Jacklyn ran.
She didn't think, she bolted. Boots slipping against sand and debris as panic took over. Her breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, every shriek of metal above her making her flinch and duck instinctively.
She zigzagged between shattered crates and scorched ground, trying to make herself small, trying not to die. A shadow swept over her causing her to look up. Her stomach dropped as she saw what was coming.
A swarm, dozens of drones, had peeled off and locked onto her. Their wings folded in unison as they descended, blades whining, lights flashing as they armed themselves.
"No, no, no!"
Jacklyn threw herself forward, rolling behind a broken barricade just as the drones swooped low.
Boom.
A fireball tore through the swarm mid-dive, engulfing them in flame. The explosion sent heat washing over her back as metal fragments rained down, clattering harmlessly against the ground instead of her skull.
"Hey!" someone shouted. "Kid! What are you doing out here?!"
Jacklyn peeked up, wide-eyed, to see a fighter standing nearby, one arm still extended from where the fireball had been launched. Flames curled around her hand, coalescing again as if alive.
"Get into cover!" they yelled. "Now!"
As if to punctuate the order, the flame compressed into a dense, blazing sphere. The fighter spun and kicked it like a ball, sending it hurtling across the battlefield. It slammed into another incoming swarm of drones and detonated, lighting the sky in orange and black.
Jacklyn nodded frantically, even though she wasn't sure they could see her. "I-I'm trying!" she cried, scrambling back to her feet. She ran again, still panicked, directionless with her heart pounding as she searched desperately for somewhere, anywhere, that wouldn't get her killed in the next few seconds.
Meanwhile, The Director moved like a force of nature across the battlefield. He vaulted high into the air, cutting through the swarming drones, then brought his hands together in a sharp, thunderous clap.
The shockwave ripped outward, warping the air itself. Drones spiraled wildly, their formations collapsing as they smashed into one another or plummeted into the ground in smoking wrecks.
He landed without pause, already scanning the sky again.
"There's too many of these things."
No matter how many fell, the swarms kept coming, endless, methodical, uncaring. His jaw tightened. This wasn't a battle meant to be won, only survived. He turned, about to shout for Anora, to hand command over while he checked on Midas and Matilda.
Then he saw Jacklyn.
She was stumbling through the chaos, small and exposed, nowhere near where she should have been.
What is she doing out here?
He started toward her, already preparing to grab her and drag her back to the tent–
Then he noticed it.
Orange sparks flickered around her body, faint at first, like dying embers. Jacklyn suddenly clamped her hands over her ears, dropping to her knees as if the noise of the battlefield had become unbearable.
She curled in on herself, shoulders shaking, trying to make herself smaller. The Director slowed, focusing as his eyes began to narrow. Her eyes, once wide with panic, were changing.
An orange hue bled into them, spreading gradually, unnaturally. The air around her trembled, subtle but wrong.
"...Awakening," he muttered.
There was no time to wait. No time to see what kind.
He turned sharply, already issuing orders. "Anora!" he shouted. "You're in charge. Pull everyone toward Midas' position. Tight formation, hold for as long as you can until you can enter."
Anora looked at him, instantly understanding the weight of his words. She didn't question him. "You heard the man, Move!" she commanded, taking control without hesitation. "Fall back! Stick together!"
The line began to contract, fighters repositioning as they pushed closer and closer to the tent where Midas and Matilda were working, shields raised, guns firing in controlled bursts.
The Director took one last look at Jacklyn, sparks growing brighter around her, the change clearly underway. Then he turned back to the sky, ready to buy them whatever time they needed.
No matter the cost.
Anora burst into the tent, the canvas flaps snapping violently behind her. "Status," she demanded, not bothering to hide the urgency in her voice.
Midas didn't look up from the framework of the shield, his hands moving quickly as he guided Matilda on which parts needed to die to stop the power. "Close," he said. "Very close. Give us a few more minutes and we'll have an entrance."
Anora let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. "Good." Then, sharper, "Outside's bad. I don't know how long we can keep holding." Midas glanced at her. "How bad?"
"If they all came at once," she said bluntly, "we'd already be dead. The only reason we're still standing is because they're attacking in waves. A few dozens at a time." Midas gave a tired huff. "That's intentional."
Anora blinked. "What?"
"They're programmed that way," he replied. "I wasn't about to design something that recreates thousands of drones at once after the defense system triggers. Even I don't want to deal with that kind of maintenance."
