12:21 P.M. – Rally Point, Southwest Border of Sector 20
The warehouse smoke still coiled in the distance, a greasy smear against the sky, but the real tension clung to Carlos' squad like the stink of burnt garbage—thick, inescapable, settling into the folds of their gear and the back of their throats.
Nail walked three paces ahead, his shoulders rigid, his boots kicking up dust with deliberate force.
The others kept their distance, exchanging glances but saying nothing.
They had all seen the security feed. They had all watched the way he dismantled those augments—not like a soldier clearing hostiles, but like a man exorcising something personal.
His right knuckles were split, the skin torn and crusted with dried blood. Not from the warehouse op. Not from the explosions or the collapsing steel.
From before.
From the parking structure.
From the way his fists had kept moving long after the augments stopped.
He took another bite of the protein bar—chalky, flavorless, the kind they rationed to field operatives. The taste didn't matter. It was just something to keep his jaw clenched, to keep the words from spilling out.
In his mind, what he felt wasn't guilt.
It was shame.
Shame that someone had seen him like that—raw, uncontrolled, his discipline unraveling into something ugly.
Shame that Carlos and the rookies had watched him lose himself in the violence, in the wet crunch of alloy and bone beneath his fists.
But guilt?
No.
Not for those augments.
Not for the way he'd erased them.
If anything, he was proud.
They had been hollowed-out things—corporate puppets with Myriad serial numbers stamped into their spines, their free will stripped down to directives and target parameters.
He'd done them a mercy.
And if part of him had enjoyed it—if part of him had reveled in the way their reinforced ribs caved under his Mass Driver glyph, in the way their optics flickered out one by one—well.
That was a thought for another time.
A darker time.
Behind him, one of the rookies cleared her throat.
"Nail," she started, hesitant. "Your hand—"
He didn't turn. Just flexed his fingers, feeling the split skin pull taut.
"Don't," he said.
The word wasn't sharp.
Wasn't angry.
Just final.
Somewhere in the ruins, a loose piece of sheet metal groaned in the wind, a sound almost like a voice. Almost like laughter.
Nail took another bite of the protein bar.
Chewed.
Swallowed.
And said nothing at all.
The mission had been a failure—but not quite.
Echo had still blown the Red Dogs' supplies to hell, still left their warehouse a smoldering carcass.
That counted for something. But as Nail's squad trudged toward the rally point, the silence pressed in around them, thick and unnatural.
No chatter. No clatter of gear. Just the wind whistling through the ruins, carrying the distant scent of burning fuel.
It was too quiet.
Just like it was a few hours ago.
Nail stopped at the door, his hand hovering near his holster.
The rally point was supposed to be packed—Talon operatives gearing up, Rook barking orders.
Instead, the building loomed like a gutted husk, its windows dark, its entrance yawning empty.
Behind him, Carlos exhaled sharply. "Where is everyone?"
No answer.
Carlos pushed past, boots scuffing against the cracked concrete as he stepped inside.
The rookies lingered at Nail's back, their grips tightening on their rifles.
One of them—Avira—swallowed hard, her eyes darting to the shadows.
Then a movement.
Remi, one of the logistics runners, nearly collided with Carlos in the doorway.
Her left leg was augmented—a sleek, hydraulic model, its joints whirring softly as she shifted her weight.
She carried a crate of supplies, her arms straining under the weight.
"Woah," Remi blinked, startled. "Why are you all just standing there like a bunch of glow-rats caught in a flashlight"
Nail didn't relax. "Where is everyone?"
Remi adjusted his grip on the crate, jerking his chin toward the east. "About half an hour ago, they got a distress ping from Mags. Karen mobilized everyone who wasn't busy."
A beat.
Nail's jaw tightened.
Mags isn't someone to send distress pings.
Mags didn't need backup.
Something was wrong.
Carlos cursed under his breath. "Scorchers?"
Remi shrugged, but his augmented leg gave a nervous twitch. "Dunno. Comms were scrambled—just heard 'heavy drone engagement' after they rolled out."
The rookies exchanged glances.
