The slum's outer edge lay quiet in the gray afternoon light, a maze of narrow streets choked with years of accumulated filth. Water pooled in uneven spots where the pavement had cracked and broken, creating patches of stagnant moisture that reflected the oppressive sky above. The air itself felt thick, heavy with the smell of decay and poverty that had soaked into every surface over decades of neglect.
The first automatic servo robot rolled into view, its treads grinding over broken concrete. Ultraviolet lamps mounted to its chassis remained dark for now, but ready. The machine moved with mechanical precision, navigating the cramped streets with the efficiency of its programming.
Behind it came more robots, and behind them, the gang dogs.
They advanced in tactical formation, lasguns held ready, Flamers slung across backs, silver-plated sabers hanging from belt sheaths. Their carapace armor was dust-covered from the journey, scuffed and battle-worn but functional. Each soldier moved with the careful awareness of someone entering hostile territory, eyes scanning windows, doorways, rooftops.
Then the sirens began.
The air raid warning erupted from speakers mounted on several of the servo robots, a piercing wail that cut through the slum's ambient noise like a knife. The sound bounced off cramped buildings, amplified by the narrow confines of the streets, echoing until it seemed to come from everywhere at once.
Doors opened. Hesitantly at first, then more rapidly.
Civilians emerged from their homes with expressions ranging from confusion to suspicion to fear. They gathered in loose clusters, maintaining distance from the armed force that had appeared in their streets. Eyes tracked the Gang Dogs warily. Hands stayed close to bodies, ready to flee or fight depending on what happened next.
The automatic servo robots immediately began dispersing according to preprogrammed patterns. Fifty teams formed in seconds, each taking assigned positions. Several robots broke from the main formation and scaled the surrounding buildings with surprising agility, their mechanical limbs finding purchase on crumbling walls and rusty fire escapes. Within moments, they'd established elevated positions overlooking the streets below.
Heavy logging guns swiveled on their mounts, mechanical sensors sweeping the area with cold efficiency. The weapons tracked movement, calculated firing solutions, waited for authorization to engage.
The air raid siren continued its relentless shrieking.
Gang dogs moved among the gathered civilians, trying to communicate over the noise. Their voices carried urgency, insistence, but the civilians simply stared back. Silent. Watchful. Unmoving.
No one ran. No one complied. They just stood there, waiting to see what would happen next.
Time bled away, each passing second representing lives that might not be saved, ground that wouldn't be covered, civilians who would remain in the danger zone when the deadline arrived.
Bucky stood near the center of the formation, his eyes narrowing as he conducted rapid communication with his team captains through the comm channel. His jaw worked, frustration building with each report of civilian non-compliance. They didn't have time for this. They couldn't afford hesitation or fear or simple bureaucratic confusion about who these armed people were and what they wanted.
Old John moved before anyone could stop him.
The veteran pushed through the Gang Dog cordon, his heavy carapace armor making him an imposing figure despite his age. His white beard stood out starkly against the dark plating. In his hand, the silver-plated saber caught what little light filtered through the clouds.
His eyes locked onto a young man at the edge of the civilian crowd, someone whose body language suggested imminent flight. Old John closed the distance in three long strides, his robotic arm reaching out to grab the man's shoulder with mechanical strength that made resistance impossible.
The young man's eyes went wide. His mouth opened to protest, to curse, to scream, but no sound emerged yet.
Old John brought the silver-plated blade closer. Inch by careful inch.
The young man's expression shifted. Panic flooded his features, his face going pale, then flushing red. His lips pulled back from his teeth in an involuntary snarl that revealed elongated canines, too long to be fully human.
The blade made contact with exposed skin.
The sound was horrifying. Metal against flesh should have produced a wet, organic noise. Instead, it sizzled like meat hitting a hot griddle. Smoke rose from the point of contact, gray-white and carrying the acrid stench of burning tissue. The smell was wrong, though. Not quite human. Something fouler underneath the familiar scent of seared flesh.
The young man's scream finally broke free, high and piercing, filled with genuine agony that went beyond simple pain. It was the shriek of something being burned by its fundamental weakness, tormented by the very thing its corrupted nature feared most.
Old John's expression never changed. His face remained carved from stone, emotionless and cold.
His arm moved in a single fluid arc.
The silver-plated blade swept through the air and connected with the young man's neck. The edge, honed to molecular sharpness and empowered by its silver coating, met minimal resistance. The head separated from the body cleanly, almost surgically.
Blood sprayed in a brief arterial fountain before the body collapsed. The head hit the ground with a wet thump, rolling slightly before coming to rest. Its face remained frozen in that final expression of terror and pain.
Old John bent down, his robotic arm reaching out to grasp the severed head by its hair. He lifted it high, holding it up for everyone to see. Blood dripped from the ragged stump of the neck, pattering onto the broken pavement.
