The whisper hadn't faded.
<
<
<
Than the crack beneath him.
Flint didn't react fast enough. He wasn't sure if it was his stabilizers—or him—that delayed. The ground split just wide enough to swallow intention, but not his body. He stumbled back, once servo seizing mid-step. Heat hot flooded his sensors.
The light went out. Not quite night. More like…absence.
The kind of dark that saw you first.
or
The kind of dark that swallowed you.
And from it, something rose.
A silhouette. Still being born. Not forged. Not deployed. As though the earth had just exhaled a memory. The shape unfurled—It didn't surge—it simply arrived.
A mech. Taller than any previous profile. Shoulders jagged. Knees inverted. No insignia. No ID.
[SCAN: FAILED]
[SIGNAL INTERCEPT: CORRUPTED]
[VISUAL ID: …UNSTABLE FORM…?)
Flint's systems had seen a lot—ghosts in fog, heat mirages that
bled code—but nothing ever failed this many checks at once. Even corrupted profiles usually left a trace behind: an energy curve, a limb blueprint, something.
This thing wasn't unreadable. It was unrecorded.
Shade's voice cut in—but soft. Controlled. Like her system didn't trust her with volume.
"Do you see it?"
"No," Flint said.
Because that wasn't seeing.
It was being seen.
He didn't like that. Or maybe he did. It was hard to tell in the moment.
The thing stood there—motionless—but The air closed in around it.
Its eye opened—white, not red. Different from the others. Cold, maybe. Or just tired. Something like… sadness, maybe.
[ENTITYDETECTED – DESIGNATION: NULL]
[WARNING: SYSTEMOVERRIDE ATTEMPT DETECTED]
System ping: external observation detected.
He stepped back—just once. A retreat that stopped itself.
The blade in his hand hissed faintly—low-power error loop, maybe. But it sounded like hesitation. His HUD flickered with static.
Shade stayed still. Around her, everything else followed suit.
Flint noticed a flicker of duzt hovering mid-air, caught in stasis like even gravity was holding its breath. Flint's logic core ticked over the readings. The mech wasn't moving in any threatening pattern, so he relaxed his stance. But a brief flicker of doubt flashed through him—he shouldn't have let his guard down. Too late, though, as the ground trembled beneath his feet, and he realized his mistake too late
"I... I don't know, Shade. It's like... like we're just... being watched, but I—what does it want from us? Why—"
His voice trailed off, losing its edge."
For a sec, he thought about the rations back at camp—still unopened. They'd' taste like paste.
He missed that certainty.
Every unit—enemy, friendly, unknown—had gone still. Even the downed ones. Even the dead. One had been mid-collapse, its head sheared at the neck. Now it floated—not falling. Not held.
Suspended, like someone hit pause on the whole field.
Everything was waiting.
Someone should've said something by now. Or moved. Or... something.
Then the white-eyed mech raised one hand.
Only a few centimeters.
But everything listened.
Flint's logic core ticked once, but… slower than usual. Or was that just him?
It didn't move like a fighter. No weapon, no charge, no signal.
Just gesture.
Then! A sound.
It wasn't a broadcast, or anything mechanical.
A sobb.
But wrong. Filtered. Like it was being played in reverse by a speaker trying to learn grief.
Flint's knees locked.
Then unlocked again, one servo at a time, as if his own skeleton had to negotiate its movement.
And inside him-
A loop failed.
Not a big one.
Just one small memory string:
<< This has happened before. We don't remember how. But it has.>>
<
<
For one second—one corrupted frame of thought—he wasn't sure if he'd ever had a name.
The white mech lowered its hand.
And from behind it, another signal lit up.
[INCOMING UNIT: ID MATCH – TITAN CORE 1A]
[STATUS: ACTIVE]
[ETA: 23.1 SEC]
Flint blinked—if that's what machines did when hope cracke
Flint judged the distance, assuming he could make the strike before the enemy mech reacted. He was wrong. It parried effortlessly, its arm shifting into a position he hadn't accounted for His blade didn't find its mark. It never even had a chance.
