11:49 A.M. – Sector 20 West Side Warehouse
The warehouse was a storm of shouting men and clattering crates, the air thick with the stench of sweat and gun oil.
The explosion outside had sent the Red Dogs into a frenzy—some scrambling to reinforce the barricades, others cursing as they hauled ammunition toward the exits.
Echo pressed herself against the splintered wood of a supply crate, her breath shallow.
The Rank 1—Silent Step glyph hummed beneath her boots, muffling her movements as she edged closer to the chaos.
Then—
The eastern door slammed open.
Vega stormed inside, his face twisted into a snarl. The red dog tattoo on his forearm pulsed under the flickering lumen lights as he shoved past a panicked recruit.
"What the fuck is happening right now?" His voice cut through the noise like a blade. "We need to finish this ASAP!"
A wiry Dog stammered, clutching a crate of grenades. "Boss, the Talons—!"
"I don't care!" Vega backhanded him, sending the man sprawling.
The grenades clattered to the floor, rolling dangerously close to a stack of fuel canisters. "Gideon wants those supplies right now! You think we have time for this shit?"
Echo's fingers twitched toward her conduit.
Vega wasn't just angry—he was rattled.
His eyes darted to the warehouse's rafters, then to the shadows between crates, as if sensing her presence. The man was a predator, trained to notice what didn't belong.
And right now, she didn't belong.
A rookie near the door hesitated. "But the explosion—!"
"Was a distraction," he announced, voice dropping to a cold, deliberate calm. The Red Dogs nearest him froze mid-panic. "Which means they're already inside."
The words were meant to steady his men—to give them purpose in the chaos.
But as Vega's gaze swept the warehouse shadows, his fingers absently tracing the hilt of his serrated knife, his thoughts ran darker.
Those pyromaniac bastards.
The Scorchers had moved without warning, without coordination.
Typical.
Blaze and his crew treated the Red Dogs like disposable pawns, never sharing the full plan, never caring who got caught in the crossfire.
Vega's jaw clenched.
If the Talons were here, it meant the Scorchers had already engaged them somewhere else—and left the Dogs to clean up the mess.
His hand drifted to the knife at his belt—a curved, serrated thing, its edge glinting with fresh poison.
Echo didn't wait.
She melted deeper into the shadows, the glyph's silence swallowing her whole.
But Vega's gaze lingered on the empty space where she'd been.
And for the first time since the mission began—
Echo felt the prickle of unease.
The moment Vega's boots scuffed against the concrete floor, Echo was already moving.
Years of infiltration missions had honed her instincts to a razor's edge—every shift of weight, every controlled exhale perfectly synchronized with the Rank 1—Silent Step glyph's pulse beneath her soles.
She slipped between crates like smoke through fingers, her dark combat gear blending seamlessly with the shadows.
By the time Vega reached the spot where she'd been crouched, Echo was already three meters away, pressed against a stack of munitions boxes.
The stale warehouse air burned in her lungs, but she didn't dare breathe too deeply.
Vega's hand paused mid-reach toward the disturbed dust where Echo's knee had been moments before. His lips curled into something between a smirk and a snarl.
"Hoh," he muttered under his breath, never letting the tension show in his posture. "The rat seems quite experienced."
His fingers dipped into his jacket pocket, retrieving a worn conduit—its surface scratched from years of use.
The Rank 1—Echolocation glyph flared to life with a soft blue pulse.
Most scouts relied on corporate-made sensors these days, but Vega had crafted this glyph himself during his early years in the Junkyard's ruins.
Back when tech was scarce and survival meant adapting.
The spell wasn't as precise as modern equipment, but it had one advantage corporate gear couldn't match—it didn't show up on scanners.
Echo's eyes narrowed as the faintest ripple of energy expanded from Vega's position.
She recognized the technique—crude but effective. Like sonar pings in water, the glyph would paint the warehouse in Vega's mind, revealing any disturbances in the air currents.
Her fingers twitched toward her own conduit. She had seconds to react.
The echolocation wave hit the crate she hid behind.
Echo wasn't there when it passed.
Vega's fingers twitched around his conduit as the echolocation glyph pulsed through the warehouse.
The blue ripple revealed nothing—no displaced air, no telltale heat signature—but his instincts screamed.
Someone was here.
And if they were skilled enough to evade his glyph, they weren't just scouts. They were professionals.
A cold realization settled in his gut.
If I were them... what would I do in a warehouse full of enemy supplies?
