>> Hostile Ground

Objectives:

1) Sneak into [Hostile Area].

2) Confirm intel.

3) Paint a [Sniper] target on the [Mobile Enemy Command Centre].

Bonus Objectives:

1) Survive. (Optional)

Micro-missiles streak into the cloud of drones, and the world goes nova. Detonating in a wave of scalding fire that cleanses the air above. The ceiling itself flashing red as blood, then scalding white-hot - tinged with blue. The classic double-explosion of PX-9 Incendiaries. A burst of flammable gas, chased by a massive heat-ignition that sucks all the oxygen from the air. Drones tumbling from an indoor-sky that stinks of burnt explosives. Burnt plastic. Burnt rubble. Even through my breather.

No burnt people, yet.

But we’ll see how we go.

Stored oxygen floods my mask as the slaves choke and run. Falling back as far as they dare. Clearing the front and mid lines, as I sneak in behind a car. A twist in my gut, but….. maybe…. maybe this is how we save them. “Good work, Zip. Nice chaos. They’re not equipped for this.”

“Shit, mate. Like, I didn’t get em r-right? Like, I scared them off…. but….”

“Nah. Not that I see.” I scan the field. Fighting down the ghastly, inner, echoes of my training. The whispered memory of Moon, telling me I missed. “Right. Headin’ for the command post. Kami, get ready.” I whisper, ducking deeper into the street. Off the pavement, onto tarmac. Bounding over scorched drones.

“Spook….. Please….” She begs again.

“Prepare the shot!” I repeat. “Zip! Ya got anythin’ left?”

“Nah, mate! That’s it! Like, I’m out of the game here!” He yells as I flicker across the rubble. Under a broken truck. Round the belly of that fallen Drone Carrier.

“I’m low, too.” Kami warns. “A few explosive rounds. One….” She hesitates. “One or two guided. But I’m out of plasma. Low on pistols. Grenades are fine though.”

“Demon.”

There comes a dark, bubbling, growl no truly human throat could make. “Zay cannot disarm me.” He states with blood in his voice. “By forcing me to shoot zem.”

I almost stumble.

Uh oh….

“Good. Great.” I stutter back, darting toward the nearest of the downed Carriers. “Zip. Just keep distractin’ the drones, best ya can! Demon, I need backup. Is Tufty safe?”

“Kah! No! Zey have-”

“Please. Get him ‘safe’. Fast.”

‘Safe’ being code for ‘cuff him to something’.

“Spook. If he gets loose….”

“It’ll be bloody fine. Damnit. He ain’t gonna do nothin’.” I yell back, pissed off. Kami was the one who insisted on the lockups. If I had my way…. “Demon, get ready. I need ya on backup.” Badger’s icon lights up. “No, kid. No armour, no go. Stay back.” I take a breath, back a dozen more orders, then nod. “Right. That’s everythin’. This is it, so let’s go.”

“Gotcha mate!”

“But I can-”

“Mew…..”

“Whatever. Your funeral.”

“Zha. It will be done.”

I jolt round the fallen Carrier, using my gun’s camera to scope it. The ground around it carpeted with dead & dying drones. Lights flickering. Rotor clicking.

Guns twitching.

I duck back as rockets spit at me. Swearing. I step backwards, slightly, to give myself room. Then flip my SMG round the rear of the Carrier - hammering a couple of quad-shots into the downed bots. I duck back. Check my oxygen. Then slip out, with furtive eyes, to pry open the Carrier’s service panel. Tapping the shattered innards.

Yeah, that’s dead. Crap.

A stifled sob stops me, and I jerk. Ducking into cover. Breathing slow, and quiet, as I peer around the bulk of the Carrier. It’s one of the slave-men, face down. He ain’t a pretty face. He ain’t anything to look at. Square, shaved, head - rough with stubble. Blood and tears down his soot-blackened cheeks. Biting his thumb. Clutching the ground….. My eyes slide lower, guts clamping.

His legs are…. trapped under the fallen drone.

