~~~
Ten hours after hell opened its doors and invited itself to dinner.
Captain Ulrich Hicks pressed his back against the rubble that had once been Vienna's central library, listening to inhuman shrieks echoing from the streets beyond. His armor hung in tatters from his lean frame—dark stains covered the plates where monster claws had found gaps, and his left shoulder throbbed with a wound that would've required medical attention in a sane world.
Ten hours. It's been ten fucking hours with no signs of reinforcements... Hell, not even contact with our neighbors.
Through the specially modified goggles provided by their resident artificer, he could make out twisted shapes moving through the unnatural darkness that had swallowed Vienna. The beasts were unlike anything in the Monster Codex—biomechanical nightmares that defied classification.
Artificial. They're definitely artificial. But who the hell has the resources to create thousands of these things without detection?
"Captain," whispered Sergeant Maya Volkov, crouched beside him in the debris. At thirty-two, she was his most trusted companion, whose steady nerves had kept them alive through three previous encounters with the aberrants. "Movement, two blocks east. Pack of eight, standard hunting formation."
Hicks adjusted his own goggles and confirmed the sighting. Eight creatures that moved on multiple legs, each one pulsing with bioluminescent veins that cast eerie patterns through the darkness. They picked their way through the rubble with unsettling intelligence, scanning for survivors.
How can hundreds... no, thousands of these monsters appear in our city undetected? And if Commander Mathew is right about the origin point, that means Cathedral Prime was compromised... But how? The gods are mighty and powerful.
Not to mention their blessed father Gordon was a paladin. Where is he? Or any of the church forces?
Did they have a hand in this massacre?
Hicks took a deep breath and forced his mind to focus and not think of blasphemy. He, like all the citizens of Vienna, prayed and worshiped "The Primes," and yet in these troubling times, where he was sure that if there's a hell, this is how it would look.
There's no point overthinking this shit. I'm a soldier first, philosopher never.
Behind him, the rest of his squad maintained disciplined silence despite the horror they'd witnessed. Corporal Devon, barely twenty-five, clutched his modified rifle with hands that had finally stopped shaking after the third encounter. Private Elena Vasquez, their team medic, methodically checked her supplies—using routine to hold trauma at bay. Private Marcus Webb, their demolitions expert, stared at the creatures with the analytical focus that had kept them alive when conventional weapons failed.
And there was Trish.
Private Patricia "Trish" Hawthorne had been separated from the squad four hours ago when a swarm of flying variants tore through their position. They'd been forced to retreat, assuming she was dead. But somehow, she'd found them again—wounded, exhausted, but alive and wearing that silly smile that never seemed to leave her face, even in the middle of hell.
Something's off about her.
That's what his instincts were screaming, but Hicks shook his head.
This damn field the cultists put up is messing with everyone's heads. The veil itself is like a massive domain—twisted and perverted like the entities they worship.
So many people lost... As for her, trauma affects people differently. At her age, surviving what she went through... maybe that smile is just how she's coping.
Hicks clenched the symbol of the Prime Gods hanging from his neck and offered a silent prayer for his team's safety before activating his comm unit. "Command? This is Hicks."
Static crackled for several seconds before a gruff voice responded with exhaustion that went bone-deep: "Still breathing, Captain?"
"Unfortunately, Commander." Hicks managed a grim smile.
There was a pause, then Commander Mathew's voice cracked through the interference. "How's your team? Still operational?"
"All present and accounted for, sir."
"Good. Much as I hate to say it, your objective remains unchanged—reconnaissance of Cathedral Prime from the southern approach, Sector 23. We've got other teams mapping the situation, trying to establish control lines."
Hicks felt his stomach clench. "Sir, what about the other teams? How many are still..."
Silence stretched for several heartbeats. "We've lost contact with three more squads since our last check-in. Current count shows approximately two hundred guards remaining operational citywide."
Two hundred. From a force of over eight hundred.
"And Hicks... preliminary casualty reports just came in. We've lost over forty percent of the civilian population."
"Fuck!" The word escaped before he could stop it.
"I know, Captain. Trust me, I know." Mathew's voice carried the weight of a man who'd watched his city burn. "Keep me updated. I need to move to Sector 12—emergency situation developing. Stay alive, my friend."
"Same to you, Commander."
The line went dead, leaving Hicks with the weight of those numbers. Forty percent. Forty percent of Vienna's population died in ten hours.
"Could've been worse," Sergeant Volkov murmured, apparently reading his thoughts through his expression. "If Commander Whitehart and Commander Hobbs hadn't deployed their domains when the attack began..."
"That action cost us Uncle James," Elena Vasquez replied grimly, fighting back tears. "Our only Order V entity, gone."