One of them—the kid with the shaking hands—muttered something that sounded like a prayer.
Nail turned, his gaze slicing toward the horizon where the smoke still curled.
Most likely a Scorcher.
But who?
And if Mags was in trouble, then whatever was out there was worse than they'd thought.
"Gear up," Nail said, voice low. "We're moving."
The rookies stiffened.
Carlos opened his mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to ask if they should wait for orders—but Nail was already walking, his boots eating up the distance before anyone could stop him.
Behind him, Remi called out, "Hey, you're not supposed to—"
Nail didn't stop.
His boots carried him forward, each step grinding dust and broken concrete beneath his heels.
The eastward path stretched ahead—toward the smoke, toward the fight, toward whatever nightmare had forced Mags of all people to call for backup.
Then—
"Where are you going, Nail?"
Echo's voice cut through the air, sharp as a blade between his shoulder blades.
She stood framed in the rally point's doorway, her augmented eye glinting in the dull light, her arms crossed.
She wasn't breathing hard. She must've been waiting.
Nail didn't turn. "What else? I'm going to help them."
A beat of silence.
The wind carried the distant echo of collapsing rubble.
Echo exhaled through her nose. "I'm not here to stop you," she said, voice low. "But at least get some intel first. Know what you're walking into."
Nail finally glanced back, his jaw tight. "What do you mean?"
Echo stepped closer, her boots silent against the cracked pavement. "You don't even know where they are," she said. "Or what they're facing. Or if they're still alive."
Her gaze flicked to his split knuckles, then back up. "Running in blind helps no one."
The words landed like a punch.
Gather intel first.
It was basic.
Fundamental.
Something even rookies knew.
Yet it had flown straight out of his head.
Nail's fingers twitched at his sides.
The realization settled over him like a weight—he wasn't thinking tactically.
He wasn't thinking at all.
He was reacting.
Just like he had in the parking structure.
Just like he had with those augmented guards.
Echo studied him, her expression unreadable. "Karen left a marker on the comms grid. Last known coordinates."
She tilted her head. "You want to help? Fine. But do it smart."
For a moment, Nail just stood there, the wind tugging at his jacket.
The rage in his chest hadn't cooled—not even slightly—but now, beneath it, something else stirred.
Shame, again.
Not for killing those augments.
For forgetting who he was.
He gave a single, stiff nod.
Echo turned back toward the rally point. "Then let's move," she said. "But this time? Think first."
Nail flexed his bruised knuckles.
And followed.
***
Pen clicked off the comm unit, the static hiss cutting abruptly into silence.
For a moment, she'd forgotten where she was—the adrenaline of Karen's report, the urgency in her voice, the sheer scale of the drone swarm they'd barely escaped—it had all crowded out the reality of damp concrete and stagnant water.
Then she lifted the last bite of her protein bar to her mouth—
—and the stench hit her like a fist.
Rot.
Sewage.
The metallic tang of old pipes bleeding rust into standing water. It coiled into her nostrils, thick enough to taste, and her throat convulsed.
She gagged, barely managing to choke down the dry, chalky mouthful as her eyes watered.
"Fucking—hell—" she wheezed, pressing the back of her hand to her nose.
To her left, Mags didn't react.
She'd already finished her own rations, the wrapper crumpled neatly in her palm.
Her tanto lay across her knees, its edge still faintly shimmering with the remnants of the Razor glyph.
The reek of the tunnels might as well not have existed for all the notice she gave it.
Pen wiped her mouth with a grimace. "How the fuck are you not puking right now?"
Mags glanced at her.
Then, slowly, deliberately, she tapped one finger against her temple—mind over matter—before returning to methodically cleaning her blade.
Pen groaned. "Yeah, yeah. I know, I know."
She shoved the empty wrapper into her belt pouch, trying and failing to breathe through her mouth.
The stench clung like a second skin.
Somewhere deeper in the tunnels, water dripped.
A steady, rhythmic plink-plink-plink that did nothing to drown out the distant skittering of glow-rats—or the memory of Cinder's laughter echoing through a sky full of drones.