His eyes snapped to the stacked crates of ammunition, the barrels of volatile fuel, the carefully arranged detonation charges meant for the Talon base.
"Oh, you clever bastards," he breathed.
The explosion outside hadn't been a distraction—it had been phase one.
Vega didn't hesitate.
He spun on his heel and bolted for the nearest exit, shoving panicked Red Dogs out of his path.
"MOVE!" he roared, his voice cutting through the chaos. "GET THE HELL OUT—"
The first charge detonated before he could finish.
A deafening crack split the air as the munitions crate near the eastern wall erupted in a fireball.
The shockwave punched Vega off his feet, sending him skidding across the concrete. Heat seared his back as debris rained down around him.
Through the ringing in his ears, he heard the second explosion—then the third—each one perfectly placed to collapse the warehouse's support beams in a cascading chain reaction.
Just like I would've done.
Vega scrambled up, spitting blood.
The ceiling groaned above him, metal twisting like a dying beast.
He didn't look back as he lunged for daylight, the world burning behind him.
Vega rolled to his knees just beyond the blast radius, his lungs burning with acrid smoke.
The warehouse groaned like a dying beast behind him, its steel skeleton collapsing in a shower of sparks.
One second later...
The thought hit him like a bullet.
One second slower, and he'd be just another charred corpse buried under tons of twisted metal - another fool who didn't see the trap coming.
"Motherfu—"
His curse died in his throat.
A figure stirred in the debris field just ahead - one of his scouts, half-buried under fallen beams, their uniform smoldering.
The young Dog groaned weakly, a gloved hand twitching toward a shattered conduit.
Vega's combat instincts warred with cold logic. Stopping meant death. The secondary explosions were still ripping through the warehouse.
Yet his feet moved before his mind could decide.
He grabbed the scout's collar, dragging them across broken concrete as another fuel cache detonated behind them. The heat seared his back, but Vega didn't slow. Not until they were clear of the kill zone.
The scout coughed blood onto Vega's boots. "Boss...we didn't..."
"Shut up and breathe," Vega growled, scanning the perimeter.
His fingers found the scout's belt, ripping free a med-gel canister.
Somewhere in the smoke, he knew the Talon operative was watching.
***
The sky darkened as thick black smoke coiled upward, swallowing the already muted sunlight. Embers danced in the air like fireflies, settling on the cracked pavement around the ruined warehouse.
From her vantage point atop a collapsed storage container, Echo watched through her scope as Vega worked furiously over his wounded scout.
The veteran Red Dog's movements were precise despite the chaos - tearing away burnt fabric, applying med-gel with practiced efficiency.
"Tsk." Echo lowered her rifle, the scope's reticle sliding away from Vega's forehead. "Got lucky."
Beside her, Liz shifted position, her own weapon tracking the pair.
"We could end them right here," she whispered, finger hovering near the trigger. "Two less Dogs to worry about later."
Echo didn't answer immediately.
Her eyes flicked to the collapsing warehouse, then to the distant figures of other Red Dogs scrambling through the smoke.
The mission parameters flashed in her mind: Disrupt supply lines. Avoid prolonged engagement.
"Negative," she finally said, signaling the retreat.
"Vega's not our priority. And right now..." A massive support beam gave way with an earsplitting shriek, sending a fresh plume of sparks into the sky. "...that fire's doing our job for us."
Liz hesitated, her scope lingering on Vega's unprotected back for one long second before reluctantly disengaging. "His luck won't hold forever."
"No," Echo agreed, already moving. "But today isn't that day."
The acrid taste of burning fuel clung to Echo's tongue as she turned away from the inferno.
Behind her, the warehouse groaned its final death rattle, collapsing in on itself with a thunderous roar.
Flames clawed at the midday gray sky, their dark smoke blotting out the light and casting an artificial twilight over the fleeing Red Dogs.
For a fleeting moment, her boots hesitated on the broken pavement.
They never stood a chance.
The thought came unbidden, unwelcome.
These weren't just faceless enemies—they were scouts like her, soldiers following orders, men who'd been given an impossible task.
The bitterness rising in her throat could have been from the smoke.
Could have been.
As she blinked, the heat against her back wasn't just from the flames anymore.
Somewhere in that firestorm, Vega was still fighting to save his people.
Just as she would for hers.
Echo adjusted her grip on her rifle, the metal suddenly cold against her palms.
"Fall back to rally point," she ordered, her voice steadier than she felt.
