~~~
[One] hour later in the underground parking hideout.
Captain Hicks sat on a crate of emergency medical supplies, cleaning his rifle with movements that had become automatic after fifteen years of military service. The rhythmic scraping of the cleaning rod against metal provided small comfort in the underground chaos that Safe Zone Delta had become.
Small comforts. That's all we have left now.
Dr. Sarah Chen approached with a steaming cup of something that might charitably be called coffee. "You look like you could use this more than I could."
"Thanks, Doc." Hicks accepted the cup gratefully, inhaling the bitter aroma that reminded him of better times. "How are our supplies holding up?"
"Food and water will last maybe six more hours at current consumption rates," she said, settling onto another crate beside him. Her voice carried the exhaustion of someone who'd been making impossible decisions for too long. "The real problem is morale. People are starting to ask questions I don't have answers for."
Questions like 'why hasn't anyone come to rescue us' and 'when will this nightmare end.' Questions I've been asking myself.
Through the makeshift medical area, he could see families huddled around battery-powered lanterns, their faces hollow with exhaustion and fear. Children who should have been playing in school yards sat silent and wide-eyed, processing horrors no child should witness. Elderly citizens who'd survived the Border Wars now faced something that made those conflicts look like playground disputes.
Three hundred souls are depending on me to somehow make this right. Three hundred people who think I have a plan beyond 'survive the next hour.'
"Captain," Dr. Chen said quietly, "can I ask you something?"
"Shoot."
"Do you really think we can get these people out of here alive?"
Hicks paused in his cleaning, considering the question with the honesty it deserved. The truth was grim—creatures outside were getting smarter and more coordinated by the hour, their ammunition was running dangerously low, and the pressure field made surface evacuation impossible for most civilians.
But she's not asking for a tactical assessment. She's asking if I still have hope.
"Doctor," he said finally, "I've seen impossible situations before. Sometimes what looks like certain death is just... the setup for something better. The key is staying alive long enough to see it."
And sometimes, certain death is exactly that. But these people need hope more than brutal honesty.
Across the parking structure, he spotted Hawthorne sitting with a group of children, her ever-present smile somehow coaxing giggles from kids who'd witnessed unspeakable horrors. One little girl—couldn't be more than seven—was actually laughing as Hawthorne made funny faces and told silly jokes.
She's been a godsend with the kids. If it weren't for her, we'd probably have complete panic on our hands.
But even as he watched, something nagged at him. The way she moved through shadows between emergency lights always seemed to know exactly where to step to avoid debris. How her uniform, despite being torn and bloodstained, never accumulated the dust and grime that covered everyone else.
Stop it, Ulrich. You're seeing patterns that aren't there because you're exhausted. Hawthorne saved those kids' sanity. Focus on what matters.
"Captain," Sergeant Volkov appeared at his elbow, speaking in the low tones they'd all adopted. "Perimeter check complete. No movement in the immediate area, but I'm picking up energy signatures three blocks east. Something big."
"How big?"
"Bigger than the construction unit we took down. Multiple energy sources, coordinated movement patterns." Volkov's expression was grim. "Sir, whatever's out there isn't hunting randomly. It's surveying. Mapping."
They're planning something. The question is what, and how much time do we have to prepare?
Before Hicks could respond, an explosion echoed through the parking structure, sending concrete dust raining from the ceiling. Emergency lights flickered, casting wild shadows that made the huddled civilians look like refugees from hell itself.
Screams erupted as chunks of concrete crashed down. Children cried, adults shouted contradictory orders, and the careful organization Dr. Chen had built collapsed into chaos.
"Contact!" Webb shouted from the main entrance, his voice cutting through the pandemonium. "Multiple hostiles approaching from the north entrance! Big ones, moving fast!"
Ambush. The fucking things tracked us here.
Hicks's mind shifted into combat mode, exhaustion falling away like a discarded coat. The parking structure offered excellent defensive positions—concrete pillars for cover, elevated firing positions on upper levels, chokepoints at every entrance—but limited escape routes. If they were surrounded, the civilians would be trapped.
Three hundred innocent people. I won't let them be harvested.
"Volkov, take Devon and Vasquez. Establish overwatch positions on Level Two. Webb, set charges on the support columns—if we get overwhelmed, we bring the whole thing down rather than let them take the civilians."