Pen exhaled sharply.
They couldn't stay here forever.
Pen stood, brushing the grit and dust from her pants with sharp, irritated swipes.
The damp concrete had left a grimy film on her jacket, and she wrinkled her nose as she shook it off.
"Let's go," she muttered to Mags.
A nod.
That was all.
Mags rose in one fluid motion, her movements precise, silent.
No words.
No wasted energy.
Just the quiet rustle of fabric and the soft click of her tanto sliding back into its sheath.
Pen exhaled, rolling her shoulders as she stepped toward the tunnel entrance.
The stench of sewage still hung thick in the air, clinging to the back of her throat, but now—
—now, beneath it, she noticed the other sounds.
The steady rush of water flowing through the ancient pipes.
The faint skitter-skitter of glow-rats darting through the shadows, their tiny claws scraping against brick and metal.
The distant drip-drip of condensation falling from rusted seams.
It should have been oppressive.
Claustrophobic.
But somehow, it wasn't.
A strange calm settled over her.
She remembered.
Her sister's voice, raspy and warm, telling her stories as they huddled in the crawlspace beneath their tenement.
The way the glow-rats' eyes flickered like distant stars in the dark.
The sound of rain pattering against the roof above, leaking through the cracks, dripping into the buckets they'd set out.
She'd laugh, then—soft, so the landlord wouldn't hear—and say, "Listen, Pen. Those pipes are making its own music."
Her fingers flexed at her sides.
That was a lifetime ago.
Before the gangs.
Before her body was left in a ditch with a bullet through his skull for daring to steal food from the wrong people.
The memory should have hurt.
But here, in the echoing dark, with the water murmuring and the rats skittering, it just felt... quiet.
Mags glanced at her.
Pen adjusted her grip on her monofilament launcher.
"Move out," she said, and stepped into the tunnel.
Pen's conduit flickered in the dim light as she checked their position.
Twenty minutes.
More or less. Assuming nothing blocked their path.
She exhaled, the sound swallowed by the tunnel's damp walls. Then—
Her head snapped up.
A prickle ran down her spine, the instinctive warning of prey sensing a predator. Something was ahead. Just beyond the right turn where the tunnel curved into darkness.
She glanced back at Mags.
No words were needed.
Mags had already heard it. Her shotgun slid silently from its sling, the pump-action click-clack of her loading a round barely louder than a whisper. Her dark eyes locked onto Pen's, sharp, unblinking.
Ready.
Pen's fingers tightened around her monofilament launcher. The air hummed—not with the deafening roar of Cinder's swarm, but with the faint, unmistakable whine of repulsor thrusters.
One. Maybe two.
Scouts.
Left behind to hunt.
The realization settled cold in Pen's gut.
Cinder wasn't done with them yet.
The hum of repulsor thrusters lingered in the damp air like a warning.
Pen's fingers moved silently over her conduit's surface, glyphs flickering as she typed.
The pale blue light reflected in Mags' eyes as she turned the screen toward her:
>> Let's go another route.
A beat.
Then Mags nodded—once, sharp—before easing the shotgun's hammer back to safe position with practiced care.
No wasted motion.
No sound.
They could take the drones.
That wasn't the problem.
The problem was what came after—the way Cinder's laughter would crackle over comms the second her sensors picked up the fight, the way the entire swarm might pivot toward their location like vultures to fresh carrion.
Pen wiped condensation from her conduit's screen and pulled up the sewer schematics.
An alternate path blinked into existence—a maintenance spur veering left, narrower but clear of heat signatures.
Mags' fingertip grazed the map, then tapped twice against a junction marker: here.
A detour.
Longer, but safer.
Pen smirked.
Of course, the Silent Killer had memorized the tunnels.
She jerked her chin toward a rusted ladder half-submerged in runoff.
The access point wasn't on any schematic, but the rungs looked intact.
Mags' lips thinned—not quite disapproval, but close.
Then she shrugged and moved, her boots silent on the slick concrete.
Far behind them, the drone's hum faded, then surged again as it circled back.