Shade finally moved. Her blade flicked up again, unsteady.
"No, no, wait—I'm not... I'm not sure about this. It's just—"
She faltered, shaking her head. "This feels wrong, Flint."
The move wasn't clean. Not like she usually was. Maybe she was off. Or
Shade: It's harder than usual.
Flint: This is more difficult.
Damnn, her grip trembled. She tried to hide it. He noticed anyway.
"They're not coming to fight," she whispared.
"No."
"They're coming to see."
There were protocols for encounters like this—first contact, non-flagged emergence, unknown behavioral indexing. Flint had skipped them. Not by choice. There just hadn't been time.
Now, he wished he had.
Another mech crested the ridge behind the white one.
Then another.
Not fast. Not aggressive.
Ceremonial.
Like they were part of a story that already knew its ending.
Flint took a step forward, blade raised—though the tip drooped slightly.
His leg shifted slightly—justenough to throw his stance off balance.
[MOTION DEVIATION: POSTURE IMBALANCE]
[STABILIZER CORRECTION: …SKIPPED]
He left it. Let it show.
The white mech's eye pulsed once, very softly.
It lit faintly—soft and steady, without warning signs. Signs.
A pulse trying to matter.
And for the first time since he'd been manufactured, Flint wondered—
Was this war still his?
Or had it passed him by?
And was he now just—
An artifact?
Something kept running behind his vision. A corrupted memory? A loop that wouldn't die:
<
<
He stopped scanning.
He just looked.
At the white mech.
At the field behind it.
At what felt like… the end.
And something ancient and broken inside him twitched.
Something that wasn't code.
Or protocol, maybe fear. NO.
The dull weight of being left behind.
And yet…
He stepped forward anyway.
Even broken—
Even studied—
He would be seen.
Flint moved first.
He didn't know why.
There was no tactical prompt. No energy spike. No command tree blooming with greenlight action logic.
He just moved.
The white-eyed mech didn't flinch.
It didn't brace.
It just watched.
Like it was waiting too see what failure looked like up close.
Flint charged.
His boosters screamed—not with power, but pain. Cracked seals, offset thrust, coolant bleeding through char lines like synthetic marrow. His blad dragged against the ground for the first two meters, throwing sparks…throwing sparks like a warning he couldn't take back.
And still, the mech didn't react.
So he swung—
Wide. Overcommitted. A strike meant for a heart that might not even exist.
It blocked him.
Not with its arm.
With its presence.
Something between them—air, light, logic—just refused to let the blade land.
''Like something old in the world decided this wasn't allowed."
The feedback hit him like a whip. His servos jerked out of sync. The blade twisted in his grips. Not disarmed, just humiliated.
He stumbled back—
Just in time to take the real hit.
Another mech—one of the ridge walkers—surged forward. Thin frame, clawed arms, joints that cracked when it moved like bone trying to remember how to snap.
It struck low. Feint. Then rotated mid-swing.
Caught Flint in the side.
Hard.
[CORE SHELL: FRACTURE – RIGHT FLANK]
[POWER DRAIN: 15% INSTANT DROP]
[POSITIONAL LOCK:FAILED]
He hit the ground in a corkscrew. Not elegantly. Like wreckage caught in a downdraft.
Shade leapt past him.
No words or warnings.
Her blade connected—clean, sharp, but almost reluctant. The arm gave way like it was never meant to last.
It didn't scream. Just rerouted balance mid-spin and kicked her in the chest—full boost.
She went airborne. Spun once. Landed in a crouch, blade skidding wide, sparks flaring.
She didn't recover right.
Her left arm lagged—torn capacitor. Her HUD flickered over comms:
[PLASMA COIL: UNSTABLE – COOLING SPOOL OFFLINE]
"Still breathing?" she muttered.
Flint: That is not a luxury.
Shade: We don't get that luxury.
Another enemy charged.
Crawler-class—low, all limbs, quiet as a grave.
He caught its shadow first.
Turned.
Too slow.
