time in months, something in Kasper's chest loosened. Maybe peace was possible in this retrofuturistic paradise where steam and prayer coexisted. Maybe—
"Let us pray for those who serve others," Father Martinez said, his eyes finding Kasper across the congregation, "especially those who risk their lives for our safety in these changing times."
The words hit like a physical blow. The priest knew. Of course he knew—everyone in New Karenan knew about the enhanced veteran who'd nearly killed the Moretti boy. But instead of judgment, Father Martinez offered inclusion.
You belong here too, my son.
When mass ended, Kasper felt something he hadn't experienced since before Costa del Sol: genuine calm. Not the artificial peace of exhaustion or medication, but the real thing. Hope made manifest in stone and brass.
Outside, the plaza buzzed with families in Sunday best, children clutching prayer books while abuelas moved carefully on cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of faithful feet. Steam-powered carriages mixed with modern automobiles, their brass fittings gleaming in tropical sunlight that reflected off the cathedral's art deco crosses and traditional spires.
That's when everything started falling apart.
"I'm walking with Mami," Camila announced, her voice carrying three months of unresolved anger. "She needs help with Isabella's chair on these stones."
The rejection hit harder than expected. Kasper watched his sister deliberately position herself with Carmen and Isabella, creating a triangle that excluded him with surgical precision.
"I'll get the car," Aldair said quietly, reading the family dynamics with veteran's awareness of battlefield positioning. "Give everyone space to breathe."
Kasper nodded, following his stepfather toward where they'd parked the sedan between a brass-fitted steam carriage and a merchant's delivery truck. Without his exoskeleton, Aldair moved with careful dignity, but slower. More vulnerable.
They were halfway across the plaza when Marco Moretti appeared.
The young man emerged from behind a stone pillar decorated with art deco reliefs of New Karenan's patron saints, and Kasper's enhanced vision catalogued details automatically: expensive suit wrinkled like he'd been running, sweat on his forehead despite the morning cool, eyes carrying something that looked like...
Regret?
"Kasper," Marco said, his voice strained. "I'm sorry."
That's when Kasper saw the gun.
.38 revolver with brass fittings, held low but visible. Marco's hand shaking—not from fear, but from some internal struggle that twisted his features into something approaching anguish.
Enhanced perception kicked into overdrive, tactical assessment firing:
Marco Moretti: 3 meters away, armed, blocking path to carThreat level: HighAldair: 2 meters behind, no exoskeleton, vulnerableExtraction route: Blocked
But something was wrong. Marco wasn't pointing the gun at them. His eyes kept darting toward the cathedral steps, toward—
Carmen. Isabella. Camila.
Kasper's enhanced vision followed Marco's gaze and his blood turned to ice.
Six men in dark clothing, moving with professional coordination through the dispersing congregation. Weapons concealed but visible to enhanced perception—Thompson submachine guns with brass cooling fins, military grade, positioned to create crossfire around the steam carriages and automobiles.
They were converging on his family.
Carmen helping Isabella navigate the stone steps, both women exposed and defenseless near a brass lamp post. Camila walking beside them, completely unaware that death was approaching with mechanical precision between the parked vehicles.
Professional hit team. Multiple shooters. Civilian target zone.
Kasper's enhanced hearing picked up the details that mattered: leather holsters creaking as weapons shifted position, the distinctive metallic click of Thompson gun bolts being pulled back, hushed radio communications crackling through hidden earpieces, steam engines idling in getaway positions that blocked natural escape routes.
This wasn't random crime. This was a coordinated operation in the heart of New Karenan's most sacred space.
And his family—his mother, his sisters—stood directly in the kill zone.
Time crystallized into impossible mathematics.
Tactical Analysis:
Marco: 3 meters, armed, unknown intent but showing regret Professional shooters: 15 meters from family, weapons ready Aldair: Vulnerable without exoskeleton, directly behind Kasper Family: Exposed, unaware, 20 meters away near cathedral steps
Enhanced reaction time: 0.31 secondsTime to family position: 2.1 secondsTime for shooters to acquire targets: 1.8 seconds
The mathematics revealed three futures. All of them terrible.
Future A: Eliminate Marco as immediate threat
Aldair lives Family dies while Kasper is engaged Probability of family survival: 12%
Future B: Charge the professional shooters
Might save family Marco shoots Aldair while Kasper is committed Probability of Aldair survival: 8%
Future C: Shield family directly
Best chance for Carmen, Isabella, Camila Both Marco and shooters have clear shots at Kasper and Aldair Probability of personal survival: 23%
The numbers were brutal and clear. No scenario where everyone lived. No choice that didn't require sacrifice.
Marco raised the gun, tears streaming down his face. "I'm sorry," he whispered again. "They have my sister."
Behind Kasper, Aldair's breathing quickened as his veteran instincts recognized the trap. "Mijo," he said quietly, "whatever you're thinking—"
Across the plaza, the first Thompson gun cleared concealment from behind a steam carriage.
Carmen looked up from Isabella's wheelchair, confusion flickering across her face as she noticed men moving with wrong patterns through the dispersing congregation around the brass lamp posts.
Camila, still angry at her brother, remained focused on helping with the wheelchair, completely unaware that death was approaching with professional precision between the parked vehicles.
Isabella, trapped in brass and leather, had nowhere to run even if she saw the threat coming through New Karenan's peaceful Sunday morning.
Kasper's enhanced perception slowed time to crystalline clarity, showing him exactly how the next few seconds would unfold in this retrofuturistic paradise about to become a killing ground.
The enhanced veteran looked at Marco—young man caught in someone else's game, weapon shaking in his hand as he prepared to do something that would haunt him forever.
Then at Aldair—stepfather who'd taught him that choice was what made you human, now standing vulnerable without the exoskeleton that had kept him alive for years.
Finally at his family—Carmen who'd raised him, Isabella who'd always believed in him, Camila who couldn't forgive him but still loved him.
All of them about to die because Kasper had chosen church over combat readiness. Because he'd tried to be human instead of weapon in New Karenan's deceptively peaceful streets.
Time resumed normal speed.
Marco's finger tightened on the trigger.
The Thompson guns swung toward their targets.
And Kasper had exactly 0.23 seconds to choose who lived and who died.