As they melted into the ruins, she didn't look back.
Not at the flames.
Not at the wounded.
And certainly not at the uncomfortable truth taking root in her chest—that today's victory might plant the seeds of tomorrow's reckoning.
The wind shifted, carrying with it the distant sound of alarm...and screams.
The smoke swallowed them as they vanished into the ruins, leaving Vega to his triage.
And to the burning remains of his operation.
***
Blaze lounged on the concrete ledge, his augmented eyes flickering with thermal overlays as he watched the distant warehouse burn.
The cherry-red popsicle in his hand dripped sticky syrup down his fingers, the sweet tang mixing with the acrid scent of smoke drifting across Sector 20.
"Mmm. Pretty fire," he mused, taking another slow lick.
Ember's gauntlets sparked impatiently at her sides. "I can only smell smoke from here," she growled. "Your eyes are better. See anything useful?"
Blaze paused mid-lick, his ocular implants whirring as they zoomed in.
Through the billowing black smoke, he caught glimpses of movement—a familiar figure darting between collapsing structures.
"Ohhh," he drawled, lips curling around the popsicle stick. "There's the Talons' little scout leader. Planted some presents, by the looks of it."
Ember's fists ignited with a whoosh of flame. "And you didn't stop her?"
Blaze turned to stare at her, his expression caught between amusement and disbelief.
"Why the hell would I do that?" He gestured lazily toward the inferno with what remained of his treat. "This is way more fun."
The popsicle dripped onto the rooftop, sizzling as it hit the sun-scorched metal.
Somewhere in the distance, another explosion rocked the warehouse district.
Blaze sighed happily.
"See? Fireworks."
Ember exhaled through her nose, the flames around her gauntlets flickering out as she rolled her shoulders in defeat.
"The world would fucking end if you actually did something useful for once," she muttered, watching another section of the warehouse collapse in on itself.
A plume of embers spiraled into the sky. "At this rate, the Red Dogs' chances just went up in smoke. Literally."
She turned to glare at Blaze. "So what's the actual plan here? Or are we just here to watch everything burn?"
Blaze didn't answer immediately.
His augmented eyes tracked the last of his melting popsicle as it slid off the stick and plopped onto the scorching rooftop, instantly bubbling into a sticky puddle.
The sugar hissed against the heated metal, the scent of caramelized syrup mixing with the distant smoke.
"Chaos," he said finally, tilting his head like a curious hound. "Just… create chaos. That's what I've been told."
Ember stared at him. "That's it? That's the whole fucking strategy?"
Blaze grinned, licking the last traces of blue dye from his fingers. "Worked so far, hasn't it?"
Another explosion echoed in the distance.
Somewhere below, the Red Dogs were scrambling, shouting, realizing too late that they were never meant to win.
They were just kindling.
The last traces of the popsicle's artificial sweetness evaporated on Blaze's tongue, leaving only the familiar, metallic aftertaste of his own scorched flesh.
His fingers twitched at his sides as he murmured, so low it was almost swallowed by the distant roar of flames:
"...Can't even taste anything anymore."
Ember's head tilted slightly—she'd caught the words, but the weight behind them made her hold her tongue.
Her eyes stayed fixed on the smoke coiling over Sector 20, the firelight reflecting in her amber irises.
Blaze pushed himself up in one fluid motion, the rooftop gravel crunching under his boots.
"I'm gonna go somewhere," he said, brushing nonexistent dust from his coat. "Don't follow me."
There was something different in his voice—not the usual manic energy, but a quiet intensity that made Ember's flames gutter instinctively.
She didn't turn as his footsteps receded, didn't ask where he was going.
Some lines even she knew not to cross.
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of burning plastic and something darker—maybe flesh, maybe memories.
Ember exhaled slowly, watching the smoke twist into shapeless ghosts against the sky.
Somewhere below, the popsicle's last remnants sizzled into nothing.
***
Gideon's fist slammed onto the rusted metal table hard enough to send empty liquor bottles clattering to the floor.
The three-headed dog tattoo on his shoulder pulsed with each ragged breath as he glared at the holographic feed of the burning warehouse.
"Move your fucking asses!" His roar sent two rookies scrambling backward. "I want every available squad geared up and rolling in ninety seconds! Vega's team is still in that firezone!"
Across the room, Felix hesitated, his subdermal armor plates flexing nervously. "Boss, the structural collapse—"
"Did I ask for a damage assessment?" Gideon's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper as he grabbed a shotgun from the weapons rack.