Anora snorted despite herself. "I'll take your laziness as a win, then." She turned to Matilda. "Why did you let Matilda out of the tent? Wanted her to experience a real warzone this time?"
Matilda stiffened, her hands faltering for the first time since she started working. "What?" she asked, finally looking up. "Outside?"
"You heard me," Anora said. "Right before I gathered the troops here, I saw her in the middle of the chaos." Midas straightened slowly, scanning the tent. "...She's not here at least."
The realization settled heavily.
Matilda's expression darkened. Without another word, she pulled her hands away from the shield and turned toward the tent exit.
"I'm going out there."
Anora stepped in front of her instantly. "And what do you think you're doing?" Matilda met her stare, jaw clenched. "If Jacklyn dies," she said coldly, "I answer to Opilus. And I'd rather face whatever hell is outside than face her knowing I let that happen."
Anora held her ground for a moment longer, then shook her head. "Rest easy," she said. "The Director saw her. He's the one dealing with it right now." Matilda hesitated, conflict flashing across her face.
Midas broke the silence. "She's safer with him than with any of us." Slowly, Matilda turned back to the shield, forcing herself to refocus though her hands weren't quite as steady as before.
She let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "You're both saying that so easily," she said. "Like it's obvious. Why do you trust him that much?"
Anora didn't answer right away. She stepped closer, her voice steady despite the chaos bleeding in from outside the tent. "If you'd seen him fight," she said, "you wouldn't be asking."
Matilda frowned, but Anora raised a hand, cutting her off.
"Listen to me," Anora continued. "Right now, The Director is doing everything he can to protect all of us, including you. And every second you stand here doubting here is a second wasted. And we don't have seconds to waste."
Matilda's jaw tightened.
"If you don't want The Director to criticize your actions to Opilus," Anora pressed on, "then go back to work. Finish this. Because that's what would keep Jacklyn alive." Matilda searched her face, still unconvinced, but the logic was impossible to ignore.
"And if she dies?" Matilda asked quietly.
"Then I'll go to Opilus myself," she said. "I'll take responsibility. All of it."
Matilda exhaled slowly, then turned back to the shield, rolling her shoulders as if shaking off the doubt. "You'd better remember those words," she said. "I won't forget," Anora replied.
Matilda went back to work, pushing her ability harder, sections of the shield flickering as more power lines died. Anora allowed herself a small smile, tension easing just a fraction.
She took a breath–
Then turned and pushed out the tent.
The moment she did, the sight wiped the relief from her face. The defensive line was barely holding.
The swarms shifted.
It was subtle at first. Flight patterns tightening, dives growing steeper, but Anora felt it immediately. The drones had realized it. Their targets were cornered.
Cut off from every possible route of escape, the machines grew vicious, abandoning probing runs for full, relentless assaults. They poured from the sky in denser clusters, metal wings screaming as they dove low and fast, blades extended, explosives armed.
Anora raised her rifle and fired, stepping back into the line as if she'd never left it. "Hold your ground!" she shouted over the noise. "No retreat!" Shots rang out in disciplined bursts as drones fell in flames and shrapnel.
Anora moved with them, reloading smoothly, picking targets with cold precision. "Agents!" she called. "Defense first! Keep those swarms away. Don't chase them if it isn't worth it!"
Those with powers shifted immediately, shieldmen stood firm while shockwaves, flames, and explosives pushed back entire clusters at once instead of wasting energy on lone drones. Explosions lit the sky as the line held, just barely.
Anora glanced back at the tent, then forward again. "Just a few more minutes!" she yelled. "That's all we need! Survive this and we're in!" Hope flickered through the ranks. Fighters gritted their teeth, pushed harder, fought like it mattered because it did.
Then–
Click.
Anora's rifle locked back.
She stared at it for half a second too long. Around her, the sound spread. Clicks. Empty chambers. Shouted curses. Ammo pouches were opened and found wanting. Magazines hit the ground, empty and useless.
"Out!"
"No ammo!"
"Dry. Completely dry!"
Reports came in one after another, overlapping and frantic. Anora's eyes swept the line as she counted quickly in her head. Too many rifles lowered. Too many empty eyes.
Half.
Half of what had once been a solid firing squad could no longer shoot. She didn't allow herself to hesitate despite the misfortune however. "Drop the guns!" she ordered. "If you're out, grab a shield. Now!"
Soldiers moved on instinct, abandoning empty rifles to pull energy shields from racks or fallen comrades. The line shifted, hardening into a defensive wall as glowing barriers flared to life.