Pen didn't look back.
The ladder groaned under Pen's weight, flakes of rust showering down like brittle rain.
Each rung bit into her palms through her gloves, the metal cold and unyielding.
Below, Mags waited—a phantom in the gloom, her shotgun raised, tracking the drone's distant hum through layers of concrete and decay.
Pen reached the top and shouldered the access hatch open, just enough to peer through.
Shit.
The maintenance tunnel beyond was a claustrophobic throat of dripping pipes and flickering lumen strips, barely wider than her shoulders.
Condensation wept down the walls, pooling in rusted seams. But it was empty—no drones, no heat signatures flickering on her conduit's scan.
Just the steady drip-drip of water and the subterranean growl of machinery vibrating deep in the sector's bones.
She slipped through, rolling to the side to make room for Mags.
The hatch closed behind them with a muffled clunk, sealing away the sewer's stench.
For a heartbeat, they lay still, listening—
Then:
"WHO'S THERE?!"
A voice, raw with panic, echoed down the tunnel.
Pen's breath hitched.
Her monofilament wires coiled taut around her forearm, ready to lash out.
Beside her, Mags' shotgun didn't waver, its barrel a black line aimed into the dark.
But the next words weren't a threat.
"Please—please—spare us!" The voice cracked. "We don't have the capacity to fight you!"
Pen's eyes met Mags'. A silent exchange—trap?—before she gave a slow nod.
Mags mirrored it, but neither lowered their weapons as they advanced, sweeping every shadow, every alcove, waiting for the ambush that didn't come.
The tunnel curved.
And then—
Mags' grip tightened.
There, hunched in a recessed alcove, was Vega.
The Red Dog scout was a mess of burns and blood, his jacket charred, his tattooed arms blistered.
But he wasn't alone.
Three of his people lay sprawled on the grating—one unconscious, another clutching a gut wound, the third's leg bent at a sickening angle.
Medical supplies littered the floor: torn gauze, empty stim-packs, a half-used tube of med-gel clutched in Vega's shaking hand.
He looked up, his eyes widening as he recognized Mags.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then Vega laughed—a broken, wet sound. "Of course," he rasped. "Of course it's you."
He sighed and continued. "Just my fucking luck."
Pen kept her wires ready.
Mags' finger stayed on the trigger.
But the only thing bleeding in that tunnel was the truth:
They weren't hunters anymore.
They were all just survivors.
Vega's shoulders slumped as a hollow chuckle escaped his cracked lips.
"Figures," he muttered, wiping blood from his brow with a trembling hand.
A hiss escaped his teeth as the motion pulled at his burns, the raw flesh glistening under the flickering lumen strips.
But his gaze never wavered from Mags' shotgun, even as his own fingers twitched toward his serrated knife—still sheathed.
A pointless gesture.
They all knew it.
Around them, the wounded Red Dogs groaned softly, their pain a quiet counterpoint to the absurdity of the moment—enemies face-to-face, yet neither side able to raise a blade.
One clutched his gut, blood seeping between his fingers.
Another's breath came in wet, shallow gasps.
The third hadn't stirred at all.
Vega exhaled, slow and deliberate.
"Imma make just one last request," he said, voice fraying at the edges. "Before you end me." He jerked his chin toward the wounded behind him. "At least spare those guys."
A beat.
Then he spread his arms, palms up, in mock surrender. "Go on then," he rasped. "Make it quick."
The tunnels seemed to hold their breath.
Condensation dripped.
Machinery hummed.
And Mags—
Mags didn't move.
Her finger stayed curled around the trigger, but it didn't tighten.
Didn't pull.
It was as if the tendons had locked, frozen between instinct and something else—something that looked, for all the world, like hesitation.
Pen watched her sidelong, wires coiled but not yet striking.
Vega blinked.
And then—
A wet cough shattered the silence.
One of the wounded Red Dogs spasmed, a fresh trickle of blood painting his lips.
Vega flinched, half-turning toward him before catching himself, his jaw clenching.
The moment stretched.
Broken.
But not by gunfire.