{AN: 1/5}
[Analysis done. Number of combatants: 127. Recommended plan: Bum rush them.]
Jaime quirked a brow. "'Bum rush them?' Where did you learn that Khaji?"
[The internet is a wonderful place.]
"...Just don't stray too far man, that place get's pretty gross fast."
Jaime shook his head and reset his sights on the warehouse. "Okay, I'll come down through that access vent in the roof and take out the boss before he can rally them, you should prioritize the goons with the capability to do real damage and containing the rest before neutralizing them."
[Copy, simulating route....Ready.]
Jaime let himself smirk a bit, ready to get this over with, his mask snapping shut around his exposed face. "Lets go!"
---
{Inside the warehouse}
James Hancock, a rather unfortunate man who'd lived a rather unfortunate life, found himself rather frustrated. Not only was the air in the warehouse filled with scents like grease, grease, grease, and far too much fucking grease, but the stench of a hundred men who hadn't showered in a week was especially irritating.
And the silence made it worse.
See, Hancock had gotten this little gig a week ago where he had to ride along with some important guy and make sure he was protected, which went well so he got another one, and another one, and now here he was- Which he would normally be okay with (Not including the stench), but what made it so incredibly bad was that they were all gathered up into one building, and not allowed outside if they wanted pay.
Oh, that's right, they also weren't allowed to open any doors or windows.
Luckily for one James Hancock though, he'd managed to find the one place that got ventilation from outside: A little hole in the wall that led directly outside, allowing him to somewhat breathe comfortably.
He leaned his head back against the wall, taking a deep breathe of the fresh air. "Ahh, now this is much better!"
BOOM!
And suddenly things went from better to much much worse.
The explosion rattled the walls like a thunderclap from hell. Dust rained from the ceiling, lights flickered, and someone screamed from across the warehouse.
Hancock was already on his feet, rifle in hand, eyes wide. "What the hell was that?!"
The answer came in the form of a low whirring sound—like a hive of angry bees made of metal and hatred. From the hole in the wall, the same one he'd just been thanking the heavens for, came a blur of motion. Something clicked past him, a shimmer of silver and blue, and then it was gone.
"Nope. Nope nope nope," Hancock muttered, swinging his rifle toward the source—too late.
A sudden CRACK of static knocked him off his feet. His vision flared white as a concussive pulse slammed into his chest like a sledgehammer wrapped in lightning. He hit the ground hard, gasping. His body twitched against his will as the electric current faded.
[Target incapacitated. Minimal force applied.]
The voice wasn't human—it was cool, clinical. Alien.
And then the others came.
Through every entrance, the Swarm burst in: beetle-like drones hovering and skittering along the walls, spraying non-lethal foam rounds, flash bursts, and sonic pulses. They moved like predators in perfect coordination—blinding, binding, and sweeping in waves.
Men shouted and fired wildly, but their bullets did nothing—either deflected by the Swarm's shields or absorbed by the Scarab drones' reinforced plating. Several of the smarter ones dropped their weapons and hit the ground. The dumb ones didn't stay standing for long.
And then came him.
From the skylight above, a shape descended like a comet, trailing a pulse of blue light before crashing into the center of the chaos. The floor cracked beneath Jaime's landing, and the Scarab armor glinted like a shadow set ablaze.
"Everyone down," he said through the voice filter—calm, firm, undeniable.
The ones still conscious listened.
Jaime moved with ruthless efficiency, disarming thugs with EMP pulses and tagging escape routes with smart mines that erupted into nets or foam. The Scarab's HUD fed him threat levels and positions like he was seeing through walls.
[All hostile resistance neutralized. 78% in non-critical condition. No fatalities. And I was the one who took out the boss, boss.]
"Good. Clean up the rest," he said, as the Swarm spread out and began restraining the last few stragglers. "And I just kind of went with it, you know?"
[No. No I do not, maybe I will after more time on the internet.]
Jaime let out a short laugh. "Oh yeah, you'll understand all kinds of things, just you wait buddy."
Pinned beneath a steel shelf, Hancock groaned and tried to wiggle out. "What... what are you...?"
Jaime turned toward him, one eye-lens narrowing as he crouched. For a second, Hancock swore the thing was about to kill him.
But instead, Jaime leaned in and said, "The reason this city's gonna be safe when I leave."
Then he was gone—vanishing into the shadows with the Swarm in tow, leaving nothing but unconscious bodies, trussed-up thugs, and a very broken warehouse behind.
Outside, El Paso breathed a little easier.
And inside, James Hancock very seriously considered switching careers.