Anora turned again. "Agents. Swap in! Fill in for the firing squad!"
Those with combat abilities surged forward, some launching blasts of fire or force, others hurling explosives upwards. But Anora could already see the problem forming. Not all of them could reach the sky. Not all of them were meant to fight flying targets.
Some attacks fell short.
Some missed entirely.
The drones didn't.
They pressed closer, swarms thickening, dives growing steeper as the defenders' options narrowed. Shields sparked under repeated impacts, their users bracing harder with every hit.
This might not be enough.
Anora's jaw tightened. She lifted her radio, about to call for an update, anything that could help. Then suddenly, the device began to crackle in her hand.
"...kzzzt–"
She froze.
The sound wasn't a transmission. Not a voice. Just raw, jagged static bleeding through the channel. Anora frowned, adjusting the frequency. "...krrrsh–"
The static came again, louder this time, uneven, as if something were trying, and failing, to break through. Her grip tightened on the radio. "Command, report," she said. "Anyone reading me?"
The static didn't stop.
It spread.
Anora felt it before she fully understood it. An unnatural tremor in the air, a faint pressure that made the hairs on her arms rise. The radio in her hand screeched sharply, sparks snapping from its casing before it went dead entirely.
Around her, lights began to flicker. Vehicle engines began to sputter, anything that had to do with electricity began to falter. Targeting systems on weapons blinked out one by one.
Then the drones reacted.
Their tight formations broke mid-flight. Some began to wobble erratically, wings jerking as if their controls were fighting themselves. A few spiraled helplessly, smashing into the ground in violent bursts.
Others simply dropped, lifeless, metal bodies hitting the sand with dull, heavy thuds. "What the?" someone shouted. Anora's eyes widened, but she didn't let relief take hold.
"Under cover!" she barked immediately. "Everyone down. Now! Watch the skies and each other!" The troops didn't question it. They dove behind vehicles, barricades, anything solid, shields raised despite their instability.
More drones failed overhead, colliding midair or crashing into one another as their systems died. The sky filled with falling debris and dying engines. Anora crouched low, scanning every direction, rifle held tight despite its empty chamber.
She was grateful, genuinely, for the sudden reprieve. But gratitude didn't erase caution for the unknown. As long as she didn't know what was causing this, she knew better than to believe it was a miracle.
Something had changed.
Meanwhile, The Director kept moving.
He vaulted over wreckage and scorched ground, never staying in one place long enough to be cornered. Each step was calculated, close enough to the vehicles to use them as cover, far enough from the main group to pull attention away from his operatives.
Because all of it was on him now.
Jacklyn stood at the center of the chaos, small and shaking, orange light blazing from her eyes. Sparks crawled along her skin like living things. Every drone that twitched in the sky responded to her, being hijacked midair, torn from their original directives and bent to her will.
They turned on him all at once.
Dozens pivoted sharply, blades screaming as they dove. Others climbed high, then rained down from above, coordinating in ways they never had before. This wasn't a system anymore.
It was instinct.
The Director rolled behind a vehicle as drones slammed into his side, metal screeching as blades carved deep grooves into the frame. He came firing immediately, shots precise, detonating several before they could pull away.
Another wave replaced them instantly.
Just how bad could this awakening be?
Awakenings, he knew, were unpredictable. Some barely changed a person's life, minor enhancements, passive abilities. While others…
Others were powerful enough to stir the world.
Jacklyn's awakening wasn't just dangerous. It was catastrophic. An electromagnetic dominion, selective and absolute. She didn't just disrupt machines, she commanded them.
Midas had warned him multiple times. If they had just followed his advice, then the drones wouldn't have come out. The Director thought it wasn't much of a problem however, that it wouldn't be much of a problem to deal with.
Too late now.
The Director snorted under his breath as he sprinted again, firing over his shoulder to thin another swarm. "Yeah," he muttered. "I owe you an apology."
He skidded to a stop, jumped up in between the swarms and clapped his hands together, releasing another concussive shockwave. The drones scattered, smashing into one another as he landed and kept running.
The Director landed hard, already turning–
And saw it.
The sky behind him was black with movement.
A massive swarm had redirected all at once, hundreds of drones folding their wings in perfect unison as they locked onto him. Their engines screamed as they dove, blades spinning, explosives priming.
"Ah, the climax," he muttered.
He skidded to a halt beside an overturned vehicle and yanked a strip of grenades from his belt in one smooth motion. Without breaking stride, he hurled the entire strip upward into the oncoming swarm.
