I hesitate. A sound — footfall. A guard staggering in the hall, boots clinking, metal scraping. He stumbles, curses. The cadence is slow — confusion, pain, fear. Perfect.
I hit enter. A series of commands I memorized hours ago — while scrubbing decks. The input window flashes. A beep. Another. A surge of static. Then silence.
A new alert blooms across every console — “EVACUATION PROTOCOL ALPHA-7 INITIATED.” Red banners vanish; ghost white text pulses. Doors unlatch. Bulkheads open. Lights shift to pale white, then to emergency amber. The alarm changes tone — faster, urgent. Doors hiss open far down hallways. Stairwells unlock. Gate locks disengage.
I tuck the key-card I pinched from Trebuchet into my belt. I push off from the terminal.
Behind me, the lights blink across the hall — sending searching rays down corridors I’ve studied in memory. Footfalls echo — heavy, panicked — but not near me. The rebels confuse themselves. I flipped the alarm. I flipped their own safety net against them.
I don’t wait. I slip through the shifting light, past the control desks where monitors crackle with dying circuits, past the crates of weapons now useless against the storm I bring. I smell metal closing. Doors sealing. Confined spaces. Panic.
Every step tastes like vengeance — wet, warm, ready.
At the end of the hall, I rise. I draw the knife. Its edge glints under flickering lamps. Smooth black metal — forged from shaft remains scavenged, edges sharpened with stone shards. Cold. Ruthless. Mine.
I inhale. The air smells of burnt insulation and wood smoke and fear. I taste determination. I taste cold metal against my tongue.
I step onto the main stairwell. Doors slide and lock behind me. The echo of locking hydraulics follows — distant, authoritative.
I detour through the ventilation ducts — narrow, cramped, dusty. The taste of stale air, rust, old grease. I pull myself along, muscle-burn echoing in bones. Blood seeps from a cut on my forearm, dripping onto metal grates. I taste it. I taste iron, survival, sweat.
I emerge onto a catwalk above the central chamber — half-destroyed, collapsed pylons, scorched consoles, collapsed monitors. The main entrance doors ahead are barred by fallen debris and fires licking their frames.
Below, I hear it — the snarling chaos of traitors looking for escape. Shouts. Screams, maybe. The rush of boots, the clanging of weapons, the volatile hiss of panic.
I step forward over the rubble, boot-clink on twisted metal. I smell charred circuit boards, hot metal, oil. My ribs ache with each breath. I taste bitter dust.
I grip the railing — cold steel biting leather glove — and look down.
Across the chamber floor: a cluster of men — traitors — fumbling, shifting, trying to line up shooting angles through smoking corridors. Their shields raised halfhearted, armor battered, morale shattered — but dangerous, still dangerous.
I draw my blade. The weight is familiar — heavy with promise. I press the tip through the dust-coated metal — mark a slash across the air. The echo hums in my ears.
A guard near them shouts. I shift. I step off the catwalk. My boots hit rubble. Armor plates scrape across metal shards. Concrete dust kicks up.
They spin — rifles raise. But they see only a blur. A shadow in scorched flesh. A knife gleaming in pale light.
I don’t pause to announce myself. I move — low, fast. Claw-hand closes tight. I cross the distance in two strides.
The first guard collapses beneath my knee. A snap, a crunch, a breath expelled. Blood sprays — hot and alive — against gray floor plates. The stench overwhelms: iron, churned concrete, fear. I taste it. I taste justice.
The next guard charges — coward’s yell ripping out. Claw meets metal with a screech, bone-plate grinds. The blade goes up in a wide arc. Light flashes. Flesh parts. The guard’s scream ends short.
Others whirl — rifles hissing at me, fire scattering. One’s shot roars beside me. The blast rattles ear-drums. Concrete spits chips. I stagger. But steel under fear is taught. I glide. I spin. I slash. I win.
Their formation splinters. Cries echo. Guns clatter to the floor. Armor plates drop. Smoke and dust choke the air.
I don’t shout. I don’t gloat. I move. I press the advantage. I know the halls. I know their panic. I know their broken spirit.
I step across bodies — blood-slick boots echoing on cracked stone. The air tastes like ash, spent charges, new wounds. I breath deep. Pain blossoms across my ribs, but I ignore it. I focus on one thing: the door at the far end.
It leads to the auxiliary docks — the hangers — where I know I can find the entrance to the command-network uplink. Thesame system I corrupted. The same system I’ll use again — to end this tonight.
I reach the door. It’s sealed, jammed by fallen support beams. A soft groan of metal under weight. I shift, forcing shoulder against steel plate. Pain lances. I grunt. The door buckles. A spark flares from torn hydraulic cables. The hiss of released power floods. The doors yaw open.
The stench of smoke bursts out. I step through.
I’m inside the docking bay now: high ceilings, scorched catwalks, open cargo crates overturned, one derelict skiff black-scarred at the hull. The smell of hot metal, burnt fuel, exhaust fumes, ash. The echo of distant combat rumbles.
