GAVIN

Air hisses inside the sealed chamber. There's a change in pressure, a feeling like Gavin's ears are going to pop. He works his jaw back and forth, which usually helps to ease the sensation. His breath echoes back to him inside the translucent mask which covers his mouth and nose. Clean air cycles out of his O2 tank and into the mask in hushed, periodic gasps.

The camo suit, the backpack, the pistol holstered at his hip, the rifle slung over his shoulder and back by the strap; they weigh heavily on his body, but it's not an uncomfortable weight. He feels grounded by the weight of his gear. Secure. Competent. Ready.

His training, as well as his own self-awareness and discernment, tells him his heart is beating faster than normal. Not out of fear, but excitement. The thrill of the fight.

The giant door ahead, the one leading to the outside, grinds gratingly, metal scraping on metal, as it slides sideways and open. As the crack to the outer world widens, bright, dirty orange sunlight blooms at one corner of the doorway. Gavin squints and holds up a hand to shield his eyes, but only for long enough to pull a pair of sporty polarized sunglasses out of his breast pocket.

Everything has been seen to. There's no need to check equipment and supplies, or to huddle up. No need to give any lofty speeches about the future of humanity. The members of the Watch already know what their job is. They know their role, and they accept it. They signed up for this eventuality a long time ago.

The plan is in place. The fellow saviors of humanity are here, by Gavin's side, ready to fight.

He strides forward, sidling through the still-widening gap of the door. He doesn't fear the possibility of ambush. Not yet. The trespassing Ruster must still be inside the ship. Otherwise, its movements would be picked up by the sensors.

A dozen pairs of boots crunch on the rocky, downhill path. The occasional kicked-up rock rolls and bounces down the incline. It is pleasantly warm, and the weather is strangely quiet and calm.

They are in no particular hurry. They are loose. Calm. Prepared. The Ruster can track their movements anyway, using the ship's readings. Stealth-tech will be of little use, here. It won't be like it was with the last Ruster, blundering into territory where he didn't belong, into Gavin’s trap. This Ruster arrived with purpose. Intention. Gavin is going to meet it head-on with his own.

They don't yet have a visual of the ship. The path they traverse now leads to a stretch of plateau east of the ship’s location, and elevated a good fifty feet up from the canal floor.

Gavin’s earpiece, connected by a white cord to the radio attached to his belt, makes a staticky chirp in his ear. He flips a switch on the side of the radio.

“This is Watch Alpha, come in.”

“Gavin.”

There’s no way to mistake that voice, tarnished by radio static as it is.

Gavin’s heart, already overactive, does a double backflip.

Sometimes it bothers him how much he finds himself thinking of her. The look of her. The sound of her voice. It's not just a matter of physical attraction, either. Each interaction is like a dose of the most powerful drug. Especially when she's the one to instigate it.

The attraction is mutual. Gavin knows it is. Because Shiloh needs him, even if she doesn't realize it. All strong, powerful men are fated to have their pick of the women in their lives. It is an immutable law of the universe. Her destiny with him. She can no more escape this than gravity, or entropy. He might as well be her world, the physical mass around which she revolves.

"Shiloh."

He crouches down in front of a cluster of big, boulder-like rocks. His team follows suit aside and behind him. While the Ruster likely knows where they are, it can't hurt to have some cover.

He peers through a slim gap in the rocks. They're positioned close to the drop-off, and the shiny, black hull of the ship is visible through the peephole.

"You should stand down, Gavin. For now, at least. We don't know what the situation is, yet."

"Is this the Board I'm talking to," Gavin says, "Or you?"

He signals to Riley, who begins preparing the AT4 rocket launcher. He left his terrified wife Sophie and their confused four-year-old daughter behind to be out here. Normally he's an easy-going guy, but he's got this look of fierce determination about him, right now. He doesn't just want to do his job. He wants to make everything better. As is his role, as the man of his household.

