The first sentry post goes up in fire.
The shoulder cannon hums as it cools, smoke licking around the edges of my armor like a greeting. I step over the ruin—twisted bodies, mangled gear, blackened earth—and keep moving. Fast. Direct. Loud.
I want them to hear me coming.
The first few guards react too slow—groggy from night watch or just plain stupid. I take them apart with the blade. No mercy. No hesitation. One tries to run. I hook his leg with my boot and crush his throat before he can scream.
It’s not war. It’s message.
I make for the main comms relay next. Pulse grenades tossed high—one, two, three—burst like thunderheads above the structure, frying systems before they can send anything off-world. Sparks rain down. I slam through the panel with my fist, cables snapping like tendons, alarms blaring out their useless panic.
That’s when they start swarming.
Hooves foot soldiers pour from the bunkhouses like ants, some armored, some still pulling boots on. I don’t give them the time. I charge.
Red haze. Blood mist. Screams.
I stop counting kills.
A turret swivels into position above me and I dodge just before it unloads—its scatter rounds chewing up a crate behind me. I leap onto the housing, rip the weapon clean off, and throw it through the windshield of a retreating jeep.
This is how you burn out a nest.
But I know this kind of fury has a shelf life.
And that’s when the air changes.
Too organized. Too clean.
I spin just in time to catch Skip’s tackle.
The impact drives me into the mud, his bulk turning my world sideways. He’s bigger now—growth hormones, maybe cybernetics—arms like steel cables, jaw clenched tight under that dumb-ass hat. He laughs as he pins me.
“Still breathin’? Damn. You’re harder to kill than roaches in an irradiated latrine.”
I snarl and shove, dislodging him with effort, but he’s back on me before I get to my feet. His fists are clubs. I block one, catch the second to my ribs. Pain detonates behind my eyes, but I stay upright.
“Didn’t say nothin’ about this bein’ fair,” he adds.
“Wasn’t expectin’ it to be,” I grunt.
I swing wide—blade aimed for his knee—but my optics fuzz and flicker. A shimmer of static.
Shit.
Rence.
The quiet one.
Tech-witch and trickster.
I twist, trying to locate him through the chaos, but everything’s ghosting—enemies phasing in and out of sight, terrain glitches making crates look like walls and vice versa. He’s running signal interference, making sure I can’t get a clean read.
The world is warped around me.
And I realize I’m alone.
Skip smirks and falls back. Not retreating—just giving Kaella, their half-vakutan scout, room to move.