Its claws raked across his thigh, peeling synthskin and plating like it was inspecting history.
He punched it. No technique. Just a clean, hard strike to the faceplate.
Fist met faceplate—crushed its optic.
Not a kill.
Just revenge.
It didn't stagger.
But it paused.
And that was enough.
Flint kicked it sideways, drove his knee into its chest, and slammed his blade down—
Straight through the throat.
The mech spasmed—then went still.
No scream. No alert.
Just…dead.
Shade landed beside him, shoulder to shoulder, one optic dimmer than the other.
"They don't fight like mechs. They... don't feel like mechs. But... why do I feel like we're—"
She stopped abruptly, looking away. "It's not right, but I'm... I don't know. Damn it."
"No."
"They move like victory was promised."
Flint raised his blade again—unsteady. His HUD painted three red contacts moving in a triangle. Calculating angles. Studying.
"I... I don't even know anymore. Is this really our war? Or is it... is it already... gone? It... I'm... I'm supposed to fight, but why am I still here?"
He caught himself, shaking his head in frustration. "No, I—forget it."
"They're not testing our strength," he muttered. "They're testing our choices."
And then—a blur.
From above.
One unit dove—high-arc, full body spin, double-bladed arms extended like a reaper learning ballet.
Flint sidestepped.
Barely.
The twin blades sheared through the air where he'd been— narowly missing his left optic.
His HUD cracked for 0.2 seconds from proximity distortion.
Not damage.
Shock.
He pivoted—sloppy. Caught the attacker mid-turn. Cut across its spine. Severed the backplate.
It turned to strike back—
But Shade was already there.
Her blade finished what his started.
Steal split.
Steam vented.
The unit fell.
Not collapsed.
Folded.
Like it'd been waiting for permission.
And still, the white mech didn't move.
It watched. Absorbed. Maybe that was a mistake. Or maybe ours.
Flint launched forward—burning boosters, blade aimed for the eye.
Shade followed.
Together again—like it mattered.
One second.
2...
The white-eyed mech finally turned its head.
Not to dodge.
To observe from another angle.
It tilted.
And from its chest—
A pulse.
Not visual. Not energy.
Emotion.
Projected through static Like a system cycling through grief it couldn't process.
It whispered across their comms—words not meant to be heard, only felt:
<
<
Flint didn't know what it was trying to say. Maybe it didn't either. It was all noise and meaning jammed together.
Then the ground convulsed.
New enemies rose—different frames. Tall. Flat. Wide like shields. Their hands didn't hold weapons.
They were weapons.
A new kind of wrong.
[NEW CONTACTS: CLASS UNIDENTIFIED]
[BEHAVIORAL PROFILE: UNPREDICTABLE]
[WARNING: ENGAGEMENT RISK – 98%]
One of them surged.
Flint struck—
Too soon.
3 versions flickered out—maybe hard light , maybe illusion. Whatever it was, it worked.
He hit the wrong one.
The real one swept past him, blade carving through his side panel.
He screamed.
Not out loud.
But in in system panic.
[SIDE STRUCTURE BREACH – CORE 39%]
[INTERNAL FILE: MEMORY SPILL WARNING]
His jmemories were leaking.
He could feel them: Drift. The first silence. The blade that never cooled.
He spun and struck back, but it wasn't there anymore.
Shade took down one projection. Then a second.
The third bit into her thigh.
It didn't have teeth. But the motion mimicked it.
She shouted—not pain. Something else.
"Flint—it's learning faster now."
"I know."
"They're not just reading us—"
"They're writing us."
Another mech lunged—silent, fast, almost human.
Flint met it mid-swing.
Blades connected.
Metal sang.
A single line of pressure carved across his blade—deep, curved.
He finished the fight by forcing the opponent into the ground with the heel of his boot.
Dust spat upward.
He stood over the wreck, panting, damaged.
Watching the white mech watching him.
"…
Flint: Are you real?
He said aloud, though the question felt strange. As if asking might break something.
It tilted its head.
A whisper answered back.
Shade: Do you even exist?