He's almost a decade older than Gavin himself. Overall, he's young and healthy-looking for his age, but there's certain wear, a weariness, which can be remarked in the face and eyes. Especially in times like now, when he's focused, dialed-in. His recently shaved head is dotted with scratchy, receding stubble. His full, long beard twitches in the warm breeze.

As Riley undoes the safety on the rocket launcher, he and Gavin make eye contact, and there's an understanding, a shared conviction. A joining of mindset.

Meanwhile, there's an unmistakable pause of hesitation on the radio line.

Then, "I'm speaking to you as a member of the Board, if that's what you're asking."

"It's not," Gavin says. "Listen, Shiloh, this is my job. To eliminate threats, and protect the Cloister. The Board knows that. I have their every confidence. With only one exception, it seems."

"This could be a mistake, Gavin. You don't know what the occupant of that ship wants, or what they can do."

"What, do you want me to ask him?"

"Is the idea really so ridiculous? What if the Ruster in Mechanical was fleeing? What if he was trying to get away? It would make sense if he was being housed in the facility to the south. The Biodroid's there, they weren't like the others-"

"You won't ever quit talking about that facility, will you?" Gavin says. He needs to shut her up. She sounds too much like the Ruster. It's...nauseating. "Just because you want to believe something, doesn't make it true.

"Give it up. It's over. You're not going to convince me. And I'm certainly not going to listen to the lies of some...machine."

"I'm just saying," Shiloh says. "We should consider the possibilities."

There's a dull throb, somewhere in the lower half of Gavin's forehead. His teeth click together, as if of their own volition, making grinding sounds which reverberate in his head.

She shouldn't be talking to him like this. It's not her place. He is the man. He knows what's best. He has the training, the expertise.

"If we have something this trespasser wants, we can set the terms of a hand-off, if that's what we have to do. We can get ourselves on more even footing. Set a trap. For all you know, you're walking into one, right now."

"Is that what you think I'm doing? You think I'm about to fall for some kind of trick?"

"Gavin-"

Gavin flicks off the radio. His head, neck, and ears feel warm and red.

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"Let's do this," he says, nodding to Riley. He points south, toward a V-shaped opening in the rocky cover. He moves at a crouch alongside Riley, kneeling next to him as he also gets down on one knee with the AT4 propped over his shoulder. He puts up the sights.

The rest of the men have their rifles drawn as they hunker down against the cover, peering through peepholes in the rocks. Karla is next to Gavin, on the opposite side of Riley, ready to load another rocket should the need arise.

"Looks like forty meters to me," Gavin says quietly, almost whispering.

Riley nods, taking aim. He makes one glance behind. "Back-blast clear." Not that anyone here needs to be told that, but it's ingrained protocol at this point.

He squints, looking forward again through the sights. A couple of seconds pass like that. Then he hits the trigger.

The rocket fires. The shot is heavy and full of impact, like the sound of a god's hammer striking the earth. The launcher rocks back on Riley's shoulder, and a trail of smoke escapes out the back.

In the near micro-second the rocket is airborne, Gavin register's the accuracy of the shot. It's going to hit the ship dead-center. And it's going to leave a dent.

Only, that doesn't happen.

Midway between the rocky cover and the ship itself, the rocket is hit by some flashy, hard-see-projectile, originating from somewhere south along the canyon floor. Somewhere Gavin can't see from his current vantage point.

The rocket detonates in a ball of flame and black smoke, far short of its target. The explosion booms and cracks, a stuttering noise which echoes back and forth between the canyon walls.

"Was that a miss?" Karla hisses, trying to peek over the lip of cover. "Sounds like a miss."

Gavin doesn't answer. He's too busy trying to compute the result in his head. Meanwhile, Riley slowly lowers the launcher and looks over at Gavin, his eyes questioning, as if to confirm the two of them both saw the same thing.

