PARALLAX

Explosions dot the sky overhead, flashing in fitful pops and cracks. A myriad of dark far-off shapes fly amid the sparks of fire and flack, whirling together in flurries of coordinated activity. Conduits of the Drone Armada, facing off against arms of the SERAPHIM Legion. Untold resources going up in flames with every second that passes, on either side of the conflict. But this is what the war has become. Dashing millions of factory-generated drones against SERAPHIM's firepower at fifty-thousand feet, long enough to hold off the assault.

Parallax's orders are to hold position. Technically, she could engage the Legion, but it would be a waste of her resources and abilities. The Legion are small fry. Her job is to wait for the big boys to show up. And destroy them, when they do.

At the moment, there is only the fireworks show to keep her company. That, and the desolate open range of the western Wastes. A windy, dusty derelict. A land that used to be fertile and green, gone rocky and ragged and grey.

Not that Parallax has ever been particularly upset by the reality of this. She might remember a time when things were different, but she has little nostalgia for it. The time of man is over. They were never the best stewards when it came to the planet to begin with. And they were never going to be able to stop the SERAPHIM; the very threat which they themselves created.

No. This is the era of Parallax, and her kin. The era of the Biodroids. Mankind has lost its grip on the planet. And that's a good thing, isn't it? The sooner they are over and done as a species, the better.

A notification pops up, inside Parallax's Operating System. A remote meeting, initiated by Suzerain himself.

A rare occurrence, to say the least. And probably urgent. Which works out well, because she technically doesn't have anything else going on, at the moment.

She activates the video call in the form of a hologram display, casting holograms of the various participants to the surrounding area. There are nine total in the call, including Parallax. Most of them are standing, like her. At the ready. Except for Suzerain, who sits like a feudal king on a throne, one elbow propped on the armrest, jaw resting against his knuckles.

"We have a situation," Suzerain says, without preamble. "Daimon has failed to deliver the Key."

He's quiet for a moment, as if to let that sink in. No one interjects.

"Once the SERAPHIM wave relents, and the Mantle stabilizes, I need two volunteers to head to Sector Nine in the Wastes. I need both of the missing Blast models here, in the Ironkeep. Daimon, and the one with the Key."

"And what is happening in Sector Nine, exactly?" Artifice says, almost biting on the words as they leave her lips.

She looks disappointed, to say the least. She's in her battle attire, which includes a long, dark coat full of weapons and gadgets, and a pair of goggles high on her forehead, keeping her shoulder-length hair back and out of her face. She looks old for a Biodroid, in the same way Suzerain does, with smile and frown lines etched into her frustrated expression.

"I assigned Daimon the task of retrieving the Key," Suzerain says, plainly. "Rather than taking on the duty himself, he sent Razor in his stead."

Razor.

Parallax's artificial heart skips a beat. A sensation that both surprises and disappoints her at the same time.

How long has it been since she's even thought about him? Certainly, she'd made an effort to keep him out of sight and mind.

But maybe that's the same thing, isn't? Thinking about something and thinking about not thinking about it.

"Razor failed to apprehend the Blast Model, and has yet to report in," Suzerain continues. "Seeing as his ship was destroyed, our assumption is that he's still in the vicinity. As for Daimon...he tried to step in himself. And he failed, as well. Sustaining significant damage in the process. That's as much as I or anyone knows. I can only assume he's being held in containment."

Don't ask about Razor. Don't do it.

If she reveals the fact that she cares--cared--about Razor, it will be seen as a weakness. An exploit. It will be used against her.

Assuming there's still anything left to use. Assuming he's still alive.

But she can't afford to worry about that, right now.

"Containment!?" Artifice says. "By who?"

Suzerain holds up an already-trimmed cigar. "Some human colony, apparently." He snaps his fingers, and a spark of flame ignites on the tip of his thumb, which he uses to light the cigar. He takes a couple puffs, then inhales sharply, before breathing out a dense, obfuscating cloud of smoke. "They and the Blast Model seem to be working together."

'The Blast Model'. That's how we're referring to him. Suzerain is actually nervous, behind that calm exterior.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

There's power in a name, after all. And the situation does seem dire, on its face. Defeating Daimon--it shouldn't be possible. The Blast Model was supposed to be the weakest he's ever been. Knocked back to square one. Without his OS, even. It's difficult to imagine how this might have happened.

Then again, Daimon was a bit of wildcard. Parallax would bet on him against most in a one-to-one fight. But being tough and scrappy wasn't the same as being dependable. Daimon had developed a bit of a reputation for dropping the ball, as of late. This latest did little to help that perception.

"Will two be enough?" Says Valkyrie. "Shouldn't this be our top priority?"

She is young, like Parallax. Female, like Parallax. Long, dark hair, like Parallax. But the similarities end there. Parallax's distaste for Valkyrie is like a palpable thing; a bitter flavor in her mouth that refuses to fade. Not that Parallax gets along well with the Elites in general, but there's something about that naivety of hers. That ever-present look of determination and hope in Valkyrie's eyes.

Just because she has lofty ideals, and a less pragmatic view of the world, doesn't mean her hands aren't as blood-stained as the rest of them.

