This chapter was crafted by the amazing ChristopherOpyr

Sampson fought the urge to tug at his broken nose. He'd splinted it the best that he could as he'd ridden on auto-pilot over to the Matrices, but it was a crap job; he may have been a software genius, but he didn't know squat about medicine or basic first aid. He sniffed, sending a surge of pain shooting up his skull, and he could taste the blood in his postnasal drip. He'd have to actually see someone soon or his nose would never set right; but of course, that would have to wait. There was still more to be done.

Since arriving at his basement headquarters, his drones had been deployed, diverted from their various missions, abandoning Abby's apartment and the various corporate perches and seedy hotel jobs. Their prying "eyes" had other matters to which to attend now. Within a few minutes, the first would be reaching the outskirts of the Westcott territory and closing in on the GPS coordinates for the Underground.

Once more, for Abby, there was nothing that Sampson could do but wait. He hadn't even bothered turning on the Dark Web feed. He had told himself that he had kept the feed off so as to avoid the inquisitive eyes of the two other late-night hackers with which he shared the space, yet if he allowed himself a little honesty, he didn't know if he could bare to see whatever truth the feed would reveal.

So, instead, he focused on what he could control - his death. As he tapped at the keyboard, he initiated a new FrindyPeeks account - Morgan Lambert - uploading five years' worth of backdated photos, while simultaneously erasing Sampson Ford from the FrindyPeeks facial algorithms. A few more keystrokes and with the help of some well-placed backdoors in the systems of his less scrupulous targets (thank you Herbert Fitzgerald) and various legal records were planted in databases throughout the country. Bank accounts were set up, money transferred, and digital histories drafted all with a few well-place taps of the keyboard and premade executables. Sampson, no Morgan (that particular change was going to take some time for proper adjustment), had always made sure to prepare for any eventuality. The chance that he'd be discovered one day had never been far from mind.

His new identity propagating out over the digital infrastructure, Morgan turned his attention towards his old identity. Where had he told Hugo Addington to pick up Contestant 64? Ah, yes, portside, just south of the Underground coordinates. His car should be arriving there any minute, soaked in his blood (at least Nick breaking his nose had done some good), and with discarded restraints in the back. Add in the bullet holes provided by the drone that should be arriving right about -- yes, now -- and, with any luck, if the Addingtons bothered to look for the drop they'd come to the conclusion that the Resistance had offed him for his betrayal, while rescuing Contestant 64.

Morgan switched to the drone's camera feed, keeping the window minimal so as to avoid the gaze of his fellow hackers. As he watched, explosive bursts flared out just off camera, and armor-piercing bullets shredded the driver side door. Another volley struck the hood and soon enough he could see smoke rising from the engine block. A few more minutes and the whole thing would be in flames. It's too bad he hadn't had a cadaver around for a body swap, but hopefully his DNA would do.

He'd have to erase those records from the system later, after his death had been confirmed, or at least suspected. There were way too many loose ends for his comfort, but that's what happens when your ex-girlfriend's idiot boyfriend forces your hand in the middle of the night - things get messy.

An alarm blared in his headset, sending another bout of throbbing through his already aching temples. That would be the rest of the drones, he thought. They'd arrived on the perimeter of Westcott's terrain. He closed out the first drone's camera and switched over to his eyes downtown. Multiple views overtook his screen in a plethora of settings: night vision, infrared, ultra-violet, and of course plain old natural light, among others. It was the infrared that dominated his interest. A large heat signature could be found right over the GPS coordinates provided by Hugo, but it wasn't coming from the buildings above - no it was coming from below the street, which Morgan supposed was appropriate for a place that called itself The Underground.

He pivoted to a second monitor, navigating city records until he could pull up the corresponding city plans, flipping between the general plan and the corridor plan until he could confirm the subterranean infrastructure. Sure enough, there it was: an old metro station abandoned for over a decade.

More screens, more city databases, and then he pulled up grids for both the old metro tunnels and the city sewage systems, looking for joins. In minutes he had his entrances.

Ensuring that he was on an encrypted line, Morgan dialled Tony Foster. He answered just as gruff and discourteous as Morgan suspected he would.

"What now?"

"I'm sending you coordinates."