It doesn't make any sense. If the Ruster left the ship, they would have seen it. Goddammit, there are—and were—multiple cameras trained on the thing. And the activity should have popped up on the visual, audio, and seismic sensors, no matter the source. So how-

Gavin's radio beeps twice. Someone's trying to hail him. Someone not from inside the Cloister.

He reaches down to flip the radio switch. But something stops him.

What if Shiloh's right? Has he just walked into something he can't get himself and his men out of? What if the Ruster wants Gavin to give up his captive? Is that something he's willing to do?

No. No, it isn't. It's Gavin's trophy. His. And besides, wasn't it dangerous to be giving up merchandise to the enemy? Why did they want it so badly, anyway? Had Shiloh stopped to consider that?

But Gavin can feel Riley and the rest of the team watching him. Waiting on him. They're on the edge, right now. The fate of their home, their families, is at stake. And this is a chance to talk to the enemy. To get some idea of what's going on, maybe. He will be perceived poorly as a leader if he doesn't take it.

He switches on the radio. Waits.

There's just crackly static at first. Then silence. Followed by a voice that almost sounds digitally edited, as if speaking through a voice-box to hide their identity.

"Hello, Gavin."

Little spiders crawl fast, in a straight line, up the middle of Gavin's back and neck. A hole seems to open up in his chest, just below his heart. It's the feeling of walking down the stairs in the dark and missing a step, only instead of hitting the floor, he's fallen into an abyss. He's still falling.

A thought emerges, out of the fog of the outer edges of his consciousness.

The conversation on the radio. It was listening in. This isn't anything all that out of the ordinary. You're still in control. Get a fucking grip.

Riley still has the launcher mounted on his shoulder. He's looking at Gavin expectantly, waiting for a command, for...something.

"I don't suppose you'll give me your name?" Gavin says.

With his hands, he signals to members of the crew, telling them to scan the area as best they can without giving up their position. If it comes after them, they can snipe the Ruster before it gets close.

"My name?" The voice is breathy and pixelated. "I don't have a name. I'm the thing that goes bump. The faceless threat. The predator that prowls in the dark places. The thing you people tell stories about to get children to behave."

"I mean, it works," Gavin says, coolly.

What he's saying, about being a mythical, faceless threat. It applies to SERAPHIM more than the Rusters. But he—it, Gavin reminds himself—does have something of a point. Gavin doesn't actually give a fuck what the thing calls itself. It's just banter. It's just a way to try and buy time. They both know it.

"Fear is an excellent motivator. And most people are afraid of something. But not you, right?"

"Nope."

"Let me put it to you this way. Because I've got this feeling about you, Gavin, and I'm afraid there's a question I need to ask. How many of your men am I going to have to kill?"

Gavin doesn't answer. He snaps his fingers at Karla, telling her to load the next rocket.

"I know how humans work. Especially your type. You're not gonna take me seriously unless I make a significant impact. I'm gonna have to take a few of your guys. So if you'd just give me a number, you could save both of us a bit of time, and a few lives. Hell, I'll even let you pick them out."

Shiloh's words echo back in Gavin's head. They can make a deal. They can give the Ruster what he wants. But what kind of precedent will that set? The Rusters, like SERAPHIM, are a scourge on the world. They are the ultimate punishment for man's greed and self-importance. Like the apple which Adam and Eve both bit into all those eons ago, the knowledge of Biodroid technology, and its applications, is a fruit the scientists and engineers of the world should never have ingested. Were the people of the Cloister to simply overlook that reality? Should they bow to the enemies of mankind, the enemies of God himself? Could that be tolerated? Was not faith a factor in all this? What is the point of the Cloister, of survival itself, without God?

"C'mon, Gavin. Don't mistake efficiency for maleficence. I'm here to do a job, not count bodies. We both know what will happen if I attack your little fortress head-on. This is better. Less energy will be expended. No collateral damage to speak of, no unfair deaths. After all, your guys already know what they're getting into. They've already made their choice."

"You're right," Gavin says. "They have."

