Twenty figures moved through the shadows outside the compound, handpicked by NorexCorp for precision and lethal efficiency. Each operative's black stealth-material armor absorbed ambient light, suppressed heat signatures, and fooled standard AI sensors. Their movements were deliberate, a single organism of calculated steps and micro-adjustments.
The HUDs in each helmet pulsed silently, relaying real-time data: thermal scans, vibration readings, motion detection, and predicted trajectories of potential targets. The team's tactical AI, designation T-47, highlighted vulnerabilities, suggested firing sequences, and overlaid synchronized paths to avoid crossfire.
[T-47]: Target grid confirmed. Multiple human signatures detected. Entry point pressure unknown. Breach at entry point. Neutralize all personnel. Execute with maximum efficiency.
Operators shifted in near-perfect synchronization. The lead scout's boots brushed over hidden ground sensors, and [T-47] adjusted heat readings, creating a false trail. Every movement was predicted, measured, and accounted for. The team's silent advance was almost flawless except for one minor anomaly: a pressure plate beneath the entryway floor.
The first trigger tripped it, and [T-47] immediately flagged the alert.
[T-47]: Acoustic sensors triggered. All personnel in compound are hostile. Breach now.
Alarms blared inside the compound, echoing off stone walls and bouncing metallically. [T-47] relayed tactical overlays to the strike team: each operative's HUD highlighted zones of potential cover, calculated lines of fire, and predicted defensive positions.
Inside the compound, dinner lay on the table, rations carefully portioned. The family ate mechanically, unaware of the approaching storm. The faint hum of old machinery was the only background.
Then came the chime. The alarms screamed. Daren Thalos's eyes narrowed. Without hesitation, he reached for the wall rack, fingers closing around the carbine, a relic from the Old War. Years of careful maintenance had polished the edges and smoothed the grip. In his hands, it was more than a weapon; it was an extension of his will.
Selara Morvayne moved alongside him. The apron and domesticity dissolved, leaving only the trained movements of a blade specialist. She checked her pistols, tucked knives into accessible sheaths, and assumed a defensive stance.
Ryn scrambled, hauling go-bags from storage and stocking them with medkits, ammo, and tools for the tunnels beneath the compound. Each motion precise, rehearsed countless times. The drills had been more than protection, they were training for survival under fire.
Ryn moved quickly, snapping on the black leather bracer his mother had given him.
The first contractors breached the doorway. Plasma bolts spat across the room, burning composite armor and scorching walls. Sparks flew where bolts struck exposed wiring and metal, tracer lines of neon-blue energy cutting through the smoke-filled air.
Through the strike team's [T-47] overlay, every operator saw live defensive positions, moving threats, and calculated kill zones.
[T-47]: Engage all targets. Neutralize without hesitation. Maintain fire discipline for maximum kill probability.
Daren fired in controlled bursts, shoulder braced, eyes aligned, each shot aimed to disable both human and armor. The plasma bolts tore through walls and shattered holo-screens, arcs of energy painting the room in jagged blue-white streaks. Selara moved with lethal grace, striking weak points with her dagger, severing servos, frying neural links, leaving contractors incapacitated silently. Sparks flared from severed circuits and sent shards of polymer into the air.
Ryn ducked behind furniture, noting each contractor's position, marking safe routes to the tunnel entrance. Low posture, measured breathing, stealth movement, every drill honed into muscle memory.
One contractor lunged past Selara's guard. Plasma scorched her sleeve; a cut opened along her flank. She shoved Ryn aside briefly, shaking him with urgent authority.
"Grenade!" Ryn shouted, hurling the device into a narrow corridor where the contractors had grouped. The blast erupted immediately. Fire, smoke, and a concussive shockwave ripped through the space. Ceiling dust rained down; shards of wood and metal spun in chaotic arcs. Ryn slammed to the floor, ears ringing, vision streaked with neon flashes. Disorientation clawed at his senses as the shockwave pressed against his chest, nearly knocking the air from his lungs.
Through the chaos, Selara advanced, pulse pistol flaring with controlled bursts, striking where armor joints exposed flesh. Blood streaked her cheek, sleeve torn, but her stance remained steady. Each round left luminous streaks that traced the line between her and the next target.
Daren braced behind a support beam, firing with calculated precision. One contractor lunged too close; he slammed the butt of his carbine into the man and hammered him with a prybar until he collapsed. Splinters dug into his palms, but his grip never faltered. Sparks ignited from a broken holo-display nearby, showering the floor with miniature arcs of electricity.
Smoke and sparks filled the room. Plasma bolts and makeshift melee strikes arced in jagged blue-white tracers, illuminating chaos. Contractors fell, drones mapped movements in 3D, foam canisters hardened instantly, blocking paths. The house was a battlefield of geometry and timing, each movement calculated, every misstep punished.
Another contractor attempted a flank through a side corridor. Selara intercepted, dagger striking at the seam of powered armor. Sparks flew; servo burned open; neural feeds died. The contractor's visor went blank. Selara staggered from a glancing plasma strike, blood streaking her arm, but pushed forward, pistol aimed at the next target.
Daren fired continuously, sweeping across advancing contractors. One lunged too close. He swung the prybar again, metal snapping against armor, teeth flying, before the man went down. Time slowed in these pockets of chaos, punctuated by flashes of heat, fire, the smell of fried electronics, and scorched polymer.
Another grenade detonated in a side chamber. Shockwave slammed against walls, sending contractors sprawling. Ryn's ears rang, eyes blurred. Smoke filled his lungs. He coughed, shaking off the stun, and continued toward the tunnel.
Alarms screamed louder now, overlapping with sirens and mechanical wails. Additional NorexCorp operators were converging, moving from flanking corridors. Red lights reflected off walls, highlighting new threats as [T-47] continuously updated their positions and predicted engagement paths. Every operator adjusted in real-time, their lethal choreography increasing the pressure on the Thalos family.
Selara grabbed Ryn briefly, shaking him. "Move, now!" she barked. He obeyed without hesitation, diving toward the hatch as the compound became a maelstrom of gunfire, smoke, and deadly calculated movements from the incoming operators.
Every action was calculated for one outcome: staying alive.
Through the hatch, he tumbled into the darkness of the tunnels beneath the compound. Layers of conduits hid his thermal signature; vented air masked his movement. Survival was a measured, practiced art, drilled into him since childhood.
From behind, he saw the last images of the room: Daren still firing, figure a bulwark against NorexCorp's advance. Selara advanced toward the vanguard, pulse pistol flaring, wounds visible but her form unbroken. Sparks and plasma illuminated the chaos, shadows dancing across walls and ceiling, fragments of debris floating in smoke-filled air.
Ryn pressed on, crawling through narrow tunnels, hauling the go-bag close to his chest. The drills hummed through his limbs, guiding his steps, keeping him alive. Above, the sky stretched wide and empty, a harsh canvas of distant stars. The neon glow of Drenn Vale was a faint smear behind him, a city burning, unreachable. He moved forward into the cold openness of the wasteland, shadowed and silent, a boy tempered into something sharper by fire, smoke, and blood.
Barely seconds after he emerged, the tunnel behind him collapsed with a thunderous roar, sealing the darkness and chaos inside. Dust and stone rained down, cutting off any thought of turning back. He was alone in the open wasteland, alive, but carrying the weight of what had been left behind.