"We've got 'em," Tony interrupted.

"Not these, you don't. You're headed towards an old metro station. There are about a half a dozen subterranean entrance points. I'm feeding them through, now."

"I thought you said you were scouting the area via car."

"I am. Sort of. I'm just south of Westcott territory, portside. I needed an entrance plan. I'll be heading to the aqueduct --"

Morgan terminated the line. As far as the Resistance was concerned, he was now dead. The burned-out husk of his car would be found one way or another. He'd led them to Abby; they had no further need of him.

Of course, he wasn't yet done with them. He may not be en route in person, but he was far more effectual behind a monitor than he ever would be face-to-face. A few more keystrokes and his army of drones had diverted to the aqueducts. It was time to make their live broadcast premiere.

With nothing left to do but wait, Morgan finally returned to the Dark Web and turned on The Underground stream.

***

"What the hell is she doing?"

Hugo watched as Silent Death stumbled through the dark corridors of the maze, soaked in the blood of her kills, a barbaric conqueror. Clayton might despise these underground hunts, but Hugo couldn't deny that there was something authentic in their brutality, no matter how uncultured and degenerate the imitation might be. Sure, it wasn't sport, not like The Hunt, but it had a visceral quality to it that he found fascinating.

"Looking for her next kill," Clayton answered. "Or for a quiet spot to lay down and die. What do I care?"

Hugo's brother returned to his call, his exasperated mutterings the only sounds breaking the silence of the study. Surely, Clayton's absence must have already been noted at their father's wake. Hugo thought about mentioning as much to Clayton, but the venom apparent in his brother's every twitch made him reconsider.

"Just tell me if he's there," he said. Clayton grew quiet for a moment listening to Harrington on the other end of the line. After a long pause, Clayton continued.

"Fine. Make sure he can never come back. Then find him." He paused, listening once more, then hung up.

"It's done?" Hugo doubted it, but he had to hope the whole affair had come to an end. When Clayton was in a rage, it was best not to be at the center of that maelstrom - and definitely not to be the cause of it. "No, Hugo. No, it's not done," he said. "Harrington is burning down Ford's home as we speak. The quarry is unkenneled, but I am afraid it has still gone to ground. It's just a matter of where."

"And Contestant --"

"64? Harrington will check the drop. You best hope he's there, little brother."

Hugo winced. "And if he's not?"

"Then you better make good." Clayton stepped over to the monitor where Silent Death slumped to the floor, her back against the steel frame of the corridor. "What are you up to, cousins? What do you hope to gain here," he muttered as he watched. "What do you benefit from this depravity?"

Hugo looked at the feed, noting the exceptionally large view count in the bottom right. "You have to admit," he said, "they have tapped a particularly strong market with this Hunt."

The first thing he noticed was the pain surging through the back of his skull, followed a close second by the pressure on his throat and his inability to breathe. Clayton had him pinned to the wall, his grip tightening around his neck.

"Don't you dare call this bastardisation a Hunt. Do you hear me?"

Hugo nodded. At least he hoped that he did. Stars clouded his vision and soon he feared he would lose consciousness.

"Fine." Clayton let go, and Hugo smashed to the floor.

"You'll fix this," Clayton continued, "or I'll see you lay down and die, an untitled, penniless beggar, no better than that wench on the feed. Understand?"

"Yes," Hugo managed, his voice raspy and weak. He fought to take in air, to refill his lungs, but also to remain calm; to hide his weakness.

Clayton looked down on him and Hugo could swear that he saw pity in his eyes.

"I love you, brother," Clayton said. "Please, don't disappoint me, again. I really would hate to see you end up like her."

Clayton waved towards the Dark Web feed, then left the study to re-join the wake.

Hugo remained behind, catching his breath. As the door shut behind the new family patriarch, Hugo returned his attention to the monitor. The life had drained from Silent Death as her adrenaline had faded. If another hunter found her now, Hugo doubted that she would survive the encounter. Would he? Would Clayton? How would any of them fair in a hunt where the quarry hunted you back? Based on the wake in full swing just outside that door, Hugo had to admit that it would mean a different sport, one over which the Addingtons might not reign supreme; one which could lead to their final fall from grace.