"Just hand over the Biodroid," says the voice on the line. "Last chance."

Gavin scans the faces of his crew. They've all been listening in. Their faces are resolute. Nothing's changed for them.

Except maybe Riley. He looks more worried than he was only a couple of moments ago.

It comes with age. That keen awareness of one's mortality, and what can go wrong. Gavin can't necessarily fault him for that.

"What do you need it for?" Gavin asks.

A moment of silence. Predictably. Followed by a grunt, like a snicker.

Then, "Does it matter?"

Gavin shrugs to himself. "I guess not."

He cuts off the connection. "Let's smoke this guy. Riley, take aim at the ship. Dillon and Miles, get to higher ground. If he takes out the rocket, see if you can pinpoint the origin of the blast."

Dillon nods, and he and Miles are off, boots scratching across the rough terrain as they hop up rocky, uneven steps.

Once they're up and out of sight, moving south along the edge of the drop-off, Gavin nods to Riley. "Do it."

"Got it," Riley says. He glances behind, making sure the back-blast zone is clear, before peering down the sights, taking aim at the ship once again. A few members of the crew plug their ears.

He fires the launcher. It kicks back a bit along his shoulder, with an intense WUMP, a brief yet overpowering shockwave of sound.

As before, the rocket streaks through the air, dead on target. Until, again, something stops it.

Only, it's not like before. There is a flash as something zips through the air to intercept the projectile, but it's not an energy blast. It's too bulky, too defined. A grey blur of motion. The object collides with the rocket, but the rocket doesn't go off. Rather, it traverses sideways, along the trajectory of the thing that impacted it, as if attached. The back end continues to spark and flare while not making forward progress, only lateral movement.

The airborne thing, with sparking rocket still attached, drops down to the floor of the canal. It's all so strange, so out of the ordinary, that it takes an inordinate amount of time for Gavin to realize what he's looking at. The humanoid form of the grey figure emerges out of the visual noise like an epiphany in a dream.

The Ruster pivots to face Gavin's position. Its face is shrouded in shadow from the hood it wears. Its armor plating gives its form a slim, sleek look, muted and grey. It holds the rocket still, firmly gripping it by the central body. The nosecap, which contains the payload, is angled slightly away from the Ruster's body. It is stock still. Unconcerned. Waiting to see what Gavin does.

So is the rest of the crew. Which really does beg the question—what the hell is Gavin himself waiting for?

His rifle rests across his upper belly, with the strap hooked over his shoulder and across the back. He lifts up the rifle with his cheek pressed against the stock, one eye staring down the sight, flicking the safety with his thumb and inserting his index finger into the triggerwell, all in one deft movement.

"Smoke 'im!"

Gunshots popcorn all around, echoing and whip-cracking. Bits of the canal's gravelly floor kick up into into the air as everyone lets loose, Gavin himself firing off a series of three-round bursts, one after the other.

It's only a brief second after the shots start that the Ruster begins to move. At first it almost seems to be happening in slow-motion. Little chunks of debris hovering at shin, chest, and head height. The ruster walking, navigating amongst the gravity-defying rubble, unbothered. The rocket rotating, evidenced by the way the sparking back-end turns away from Gavin's position, while the nosecap turns toward. Then there is a subtle retraction of the fingers, releasing.

Reality constricts. There is no time to move. No time to yell out a warning. No time at all.

The nosecap expands in size, like the time-lapse of a flower budding. The crackle of the fuel expended at the back sounds like an angry sparkler, getting louder and more aggressive as it approaches.

Gavin barely sidesteps the projectile as it zips through the opening, leaving a trail of hot, acrid smoke in its wake. For a brief, dissociative moment, Gavin is reminded of the time his mother left a pot of oatmeal on the stove until it burned, with layers of charred oats running up the sides of the pot, pungent and black.

Then the rocket impacts the embankment a dozen yards behind the rocky cover. And the world explodes.