James Hobbs. Twenty-seven years of service, survived three wars, raised Elena from a scared recruit into the medic who'd saved half their lives tonight. Burned himself out maintaining city-wide protective barriers just long enough for the initial evacuation to begin.
One old man holding back hell itself with nothing but willpower and a lifetime of accumulated power. Should've been impossible.
"Fucking cultists," Hicks spat quietly. "Had to be cultists."
Private Hawthorne giggled—actually giggled—at his comment. "They're so creative, though. Look at all the wonderful new friends they've made for us."
She must be concussed. Or in shock.
Hicks studied her through his goggles. Hawthorne had always been the cheerful one, the squad member who could find something positive about any situation. But her current demeanor went beyond optimism into something approaching manic delight.
Trauma... She nearly died, and she's processing it the only way she can. Better than catatonia, I suppose.
"Movement," Devon whispered, pointing toward an intersection fifty meters ahead. "Big one."
A creature the size of a small building emerged from the shadows, its body a nightmarish fusion of organic mass and industrial machinery. Multiple heads rotated independently on flexible necks, each one scanning different sectors with sensors that painted laser grids across the rubble.
The thing moved with surprising grace for its size, picking its way through debris on legs that adapted to terrain by reshaping themselves in real-time. Where it stepped, concrete cracked and bled substances that steamed in the unnatural cold.
How the fuck are these things already evolving? They're learning, adapting, becoming more efficient killers by the hour.
"Sir," Vasquez breathed, "it's heading toward Safe Zone Delta. There are civilians in the underground parking structure."
Hicks felt ice form in his stomach. Safe Zone Delta housed nearly three hundred survivors—families, children, elderly citizens who'd been caught in the chaos and
managed to find shelter in reinforced underground structures.
Do we engage? Six guards against something the size of a building? It's suicide. But if we don't...
As he watched, the creature's sensor arrays locked onto the parking structure's entrance. Its multiple heads turned toward the hidden entrance with predatory focus, and one opened to reveal a mouth lined with rotating metal teeth.
No choice. Can't let it reach the civilians.
"Weapons free," he ordered quietly. "Priority target is the sensor array on the primary head. Devon, Vasquez—high explosive rounds, aim for the joints on the rear legs. Webb, save your charges for emergency extraction. Volkov, Hawthorne—cover fire, keep the secondary heads busy."
This is going to get very messy, very quickly.
His team acknowledged with hand signals, moving into position with the smooth coordination of soldiers who'd learned to trust each other completely. But as they prepared to engage, Hicks noticed something that made his blood run cold.
Hawthorne was smiling wider now. Not the grim determination of a soldier preparing for battle, but genuine anticipation. Her eyes were bright with excitement as she checked her weapon, and she was humming softly under her breath—a children's lullaby that had no business in a war zone.
What the hell?
But there was no time to process his concerns. The creature had reached the parking structure and was beginning to tear through the reinforced entrance with claws that carved concrete like warm butter.
"Execute," Hicks ordered.
The night exploded into chaos as six rifles opened fire simultaneously. High-explosive rounds impacted the creature's joints, sending showers of metal shrapnel and organic fluid in all directions. The beast roared—a sound like industrial machinery being fed into a wood chipper—and spun to locate its attackers.
It's faster than the others. Much faster. And those sensor arrays are tracking our positions even through cover.
The creature's multiple heads swiveled toward them with horrifying speed, and return fire erupted from gun batteries that emerged from its carapace. Energy bolts seared through the air, turning rubble to glass and filling the space with superheated plasma.
"Move, move, move!" Hicks shouted, diving for cover as the street where he'd been standing turned into molten slag.
His squad scattered with practiced efficiency, each member finding new cover while maintaining suppressing fire. But the creature was adapting in real-time, learning their patterns, predicting their movements.
Too smart. These things are too damn smart. They're not just monsters—they're weapons designed to hunt people like us.
Devon screamed as one of the energy bolts caught him in the leg, spinning him around and dropping him behind a chunk of masonry. Vasquez immediately began moving toward him under covering fire, but the creature tracked her movement and prepared to fire again.
Time to stop playing soldier and start being a guardian.
Hicks felt his Order III aura surge as he called upon his Mantle—[Guardian's Resolve]. The power flowed through him, enhancing his physical capabilities while projecting a field of protective energy around his squad. The creature's next shot struck his aura shield and dissipated into harmless light.
"Webb, charges now!" he roared, drawing his enchanted blade and channeling essence through its crystalline core.