Better to die quickly in a collapse than slowly in whatever processing facility these things are running.
"What about Hawthorne?" Volkov asked, her voice carrying that edge of suspicion he'd been trying to ignore.
Hicks looked around and realized he'd lost sight of her in the chaos. Just moments before, she'd been entertaining children near the medical station, but now...
Where did she go? In all this noise and confusion, how does someone just disappear?
"Find her and—"
His words were cut off as something massive crashed through the north wall, sending chunks of reinforced concrete flying like shrapnel. Through the breach came creatures unlike any they'd encountered—tall, humanoid, but wrong.
How in hell are they making new variants this fast!
Where previous creatures had been obviously artificial, these carried an aura of organic wrongness that suggested they'd once been something else.
Something human.
The battle erupted with sudden violence that transformed the underground sanctuary into hell. Energy weapons carved through the air, leaving trails of superheated plasma that turned concrete to glass. Conventional firearms barked defiance, muzzle flashes strobing like deadly fireworks.
But something was wrong. Hicks felt it immediately—a dead weight in his chest where his Mantle should be singing with power.
"My fucking Mantle!" Devon cursed, trying repeatedly to activate his [Sharpshooter's Focus] to no avail. "It's like hitting a wall!"
"Same here!" Vasquez's voice cracked with panic as she fumbled for her medical kit instead of relying on her [Healer's Touch]. "The essence is completely suppressed!"
The veil. The goddamn veil is blocking Mantle access. The only reason I can feel mine at all is because I'm Order III.
But even Hicks could feel the interference—his [Guardian's Resolve] was sluggish, fighting against the oppressive field that turned air thick as molasses. For his Order I and II squad members, it was like trying to breathe underwater.
The creatures advanced, energy weapons carving through cover like paper. Webb went down first, his explosive charges scattered unfired as concentrated fire turned him to vapor before he could reach adequate shelter.
Webb. Fuck, Webb.
Devon's wounded leg prevented him from finding adequate cover. He died cursing, emptying his magazine into the nearest creature before return fire silenced him forever.
Vasquez lasted longer, her medical training helping her identify cover, but eventually the coordinated assault overwhelmed her position. She died trying to reach a wounded civilian, her final act pure selflessness.
Elena. God damn it, Elena.
Hicks fought with desperate fury, his Order III Mantle giving him advantages despite the suppression—enhanced reflexes, reinforced bones, and the ability to survive impacts that would have killed his subordinates. But it wasn't enough.
Volkov went down fighting, her special forces training allowing her to take three creatures with her before concentrated fire overwhelmed her position. Her last act was to look directly at Hicks and mouth a single word: "Run."
They're all dead. My entire squad is dead because I didn't trust my instincts about that thing wearing Hawthorne's face.
Hicks found himself alone in the ruins of what had been a safe zone, surrounded by bodies of people he'd sworn to protect. But it wasn't just his squad that was gone—the civilians were... changed.
Dr. Chen sat perfectly still beside an overturned medical crate, her eyes reflecting light like polished glass. Children who'd been laughing at Hawthorne's jokes now stood in unnaturally straight lines, their small faces blank and expressionless. Elderly citizens who'd survived decades of hardship stared at nothing with the empty gaze of broken dolls.
Processed. That's what they called it. They're being processed for the Convergence.
Their bodies remained intact, but something fundamental had been removed. The spark of consciousness, the essence of what made them human, had been extracted and stored elsewhere.
Three hundred souls. Three hundred lives reduced to empty shells.
"Oh dear," said a voice behind him, light and conversational. "That didn't go very well, did it?"
Hicks turned to find Hawthorne picking her way through debris with careful steps, her uniform somehow cleaner than before the battle. Her voice was the same, but the inflection was wrong—too precise, like someone reading memorized lines without understanding their meaning.
Order IV. Has to be Order IV minimum to have resisted the veil's suppression so completely.
"You're not her," Hicks said, raising his rifle with hands that shook from exhaustion and grief. "You're not Hawthorne."
"Very good, Captain," she replied, clapping her hands together like congratulating a bright student. "Though it took you rather longer to figure out than I expected. I was beginning to worry that I'd been too subtle with my performance."
How long? How long has this thing been wearing her face, listening to our plans, learning our weaknesses?
