We burst out of the narrow tunnel into a cavern so vast it felt like the open sky. The ceiling was lost in darkness, a hundred meters above us, hung with the skeletons of ancient industrial infrastructure. This was the scrapyard. It was a massive, circular space, the size of a stadium, and it was filled with colossal mountains of junk. Towers of crushed and compacted machinery, rusted beyond recognition, leaned at precarious angles. Sprawling piles of twisted metal plating and skeletal frameworks of old vehicles created a complex, multi-layered maze. It smelled of decay, rust, and old oil.
High above, a network of rickety catwalks and gantries crisscrossed the space. From them, the handful of Glitch's surviving crew members were taking up new positions, their small forms silhouetted against the dim light. They had been routed, but not broken. They were falling back to their final defensive line.
Glitch was there, a small, hunched figure standing on a high, central platform that looked like an old control tower. He was directing his forces with sharp, angry gestures. He saw us enter the cavern and immediately pointed towards a massive, half-destroyed cargo container sitting near the entrance. "In there! Now!" he yelled, his amplified voice echoing through the vast space. "The trap is set! Stay out of the killzone!"
We scrambled for the container, its rusted, corrugated metal walls offering a semblance of safety. We slipped inside through the partially open doors and collapsed into the darkness, our lungs burning. The container was empty, save for a few broken crates and the thick layer of dust on the floor. Through a wide gap in the doors, I could see the battlefield Glitch had prepared, and my breath caught in my throat.
It wasn't just a simple ambush. It was a work of brutal, industrial genius.
At the very center of the scrapyard was a large, circular clearing, deliberately kept free of junk. And in the center of that clearing, pointing up at the sky like a metal claw, was a massive, powerful electromagnet, salvaged from an old industrial crane. It was easily the size of a car, its surface covered in thick coils of copper wire. Thick, armored power cables, as thick as my arm, snaked from the base of the magnet across the scrapyard floor to a fortified generator bunker, where a handful of Glitch's men were hunkered down, their hands on a large, ominous-looking activation switch.
This was his real plan. This was the ace up his sleeve. Lure the Ghost Enforcer into the clearing, into the killzone, then activate the magnet. A machine made entirely of metal, even one as advanced as the Enforcer, would be helpless against that kind of raw, electromagnetic power. It would be pinned, immobilized, a fly caught in a spider's web, ready for his crew to descend and dismantle it for its priceless salvage. It was a brilliant, brutal, and utterly ruthless plan.
"He's a clever bastard," Anya said, peering through the gap beside me. She had a grudging respect in her voice. "This might actually work."
As if on cue, the Ghost Enforcer entered the scrapyard. It emerged from the same tunnel we had, a dark, menacing figure against the faint light. It paused for a moment at the entrance, its single red eye scanning the vast, complex space. It was a hunter entering a new, dangerous territory. It moved cautiously now, its earlier relentless advance replaced by a careful, tactical assessment. It used the mountains of scrap for cover, its movements fluid and silent.
The remaining Exiles opened fire from the catwalks above. Their shots weren't aimed to kill anymore. They were strategic, pinging off the junk piles around the Enforcer, trying to guide it, to herd it towards the open clearing and the waiting magnet.
But the Ghost was not a mindless machine. It had a human consciousness. A paranoid, tactical soldier's consciousness. It sensed the trap. It saw the open ground, the obvious killzone, and refused to enter it. Instead, it began to move along the perimeter of the scrapyard, hugging the walls of junk, using the immense scrap piles as cover. It was methodically taking out Glitch's snipers one by one with its perfect, inhuman aim. The sharp crack of its pistol was followed, a second later, by the scream of a falling Exile.
Glitch's plan was failing. The Enforcer was too smart. It wouldn't walk into the trap.
"He's not falling for it!" I said, my heart sinking into my stomach. "He's going to pick them apart from a distance, and then, when everyone else is dead, he's going to come for us."
Glitch was screaming orders from his perch, his amplified voice frantic and filled with rage. "Draw him in! Get him into the open! Get down there and force him out!" But his men were being slaughtered. They were terrified. One after another, they fell from the catwalks, their bodies crashing into the junk below with sickening thuds. The ambush had turned into a shooting gallery, and the Exiles were the targets.
We were trapped. If we stayed in the container, the Enforcer would eventually find us after it had finished cleaning house. If we ran, we'd be caught in the crossfire between the desperate Exiles and the unstoppable machine.
"There," Anya whispered, her voice a low, urgent hiss. She pointed with the barrel of her pistol. To our right, partially hidden behind a mountain of twisted, rusted metal, was a maintenance tunnel. It was a small, dark opening in the rock wall, barely visible, an opening that looked like it hadn't been used in years. It wasn't on Glitch's map. It wasn't part of his plan. It was an unknown variable.
"It could be a dead end," I said, my mind racing. "It could lead nowhere."
"It's better than this," she replied, her gaze firm. "We're not part of Glitch's plan anymore, Leo. He's lost control. We're on our own."
She was right. Glitch's trap was a failure. The scrapyard was about to become a tomb for his entire crew, and for us if we stayed. We had to find our own way out. As the Enforcer took down another one of Glitch's snipers with a casual, effortless shot, we made our move.
We slipped out of the back of the cargo container, keeping low, our movements masked by the towering piles of junk. We made a desperate, silent dash for the hidden tunnel, praying that the Enforcer, its attention focused on the threats above, wouldn't notice two small figures scrambling through the dirt and rust below. We were betting our lives on a ghost of a chance, an escape route that might not even exist.