His voice boomed across the street, amplified by anger and decades of battlefield experience, somehow cutting through even the air raid siren's wail.
"We're here for the Blood Coven! We're here to save you!" Each word landed like a hammer blow. "This is a war for survival! For yourselves! For your families! Run! Run now!"
The civilians stared at the dripping head, at the evidence of something inhuman hiding among them, wearing a familiar face.
Something broke. The spell of confusion and fear that had held them paralyzed shattered under the weight of undeniable proof.
Perhaps it was the brutal demonstration that finally penetrated their shock. Perhaps it was the realization that the Blood Coven's reach extended further than they'd known, that their neighbors might be compromised. Perhaps it was simply the primal fear triggered by seeing a predator exposed and killed.
Whatever the reason, the civilians began to move.
Their expressions varied wildly. Some looked terrified. Others angry. Many simply appeared numb, overwhelmed by the sudden violent confirmation of what they'd suspected but refused to believe.
But they moved.
The Gang Dogs immediately took advantage of the shift, organizing the flow, directing people into orderly groups. Ultraviolet lamps flicked on, bathing civilians in harsh purple-white light. Those who showed no reaction were waved through. Those who flinched or recoiled received closer inspection with the silver-plated weapons.
The evacuation operation finally began in earnest, spreading from this initial breakthrough point and extending deeper into the slum's interior like water finding cracks in a dam.
People flooded out of the dilapidated buildings, moving toward the slum's edge, toward safety. The Gang Dogs maintained order, keeping the flow steady, processing people as quickly as possible while still conducting the necessary verification.
For a brief period, it seemed like the plan might actually work. Like they might evacuate significant numbers before the Blood Coven could mount an effective response.
Then the heavy logging guns began to swivel on their mounts.
The sound of servos whining reached Bucky's ears a split second before the automated warnings crackled through the comm channel. The servo robots hovering in the gloomy sky above, serving as reconnaissance eyes, transmitted urgent alerts.
Enemy contacts. Multiple. Approaching from deeper in the slum.
Figures appeared at the far end of the street, emerging from alleys and doorways like a rising tide. They wore red cloaks that hung limply in the still air, the fabric stained and tattered. Their faces showed no emotion, no awareness, just the blank numbness of the completely lost. The Thralls, those who'd given themselves over to the Blood Coven so completely that nothing human remained in their expressions.
They advanced with mechanical determination, hands empty but postures threatening.
"Front line, engage the enemy!" A Gang Dog captain's voice cut through the comm channel.
One team of Gang Dogs immediately moved forward, leading several squads of automatic servo robots with them. They established a mobile defensive position that could be pushed forward as ground was gained, creating a flexible barrier between the advancing corrupted and the evacuation operation behind them.
The heavy logging guns opened fire.
The sound was catastrophic. Each weapon unleashed a torrent of large-caliber rounds at cyclic rates that made them sound like extended explosions rather than individual shots. The noise hammered at eardrums, resonated in chest cavities, made the air itself seem to vibrate.
Scorching laser beams cut through the space between the defensive line and the enemy, leaving glowing afterimages on unprotected retinas. The crimson lances of energy punched through torsos, cauterized as they went, leaving smoking holes.
Physical bullets followed, thousands of rounds per minute chewing through flesh and bone with industrial efficiency. The Thrall at the front of the charge simply disintegrated under the concentrated fire, bodies coming apart in sprays of blood and tissue.
The attack was temporarily suppressed, the corrupted forced to take cover in the narrow streets, to duck behind whatever obstacles presented themselves.
But the gunfire had an unintended consequence.
More civilians, those who'd been waiting inside their homes to see how events unfolded, suddenly made their decisions. The sound of combat was unmistakable, undeniable proof that something terrible was happening. They began emerging from the low buildings in greater numbers, no longer waiting for permission or organization, simply running toward what they hoped was safety.
The evacuation operation became more chaotic. The orderly flow disrupted as spontaneous flight took over. People pushed, shoved, tried to move faster than the Gang Dogs could process them.
And within that sudden surge, it became impossible to distinguish between genuine civilians and Blood Coven members hiding among them. The ultraviolet lamps and silver weapons could only check so many people so quickly.
Bucky's voice crackled through the comm channel, cutting through the confusion with the sharp authority of command. "Servo robots on the high ground, keep your ultraviolet lamps active! Sniper teams, priority targets are any blood worshipers concealed in the civilian groups! Wait for high-value targets before engaging the forward combat zone!"
His eyes swept the surrounding area, tactical mind processing the terrain, the sight lines, the defensive possibilities. "I need a team of servo robots to begin demolishing nearby structures immediately! We need better fields of fire! Start building additional defensive lines that can be advanced incrementally!"