"What did you do with her?"
"Patricia?" The thing wearing Hawthorne's face tilted its head with predatory curiosity. "Oh, she's been dead for hours, Captain. Such a lovely girl, though. She had the most interesting memories about all of you. Made it very easy to play my part."
As she spoke, her right hand began to change. Fingers elongated into razor-sharp talons, nails hardened into obsidian claws, and skin took on a metallic sheen that reflected emergency lighting in patterns that hurt to look at directly.
Hicks forced power through his suppressed Mantle, feeling [Guardian's Resolve] flare to life despite the oppressive field. His aura blazed around him, providing the first real light the parking garage had seen since emergency power failed.
"The civilians," Hicks said, backing toward what remained of the exit while keeping his weapon trained on the creature. "What about the civilians?"
"Oh, they're not dead," the creature said conversationally, as if discussing the weather. "Death would be wasteful, and the Convergence requires efficiency above all else. They're being processed for transport to the cathedral. Every life has value in the great work, Captain. Even yours."
Three hundred people. Three hundred souls fed to whatever nightmare these cultists are trying to birth.
Hicks squeezed the trigger, putting three rounds center mass into the cultist wearing Trish's face. The bullets passed through without effect, as if she were made of dense smoke.
Damn it!
"Captain Hicks," it said, advancing with leisurely confidence, "did you really think conventional weapons would affect me? I'm disappointed. Your reputation suggested more."
This is it. This is how I die. Alone in a parking garage, talking to a monster wearing a dead woman's face.
But even as death approached on clawed feet, Hicks felt grim satisfaction. His squad was dead, but they'd completed their mission. They'd confirmed the cathedral as the attack source, mapped enemy capabilities, and provided intelligence that might help other teams survive what was coming.
Vienna will remember. Someone will remember what we tried to do here.
The creature's claw swept toward his throat with surgical precision. Hicks felt his aura shatter like glass against its superior power. The talon pierced his neck, severing arteries and crushing his windpipe in a single, efficient motion.
As his life drained across concrete, Hicks used his final moments of consciousness to dip his finger in his own blood. With shaking hands, he traced three symbols on the floor beside his body—military code that only another guard would recognize.
O-4-C: Order IV Cultist.
Let someone find this. Let them know what they're really fighting.
Captain Ulrich Hicks died knowing that his sacrifice had meaning, even if he would never see the results.
***
The cultist who had been wearing Patricia Hawthorne's face knelt beside Hicks's body, studying his features with detached interest of a scientist examining a specimen. The claws retracted back into human fingernails, and its face resumed the cheerful expression that had made it such an effective infiltrator.
Such brave little insects. They really believed they could make a difference against forces beyond their comprehension.
From deeper in the parking structure came sounds of its brethren processing the remaining civilians—not killing them, but preparing them for transport to the cathedral district. The Convergence required specific types of sacrifice, and living humans provided much better raw material than corpses.
Quality over quantity. The Hierarch is quite particular about these things.
The cultist's enhanced senses detected another squad approaching from the east, drawn by battle sounds like moths to flame. Team Foxtrot, if its stolen memories were correct, six more guards who believed they were rescuing survivors.
Perfect. Another opportunity to have some fun... life in the cult is so boring!
The cultist examined its current appearance, noting blood and tears that marked its supposed ordeal. But for the deception to work against fresh targets, it needed to look more convincingly wounded. The new arrivals would be suspicious if they found an uninjured survivor in the middle of a massacre.
Details matter in any good performance. Method acting at its finest.
As the sounds of the approaching squad grew louder, the creature arranged itself among bodies in a pose suggesting someone who'd barely survived a horrific attack. It even managed to produce tears—genuine human tears extracted from stolen memories of grief and loss.
When Team Foxtrot's point man appears at that entrance, weapon ready and eyes scanning for threats, he'll find what appears to be a critically wounded survivor lying among the dead.
They'll rescue me. They'll bring me back to their base of operations, where I can enjoy myself. And when the time is right, I'll open the doors and let my true family inside to finish the work.
The creature's laughter was perfectly human in pitch and tone, but it carried harmonics that no human throat had ever produced. In the darkness of Vienna's dying night, it waited for the next act of its performance to begin.
The city is almost ready for harvest, and every soul will serve the greater purpose of the Convergence.
~~~