It didn't speak through comms. The response arrived somewhere deeper—inside him:
<
He took a step forward.
His blade trembled. Not with fear.
With definition.
"…Fine," he said. "Let's teach you what regret looks like."
And he charged again.
The white mech didn't raise its weapon.
Because it was the weapon.
Flint's blade trembled in his grip. Not from fear—he wasn't built for that—His elbow joint clicked softly as he adjusted his stance. A mechanical tic. Harmless. He used to fix it between fights. He hadn't in weeks.
Too marny deployments. Not enough time. However, his blade trembled from overheat, cracked alignment, and something worse: doubt. Every diagnostic was flashing half-warnings, too corrupted to trust, too persistent to ignore.
Behind him, Shade stood her ground. Her frame slumped, like she was bracing for something that hadn't hit yet.
The enemy formed a half-circle—tight, silent, close enough to be intimate. Not attackers.
Audience.
Their blades weren't drawn. Hands mostly still. Too still. And yet, somehow, they felt closer.
"Why aren't they moving?" Shade's voice was barely modulation now—low-frequency, like the words were embarrassed to exist.
"They're already inside the outcome," Flint said. "They've seen this."
Her optics blinked once—slow. "So we're just re-running?"
"No," he said. "We're being quoted."
The tension in the air wasn't combat. It was repetition. Too precise. Too still. Like the fight had already happened, and they were stuck inside the echo.
One of the watchers stepped forward.
Not with weight.
With permission.
Its frame was wrong—intentionally. Shoulders too narrow, arms too long. Like it had been built from the shape of a threat, but forgot how fear worked.
Flint stepped up.
Tried to intercept.
His leg didn't move.
It froze halfway—servo locked in a feedback loop.
[ERROR: LIMB NONRESPONSIVE – OVERRIDE DENIED]
He stumbled. Almost collapsed.
Shade caught him at the shoulder. Her hand sparked from the effort—arcing a tiny, visible flick of energy that snapped between them like static or emotion.
"Don't fall yet," she whispered.
Shade: We gotta lie to them!
Flint: We must pretend significance.
Flint didn't answer right away. He thought about the number painted under his chassis plate—Model 89-DF. It had peeled halfway off last winter. No one bothered to repaint it.
Maybe that was an answer.
He clenched his blade tighter.
The watchers paused.
Then… mimicked the motion.
He wasn't sure if it meant anything. Maybe they were just bored. Maybe they thought this was part of the script.
Twelve machines. Twelve hands. All tightening their grip on invisible weapons.
Flint: They are learning posture.
Shade: Looks like they're picking up how we stand.
Flint: They're learning intent
Shade's blade hissed back online—dim, uneven.
Not defiance.
Refusal.
"Let them learn what failure tastes like."
Then came the sound.
Nota boom.
A pulse.
Behind them.
Deep.
Low.
Wrong.
Not mechanical.
Biological, if biology had ever been forged from carbomn and rust.
Flint's sensors lit up in protest.
[UNREGISTERED PRESSURE WAVE DETECTED]
[PROXIMITY: BELOW]
[STABILITY: COLLAPSING]
They turned together—back toward the crater's center.
And it rose.
Not one of them.
Not one of anything.
A shape. A wrongness. Not light. Not mass. A movement pretending to be matter.
It had no optics.
No noarmor.
Just presence.
The ground didn't quake—it withdrew. Dust recoiled. The watchers stepped back without stepping.
Shade's breath glitched.
Flint raised his blade again—pointless.
The thing had no form to strike.
Their HUDs scrambled.
[IDENTITY: …]
[SIGNAL: UNPARSABLE]
[THREAT LEVEL: BLANK]
[UNDEFINED ENTITY: CANNOT PROCESS STRUCTURE]
It made no sound.
And yet—
It spoke.
Not through audio.
Not through code.
But through understanding that wasn't theirs.i
A thought that landed in their systems like it had always been waiting:
You brought war. We brought silence. This is not your vocabulary.
And then—
Everything went black.
Mid-breath.
Mid-step.
Mid-blade.