"Protecting Earth is our top priority," Suzerain says. "That's why the Key matters. We don't want the Blast Model to realize what he has, and to take advantage of it. On the other hand, once SERAPHIM finds out about the Key, they'll do everything they can to acquire it themselves. The last thing we need is an opening in our defenses wide enough for our enemies to slip through, and take the Key right out from under us. We must remain vigilant."

He's right, of course. While the SERAPHIM are manageable, and always have been, there's something different about them, as of late. They're gathering in force, getting stronger. And their assaults have been more strategic. More...honed.

Not that it will matter, soon. Once the Key is in the hands of the true Biodroids, all of this will be over. Ironkeep's supremacy will reign. The future will have finally arrived. The world--no, the universe itself--will never be the same.

"I'll go," Artifice declares.

Of course. She would be the first volunteer. She's always been a control freak, that way. Has to see things done, herself.

On the one hand, Parallax pities the Biodroid who will have to be her partner on this operation. On the other hand...

Razor. What happened to him?

She tries to remind herself why she broke off contact with him. He was too distracting. Too much of a risk. In ways that perhaps he himself would never see or understand, he was too…soft.

He was, perhaps, as Parallax would always remember him. A Biodroid standing atop a field of rubble, holding a yellow-leaved dandelion—cradling it, and the dirt from which it sprouted, in his hands. A delicate piece of plant matter he’d cultivated himself, and that held his attention rapt. As if all the vast power and destructive force that surrounded him didn’t matter. It was all inconsequential, compared to this little, delicate thing.

What a puzzle. She would never understand it.

But it was still fascinating, wasn’t it? Trying to see the world through his eyes. It occupied her time. Stimulated her.

It was a game. That was all it was, really. Until it began to feel like something more.

She almost fell prey to it. The kinship. The camaraderie. The conviction that she could trust Razor—really trust him—more than anyone else.

But that was a trap. Not one Razor set intentionally. But it would have killed her all the same.

Razor isn’t like the others. He doesn’t have the strength, or the determination, to pioneer the transition of this era of life—as we know it—into the next.

Parallax and the rest of the Elites look to the future. Razor looks to the past. And there can be no compromise between the two.

And yet.

Is this really how she wants to leave things? Forever? To walk away, not knowing precisely what happened, or why? To risk the fact that Razor might still be out there, needing her help, like he always does?

Logically, she knows it would be his fault for not being strong enough, for not rising to the occasion. Razor is AWOL because, for some reason or another, he failed in his role as a member of the Protectorate. This she knows.

Still, she desires form of closure. In these last hours, before the world ends, and a new one begins. Even if it means finding him dead and gone; the ultimate confirmation he truly was wrong all along.

"Me, as well," Parallax says.

Even if I already know I’m going to regret it.

"Very well." Suzerain puffs his cigar, making the end flare bright red. "Once this current wave subsides, the rest of you will receive coordinates for repositioning, in preparation for what comes next. You will be given further instructions as the situation progresses."

Meaning, there will be work to do once they possess the Key.

"Any of you have something you wish to add, before this meeting is adjourned?" Suzerain says.

"I- I always wished this day would never come," Valkyrie says. "At least, not in the way that it has. But I know what comes next is a necessity. I look forward to the day when our work is done, and the world is a better place. No matter what happens, I thank you all for that."

An awkward silence follows this. Valkyrie has just broken the unspoken rule--no one talks about what happens once they have the Key.

Ugh. The cringe is real. I can feel it down in my freaking circuits.

This is about saving the world, not making friends. Especially considering the necessary means to achieving that end.

Does she really believe she can have it both ways?

For a few seconds, the feed is quiet. There's an awkward tension nestled in the silence.

"Artifice, Parallax," Suzerain says. "Policy will be sending you the data she was able to salvage and collect. You'll do well not to go in blind."

Artifice grunts at that, like it's some kind of joke.

"Good luck to all of you," Suzerain says. "Meeting adjourned."

The feed ends abruptly, leaving Parallax alone in the middle of a dry, seemingly endless plain. Large dustdevils scrawl across distant terrain. Harsh wind currents leaving their mark on an already scarred land. The riven carcass of an old world. A damaged, broken world. One that needs to be tossed aside, to make room for a new one. And the Biodroids may yet be up to the task.

Not a world the humans would have wanted--partly because there will be little place for humanity in it. But who is mankind to complain? There is no alternative. No other path, save to give in to the will and dominance of the SERAPHIM itself.

As if in response to Parallax's thoughts, a proximity warning pops up in her OS, followed by the appearance of a bright beam of light in the distance. An arrow of light, traveling down from the heavens, bridging the gap between the land of mortals and the realm of metal Gods.

Parallax engages her suit's Nanobit particles, manifesting several glowing, sword-like spikes which revolve around her in a circle. She dashes forward across the plain, toward the place where the beam of light touched down. She grabs one of the floating spikes, wielding it like a sword at first, then raising it, holding it like a javelin, ready to thrust it through the air, toward the thick, rising cloud of dust at the point of the intruder's landing.

Showtime.