Even as he issued orders, more Thrall were pouring into the area. The initial wave had been just the advance element. Now the real numbers were becoming apparent.
And behind the mindless corrupted came figures in red robes. Priests. Believers who still retained enough mental function to carry firearms, to coordinate, to direct the Thrall like living weapons.
The automatic servo robots reacted before the Gang Dogs even processed the new threat level. Their targeting systems identified the higher-value targets, calculated priority sequences, and opened fire.
The heavy logging guns swiveled with mechanical speed, tracking the priests and armed believers. Storms of bullets cut through the air, turning the space between buildings into a killing field.
As Bucky's commands took effect and the defensive line began to properly establish itself, something unexpected happened.
Civilians who'd been trapped in their homes by the sudden outbreak of combat began emerging from hiding. But not all of them ran for the evacuation routes. Some, perhaps a few dozen, carried weapons. Old hunting rifles, handguns, even improvised clubs and blades. They didn't flee toward safety.
They turned toward the Blood Coven forces and started fighting.
Bucky immediately diverted a Gang Dog team to take command of these volunteers. Orders went out rapidly: separate the women and children, evacuate them immediately. The men who wanted to fight could stay, but only under Gang Dog command structure. They became the reserve force, backup fighters who could hold ground while the main teams advanced.
A whistling sound cut through the cacophony of gunfire.
Multiple sounds, actually. A chorus of high-pitched shrieks growing rapidly louder.
"Incoming!" someone screamed through the comm.
Several Thrall in the enemy ranks had stopped their advance and were now kneeling, rocket launchers balanced on their shoulders. Their faces showed the same blank numbness as the rest, but their hands worked the weapons with practiced efficiency. The tubes angled upward, adjusted for trajectory.
Then they fired.
Flames erupted from the launcher backblasts. Rockets streaked through the air trailing smoke, dozens of them, creating contrails against the gray sky as they arced toward the Gang Dogs' defensive positions.
The servo robots reacted with inhuman speed. Logging guns traversed upward, tracking the incoming projectiles. Thousands of rounds per second filled the air, creating a defensive curtain of lead and energy.
Several rockets exploded mid-flight, detonating in aerial fireballs that sent shrapnel raining down harmlessly. More were intercepted, then more.
But not all of them.
Rockets punched through the defensive fire, maintaining their trajectory, falling toward the front line positions like the judgment of some angry god.
The explosions were catastrophic.
Unprotected civilians caught in the blast zones simply ceased to exist, bodies torn apart by overpressure and shrapnel. Even the Gang Dogs in their carapace armor were thrown to the ground by the violent detonations. Armor cracked. Bodies underneath suffered massive blunt trauma.
Some soldiers managed to remain conscious through sheer willpower, gritting their teeth against pain that should have rendered them unconscious, forcing themselves to maintain awareness because unconsciousness meant death.
And then something worse happened.
Priests whose bodies had been shredded by the heavy logging gun fire, whose remains lay scattered across the street in pieces too small to be recognizable as human, began to move.
The blood pooling around them stirred. Flowed. Rose into the air in defiance of gravity, gathering and coalescing. Within seconds, the priests' forms reassembled, pulled together from their own spilled vitae. They stood whole once more, their expressions unchanged, their chanting never having stopped.
Above the enemy formation, responding to sharp syllables in a language that hurt to hear, blood began to crystallize. Droplets suspended in air hardened into shapes like throwing darts, hundreds of them forming simultaneously. The crimson projectiles hovered for one heartbeat, two, then launched forward with tremendous velocity.
"Sniper teams, eliminate the rocket launchers now! Priority fire on those priests, interrupt their casting!" Bucky shook his head violently, trying to clear the ringing from his ears, fighting against the disorientation of blast-induced concussion. His voice emerged as a ragged roar into the comm system. "Flamer teams, advance to the front! Burn everything in your path!"
Behind the mobile barriers formed by servo robot bodies, Gang Dogs carrying Flamers rose from cover. The weapons were massive, tanks sloshing with promethium fuel strapped to their backs, connecting to nozzles that extended nearly a meter in front of them.
They raised the weapons, angling the nozzles slightly upward for maximum coverage.
Triggers pulled.
Ignition systems sparked.
Pressurized promethium fuel mixed with air and exploded into flames.
Jets of fire erupted from the nozzles, each stream extending more than ten meters, turning the air itself into a weapon. The flames drew beautiful, terrible arcs through the space thick with blood-scent and cordite, descending toward the piles of broken bodies that still twitched with unnatural life, toward the Thrall who continued their relentless advance, toward the priests whose blood magic was reforming their shattered forms.
Fire washed over everything.
The battle had truly begun.
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