The drones didn't slow.
The Director raised his weapon, sighted once before–
Bang.
The round hit the grenades midair.
The explosion bloomed instantly, a violent chain reaction that tore through the swarm. Fire and shrapnel ripped outward, engulfing dozens of drones at once. Metal fragments rained down, clattering against the ground and vehicles as the sky briefly lit up ike a second sun.
The Director didn't watch the aftermath, he didn't have the time to. He was already moving again, sprinting as the remaining drones screeched and reorganized overhead. Still coming, still endless, but just a little thinner than before.
—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ikra soared over the village in a blur of motion and laughter, the sound ringing freely through the ruined streets below. He landed lightly atop a cracked rooftop, tiles skittering away beneath his boots as he straightened, hands on his hips.
For the first time in a long while, his grin wasn't sharpened by battle or obsession, it was genuine.
So this is what I've been missing.
Bonding with his children. Fighting beside them, not as weapons or successors, but as family. The memory of Warhound flickered through his mind, unwelcome but useful.
That encounter had been a wake up call, one he couldn't ignore anymore. He had been too focused, too consumed by the hunt, by the idea of proving something to himself that somewhere along the way, he had let that obsession eclipse his duty as a father.
No more.
Ikra turned just in time to see Ryu hurtling toward him like a living projectile, fist cocked back, body wrapped in a violent red aura. His eyes were unfocused, empty, his body moving purely on instinct, on unleashed power rather than will.
Ikra caught the punch effortlessly.
The impact sent a shockwave through the rooftop, stone fracturing beneath them, but Ikra didn't budge. He glanced down at Ryu's clenched fist in his palm, then back up at his son's blank expression.
"Hm," Ikra hummed. "That's sloppy." He adjusted Ryu's wrist slightly, angling the punch properly even as he held him suspended in the air. "You're dropping your shoulder," he said casually. "And you're overcommitting. Have you gotten worse?"
There was no response, only raw power straining uselessly against his grip. Ikra sighed, not annoyed, but thoughtful. "Unconscious, huh? Awakening's got you on full autopilot."
He released Ryu's fist and, in the same motion, grabbed him by the arm and threw him. Ryu tore through the air, smashing cleanly through two buildings before skidding across the street in a cloud of dust and debris.
Ikra crouched on the edge of the rooftop, watching calmly. "Again," he called out, voice carrying easily through the chaos. "Let's see if your body remembers how to learn, even if you don't."
There were many ways people chose to deal with an awakening. Most met it with fear, containment units, isolation chambers, heavy restraints meant to protect everyone involved. To them, an awakened individual was a ticking disaster waiting to be defused.
Ikra had never believed in that. To him, this wasn't a crisis. It was an opportunity. His family had been forged through generations of combat, a lineage defined not by peace but by conflict.
Some of them had taken to blades, others to polearms or firearms, but at the core of it all were those who trusted nothing but their own bodies, fists hardened through discipline and bone-deep instinct.
And Ryu… Ryu had always been heading down that path.
With his son still deep in his awakening, mind submerged and will overtaken by raw impulse, Ikra wanted to see the truth of him. Not the trained form, not the polished techniques drilled into muscle memory, but the fighter stripped bare, relying only on instinct and sensation.
This is where a warrior shows who they really are.
Ryu came at him again. There was no warning, no hesitation, just motion. Ryu closed the distance in an instant, unleashing a storm of punches, each one carrying enough force to shatter stone.
Ikra raised his fists and moved his body flowing between the strikes. He slipped past a hook, leaned away from a straight, and pivoted under an elbow that tore the air apart. "Too wide," Ikra muttered, more habit than instruction.
He stepped in and drove a punch straight into Ryu's stomach. The impact echoed like a drumbeat across the street.
Ryu barely moved.
His body absorbed the blow, muscles locking down as the glowing patterns across his skin flared brighter, feeding strength back into him. Ikra's eyes narrowed, not in concern, but in interest.
Good.
Ryu reacted instantly. He grabbed Ikra's punching hand, fingers digging in with crushing intent, twisting hard to break it cleanly.
Ikra felt the pressure.
Felt the intent.
But not the power.
The bones didn't snap. The joints didn't give. Ryu's grip trembled, straining, unable to finish what his instinct demanded. Ikra smiled, wide and proud. "So you know what to do," he said, tightening his own grip in response.
"You just don't have the strength yet."