He didn’t know exactly what opportunity he was looking for, but he’d know it when he saw it. That, or he would have to create the opportunity himself. He called this strategy ‘going with the flow.’ And it was only to be enacted when you were staring down a real or metaphorical barrel.

Fuck it, he thought, just another day at the office.

The fake smile he was beaming towards the woman turned genuine. He hated going with the flow, but he’d by lying if he said that there was anything more exciting. Then she smiled back, and the excitement diminished.

That couldn’t be good.

He felt a thump through the floor. Then another one, and another one. A figure dressed in thick padding and holding one of the biggest guns he’d ever seen walked into view. Twin barrels, a sleeve of bullets trailing off its side and into a large sack he carried over his shoulder. It was the the kind of gun you’d see mounted on a truck, or guarding key infrastructure. He’d seen guns just like that one tear through vehicles.

You don’t want to be a soft, fleshy person when the mean end of that thing was pointed at you.

He wondered, how does a group of untrained revolutionaries get their hands on that kind of toy? It’s not like they sold them at grocery stores. He had an idea of what that meant, and he didn’t like the implication. The abolitionists had backing.

Sly’s smile disappeared. He cleared his throat and considered the three other volunteers. The sight of the new guy rattled them, but they were all holding steady, a look on defiance on their faces. Syler was the furthest to the left, and he traded spots with the guy to his right.

“Alright guys, when I say ‘now,’ you’re going to dive yourself behind the wall closest to you. Clear?” he asked.

They all looked at him with some uncertainty, but nodded anyways.

“When the construct starts to fail, I'm going to pull this pin out, and we’re all going to want to be out of the way when that happens.”

“As long as everyone else can survive for a little while longer, I'll do anything,” said the guy who he just swapped places with. Syler nodded.

These were good men. Men he’d have been honored to serve with.

“No matter what happens, you guys have shown the kind of courage that would have inspired bards to write poems about you, a millenia ago. If we all survive this, drinks are on me,” he said.

He got some smiles out of them. Good.

The big man pushed at the forcefield. Sly noticed a small distortion around his hand. He cursed.

That was a personal shield.. Oberon Enterprises had a few prototypes he’d had the opportunity to play with, but there were rumors that other corporations were slightly ahead in their development of the technology, but as far as he was aware none of those companies had plans to release it yet.

The implications were getting worse. Something was starting to smell very rotten.

A machine gun, a personal shield, and it was clear that the boss lady didn’t have one of her own. So that meant they were saving this guy for a final stand, a way to inflict the most amount of damage they could for as long as possible. Amateurs could be smart, sometimes. And having such a simple goal meant that their win condition became incredibly flexible. The reason they’d come to the museum was to cause damage— enough damage to tell the Council that nothing was sacred to the abolitionists, everything was a target.

So, they had a plan after all.

Syler sighed. He hated idealists on the battlefield. They made for the worst kind of enemy. Once they got all worked up, you couldn’t reason with them.

The guy got a nod from his boss, and the gun started to spool up, its twin-barrels spinning faster and faster.

Then the storm hit. Sly had to cover his eyes again. This time, the bullets had considerably more force behind them as they passed through the forcefield, but they didn’t feel like they were breaking through his skin, at least not enough to cause any serious damage.

Maybe they would be able to hold out for a bit, he thought.

Then one of the bullets hit his clavicle, and he felt it break. He revised his assessment.

The forcefield construct was radiating heat, he could feel it on the skin of his hands even from a foot away. Hunter had told him that this would be one of the potential signs of immanent failure.

“Shit,” he muttered. The pain from a broken collar bone wasn’t easy to ignore, and he had to force his mind away from the it. Despite years of training, instinctual panic was a bitch to deal with. It got easier, but it didn’t get any more comfortable to work through.

“Now!” he yelled, first finding and then pulling out the small rods that kept the batteries flow of etherium slow and contained. Removing them would be like suddenly removing the dam which held back a large river.

He dived as soon as it was pulled, practically tackling the guy to his left and pulling them both to safety.

There was a split second where nothing happened, the sound of the machine gun was unmuffled. Bullets flew through the room, tearing through the forcefield covering the displays along the back wall. He felt a moment of regret, certain that the contingency had failed to activate, but then he heard an explosion, and was violently thrown by a rapidly expanding wall of displaced air.

The sounds of chaos and short-lived screams were quickly silenced. He felt his body picked up and thrown a few meters, impacting the displays to his left. The body of the man who he’d tackled cover was pressed against his own, and he felt the air leave his lungs.

As dazed as he was, he kept his focus, glancing across the room to see if the other two guys were alright. They were hurt, but moving. So was the guy who he’d unintentionally acted as a cushion for.

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He wanted to ask the man who he'd acted a cushion for if he was alright, but he wasn't able to speak yet. So he tapped the man on the shoulder, and the man groaned. He figured that was as positive a sign he would get. He stood and hugged the wall, peaking out of the room to assess the damage the situation.

A giant hole had been blasted through the wall the construct had been pointing towards, opposite the room’s entrance. 15 yards away, the juggernaut was lying on the ground, struggling to get up. His boss was even further away, her arms and legs twisted at angles they typically wouldn’t be.

Sly grinned at the sight.

The blast, or whatever it was, had apparently caught most of the terrorists by surprise, throwing many of them at least a meter away. There were over a dozen of them, and none of them were moving much. Syler whistled at Hunter's handiwork. He was reminded of an old addage about how a hammer could be used to build a house or kill a man. He bet none of the designers of the constructs had ever guessed that they might be used this way.

One of the volunteers joined him, assessing the damage and picking up one of the closest guns he could find.