The chamber locked with a sickening click. "Either you're in that truck when it leaves, or you're staying here—permanently."
The remaining Red Dogs erupted into motion, snatching up medkits and fire-suppression gear.
Through the cracked windows, the smoke from Sector 20 stained the midday sky black.
Gideon didn't wait for them.
He was already striding toward the garage, his boots crushing shards of broken glass underfoot.
Vega better be alive when I get there, he thought, thumbing the safety off his weapon.
Because if the fire didn't kill him, I fucking will for letting this happen.
Gideon's grip on the shotgun tightened, his knuckles bleaching white.
The thought of Vega and the others trapped in that inferno barely registered—what burned in his chest wasn't concern, but the cold, gnawing reality of their supplies turning to ash.
At this rate, we're just prey waiting for the Steel Talons to pick us off.
The war room door slammed open.
Arden stood in the threshold, his wiry frame silhouetted against the flickering corridor lights.
His ocular implant whirred as it adjusted to the dimness, scanning the chaos before locking onto Gideon.
"Heard what happened," Arden said, stepping inside.
His voice was calm, but the rapid tapping of his fingers against his thigh betrayed his tension. "How the fuck did the Talons slip inside without anyone noticing?"
Gideon's lip curled. "You're supposed to be the brains of this gang," he snarled, advancing on Arden. "So why don't you tell me what the hell went wrong?"
The room fell silent.
Even the rookies froze mid-motion, medkits half-packed, their breaths held.
Arden didn't flinch.
He met Gideon's glare, his mind racing through variables, probabilities, failures.
After a beat, he exhaled sharply.
"There was an explosion south of the warehouse first," he said, his voice low. "Just before the fire started. It wasn't random—it was a diversion."
Gideon's jaw clenched.
Of course.
The Talons hadn't just attacked—they'd orchestrated.
Played them like fools.
"So what now?" Gideon growled.
Arden's eye gleamed in the half-light. "Now," he said, "we find out who let them in."
Gideon's grip on the shotgun shifted, his finger hovering near the trigger guard. "Are you saying we should split our forces now?"
The implication hung heavy in the air—weakness, division, exactly what the Steel Talons would exploit.
Arden adjusted his ocular implant, the lens flickering as it recalibrated. "No," he said carefully. "I'm suggesting we have a conversation with certain individuals first."
Gideon's brow furrowed—then his expression darkened as realization struck.
The only ones who moved unchecked through their territory, who answered to no one, who left charred corpses in their wake—
"You think the Scorchers let the Talons in?" Gideon's voice was dangerously low.
Arden exhaled through his nose. "Think about it. The only people who come and go as they please here? Who nobody dares question?"
His fingers tapped a restless rhythm against his thigh. "And that explosion? Too precise. Too clean for normal Talon ops."
Gideon barked a humorless laugh. "You expect us to just talk to those psychos? You've seen what happens when they're even slightly pissed off."
He gestured violently toward the window, where the smoke still billowed. "They've been roasting our people alive for months. You really think they'll sit down for a fucking chat?"
The room fell silent.
Arden didn't blink. "Then we don't give them a reason to burn us."
Gideon's fingers tightened around the shotgun stock, his knuckles whitening. "We're already prepping Tenn's invention to counter those bastards," he growled. "You really think buttering them up now won't make us look weak? That's like a moth flying too close to a goddamn flame—one wrong move, and we're the ones getting burned."
The room fell silent except for the distant crackle of the burning warehouse.
Arden's gaze shifted to the smoke billowing afar.
Then, slowly, his lips curled into something too sharp to be a smile.
"What if," he said, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, "we team up with the Talons to take them down?"
Gideon froze.
For a heartbeat, the only sound was the drip of condensation from a ruptured pipe.
Then—
"Have you lost your fucking mind?" Gideon's voice was dangerously quiet.
Arden leaned forward. "The Talons hate the Scorchers more than they hate us. And right now?"
He gestured to the smoke-choked windows. "They just proved they can hit harder than we can. Temporary alliance. Shared target. We let them soften the Scorchers up, then—"
"Then we're standing in a room full of corpses, half of them ours," Gideon snapped. "You think Karen would shake hands with the dogs who burned her people? Or that Vey wouldn't slit your throat mid-sentence?"
Arden's eye gleamed. "Not if we offer them something they want more than revenge."
The unspoken weight of those words hung between them—a gamble so reckless it might just work.
Or get them all killed.