The demolitions expert didn't hesitate. Three shaped charges detonated simultaneously at the creature's primary joints, severing limbs and sending it crashing to the ground. But even crippled, it continued to fire, its remaining heads swiveling to target individual squad members.
Hicks launched himself forward, using his enhanced speed to close the distance. His blade, wreathed in protective essence, carved through the creature's armored hide like it was made of parchment. The primary head exploded in a shower of sparks and biological matter as his strike found its core processing unit.
One down. But the noise...
Behind them, more creatures were emerging from the shadows. Dozens of them, drawn by the energy discharge and electromagnetic signatures of the battle. His tactical mind immediately shifted into survival mode.
We need to move. Now.
"Evac protocol seven," he ordered. "Devon, can you move?"
"Leg's fucked, but I can run," Devon replied through gritted teeth, Vasquez's field dressing already stemming the worst of the bleeding.
"Underground parking, double time. Move!"
The squad ran for the safe zone's entrance, Vasquez supporting Devon while the others provided covering fire. Behind them, the creatures gave chase, their electronic shrieks echoing through the darkness.
As they descended into the relative safety of the underground structure, Hicks found himself studying Hawthorne with growing unease.
She's not even breathing hard after that sprint. And I could swear her uniform was more torn up before the fight.
But his suspicions would have to wait. They had civilians to protect and a mission to complete. The cathedral district was still their objective, and every hour they delayed meant more people would die.
Focus, Ulrich. One crisis at a time.
The underground parking garage had been converted into a makeshift refugee center, with families huddled around improvised shelters made from salvaged materials. The air was thick with the smell of unwashed bodies, fear, and the chemical tang of emergency lighting that provided the only illumination.
Hicks counted heads automatically as they entered—two hundred and seventy-three civilians, mostly women, children, and elderly citizens who'd been caught in residential areas when the attack began. Their faces showed the hollow-eyed exhaustion of people who'd witnessed the collapse of everything they'd considered safe.
These people are depending on us to have answers. To have a plan. If only they knew how lost we really are.
He took a deep breath and channeled his aura to project calm and confidence—a trick Uncle James had taught him years ago.
"Captain," called Dr. Sarah Chen, the civilian leader who'd emerged to organize the refugees. She was a pediatrician in peacetime, but the crisis had transformed her into something approaching a military commander. "Thank God you're back. We heard the fighting outside."
"Doctor, we need to relocate these people," Hicks said without preamble. "This location will be compromised within hours."
Dr. Chen's face paled, but she nodded with the crisp efficiency of someone who'd learned to accept impossible situations. "Where can we go? The surface is a death trap, and most of these people can't survive the pressure field for more than a few minutes."
Fuck. She's right. The elderly and children, especially, will be incapacitated the moment they step outside.
"We're working on it," Hicks lied smoothly. "For now, maintain current security protocols. No lights near entrances, no unnecessary noise."
As he spoke, he became aware of Hawthorne moving through the refugee groups with her characteristic smile. Children who'd been crying quieted when she approached, and she knelt to speak with them in soft, comforting tones that seemed to drain the tension from their small bodies.
She's good with kids. We need that right now.
Sergeant Volkov appeared at his elbow, speaking quietly enough that only he could hear. "Sir, I've been watching Hawthorne since we found her. Something's not right."
"What do you mean?"
"Look at her wounds, sir. Or rather, look at where her wounds should be. Four hours ago, she was dragged into a collapsed building by one of those flying variants. We heard her screaming for almost ten minutes before it went quiet."
Volkov was right. Despite her story of surviving a close encounter with the creatures, Hawthorne showed no signs of serious injury. Her uniform was torn and bloodied, but the skin beneath was unmarked.
Maybe she was lucky. Maybe she hid until they moved on.
"Sir," Volkov continued, "I've been in special operations for twelve years. I've learned to trust my instincts about people. And my instincts are screaming that something is very wrong with Private Hawthorne."
Across the parking garage, Hawthorne was singing a lullaby to a group of terrified children. Her voice was sweet and melodic, but there was something underneath it.
Keep an eye on her, but don't let it affect the squad's cohesion. We can't afford paranoia right now.
"Keep watching," he told Volkov quietly. "But don't say anything to the others. We can't have doubts fracturing the team."
"Yes, sir."
As his sergeant moved away, Hicks found his gaze drawn back to Hawthorne. She was still with the children, still smiling, still singing. But for just a moment, when she thought no one was looking, her expression changed.
The smile remained, but her eyes... her eyes held something cold and predatory that had nothing to do with the cheerful young woman he'd known for two years.
What the hell happened to you out there, Trish?
But that was a question for later. Right now, he had a city to save and civilians to protect.
One crisis at a time.
~~~