“Probably gotta make sure they won’t get back up, right?” the man said, his voice quivering. He'd probably never felt so much adrenaline in his life.

“You ever shot one of those before?” he asked. The sheer concussive force that would come from being caught in such a strong forcefield probably knocked most of them out, but it might not hurt to make sure their defeated enemy wouldn't be getting back up for another round.

He took a few seconds to consider their options. Sly wanted to avoid turning these guys into killers, if he could. But if they wanted to defend themselves, he had no problem with that.

The man shook his head in response to the question.

“Keep your finger off the trigger, and the barrel pointed down. Be ready to fire if any of them look like they still want to fight,” Sly said. He glanced at the carnage around them again, “and collect a couple more rifles for the other guys, just in case.”

He saw his pistol a few meters away. He limped towards it and picked it up, making his way over towards the armored juggernaut who was starting to get back to his feet. He kicked the man as hard as he could, forcing him back to the ground. Apparently the blast from their construct was enough to disrupt whatever had powered the personal shield.

Speaking of which…

“Who gave you the shield?” Syler asked.

“Fuck you,” was the response.

“You’re not my type,” Syler said, nodding to himself. He hadn’t really expected a straight answer, anyways.

Syler considered his options again. He was exhausted, and dizzy. He probably had a concussion, as well as a worrying amount of blood loss. He didn’t have the energy or the patience to fight this guy. The boss looked like she was having trouble breathing. She was gazing up at the ceiling, mumbling. The next step seemed pretty clear. The simplest move would be to kill them, but it would also be the most short-sighted.

He’d have to budget the rest of his energy until the security forces arrived—whether they were law enforcement or the domain guard, he didn’t care. They’d be here soon, and shit could still go sideways in a matter of seconds. He also didn’t know how many more abolitionists were scattered throughout the museum.

They would want to slow down any potential enemies, and the only way he could do that would be by taking the boss. He decided he’d give the abolitionists a lesson in effective hostage-taking. A professional courtesy. He smirked as he started walking towards the brute. He tore off the man’s helmet, hit the man in the head as hard as he could with the butt of his pistol.

The man didn’t collapse, but he was dazed. Syler hit him again, and finally got the desires result as the big guy fell into a deep sleep.

"Sweet dreams," Syler sighed.

He limped towards the woman, and started dragging her back. She moaned as her broken limbs were mangled further. She was either incredibly heavy, or the blood loss had made him weak.

“Hey, can you help me out?” he asked the volunteers. They hurried to help him, pulling her all the way back towards the maintenance room, and knocked on the door.

It took longer than he’d have liked to convince them to open it, and longer still to remove the stack of heavy boxes they’d used to barricade the door, but he couldn’t fault them for being cautious. The small crowd that greeted them were relieved to see them arrive. The volunteers dragged the boss-woman into a corner and kept an eye on her. Sly found Hunter, who was working away at another construct with some assistance.

“What was that going to be?” Syler asked Hunter, who looked like he was going to cry when he saw the Syler was alright.

“Another contingency,” Hunter said, “did we make it? Are we safe?”

“Almost,” Sly said, "is that the sake kind of contingency as the last one?"

Hunter shrugged. The kid looked like he was about to fall asleep. Sly grunted as he got closer to the kid, pulling the young man's hands away from the potential disaster he was assembling.

"We should be okay, why don't you take a rest?" Syler asked. Hunter nodded and dropped his tools.

He stood beside the kid, holding one hand against the bullet wound. The broken collarbone felt like it was grinding with every movement, but he grit his teeth and projected as much confidence as he could. At this point, he figured that any reinforcements would have shown up already. He didn’t let his guard down, though. Minute after minute passed. There were no more gunshots or explosions, so he figured that it was only a matter of time before they were found.

A few minutes later, there was a banging at the door.

“Anyone in there?”

The people inside had grown agitated as they waited. Sly didn’t bother trying to calm them once they heard the voice. He barely had the energy to keep himself standing, crowd control would be up to the security force.

“This is Oberon Security, open the door.”

Syler thought he recognized the voice. He almost laughed when he heard it. He asked for someone to help him over to the door. He spoke through the small crack between the barricade and the door.

“Is that you Joe?” Syler yelled.

“What? Who is that?”

“I’m opening the door,” Syler said, both to his friend on the other side and the gathered people, “it’s safe. Hey, Joe, careful with that hair-trigger. We’ve got a VIP in here.”

He opened the door.

There were a dozen men on the other side, all with weapons drawn but lowered. As soon as they saw Syler and the rest of the survivors, they all relaxed a bit.

“That you, Sly?” the closest of the security forces asked. He was covered in tactical gear, but the voice was definitely the same as it was years ago, “I thought you were allergic to museums.”

“No, you’re thinking of libraries,” Syler answered, finally letting himself feel some relief. He could feel his eyes forcing themselves closed, but he reminded himself that he still had a job to do. He almost collapsed, but caught himself against someone nearby. One of the security forces came to help them.

Syler forced himself to point to Hunter, who was at the back of the crowd being thanked by a few of the ex-hostages.

“The skinny one, tall. He’s the newest Oberon kid. Make sure he stays safe, Joe.”

He couldn’t see it, but he was sure that the news would be a bit shocking to his old friend. The information was probably still filtering through the necessary channels before it hit the mainstream.

“You got it, Sir,” he said, pointing at the unconscious woman with mangled limbs that they’d shoved into the corner beside the barricade, “Who’s that?”

“Trouble,” Syler said, fighting the exhaustion, “they have backing. Find out who.”

Joe called for a medic as Syler started to slump again. As his eyes closed, he an unexpected but welcome sense of contentment rose up in him.

He’d done his job, and the kid had done alright as well.