We did this….

We did.

My eyes shift again, and meet his - this unwilling enemy. I can’t even see a gun. Or armour. But that don’t mean he’s not about to kill….

His hand reaching for me.

Desperate. Like a child.

I take half a step, and his collar bleeps red. Tiny camera swivelling to stare at me. Words on his lips, that just won’t come. “No….” I bite my lip. I’ve got tools. Disarming tools. But I ain’t an expert, and-

The bleeping hits a frantic pace.

I run.

The bang behind me, sharp and cold. Like a ten ton guillotine burying itself in the bedrock. I keep running. Shaken, but hardening.

These bastards…..

Wayman Company.

They got a lot to answer for. And I’m about ready to ask. I reach the second Carrier wreck as Zipper’s drones come screaming past - chased by the slow, awkward, twin-rotors. He’s fast. He’s agile. But there’s only so much ammo. Only so much you can dodge. And he’s been spending jets to keep em off us. Weaving the massed forces of the enemy. Plunging through swarms so deep that even the tightest turns can only trade fire for fire.

How do they have so bloody much?

I skulk my gun round the belly of Carrier no 2. This one fell sideways, and toppled - still smoking. Drones wheeling around it, like monsters in The Deeps. I gotta keep low. Trust the gunk, the wreck, and the sensor-blurring haze of my armour…..

But Zip and Kami are too bloody good at their job. All I find is a cut hand, and dead wires. The screen dark. Systems offline. I wrap the cut, fast, and skulk away.

It’s gonna be the live one, then.

The run-up to that is a winding maze of dead cars, live bots, and reluctant soldiers. Some grimly steady. Others - mainly kids - hugging their guns like blankies.

Damnit…..

Defenders and hostages, in one neat package….

My implant tracks across it - highlighting cover, hiding places, and lines of sight. I zero it on the last two, and hit the manual eject on my mag-extension. Barely anything in it, anyway - it’ll just get in the way. I lock the SMG to my armour, them pull my pistol. Snapping it to my shoulder - where it sticks. Right in easy grabbing range.

I hope I don’t gotta. I really do.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

These kids. They’re a shadow in the mirror - a glimpse of what we were, barely two months ago.

I still feel the collar….

A deep breath, and I drop to all fours. Low and fast, as I slip through that maze of smoke and mayhem. Dark plastic armour, and grey cloak, blending with scorched rubble and brick.

I hunker low. Dodging jagged flowers of shrapnel vicious enough to cleave flesh and light armour. Got little enemy tank drones everywhere. Spiders too. All under cars, zooming into the less-busted shops. Rotor-drones whirling the smoke in spirals as they dart about the upper windows.

Orange ghosts in the colourful, rancid, fog.

“Organised. But not a pro-level op.” I mutter.

“It seems fairly typical of Pirate shenanigans.” My ammo-counter notes, flicking up a detailed map of the battle so far. Replaying it at 3x speed. “Notice: the flank-and-ambush tactic was opportunistic. It slowed them down.” It narrates as clumps of orange dots break away from the main mass, rushing up parallel streets to block us. “You could have escaped, if you had fallen back faster - under fire.”

“Thought they was real bullets.” I state, as Polybius examines me from my own gun.

“You only, truly, engaged when this fight began to mirror the one with Moon.”

I ignore its stupid inference. Ducking back as a mini-tank goes streaking past. “Damnnit. Nothin’ for it.” I growl. “We’ll-”

“Warning. Hunter team: inbound.” Polybius states, multiple - shaky - camera-feeds meshing into a single 3D model. A cloud of drones, swirling the air. Behind them, a whole mini squad of raggedy men and boys with guns. Panic in their eyes.

And desperation.

Dangerous combo.

“Weird shit, mate. They look like slavers, but act like mercs.” Zip manages through the hellfire of another bombardment. And, shit, that damn group is headed right for me….. I gotta make a command decision here.

Fight? Flee? Hope they don’t see me?

Nope! Too late!

“THERE THEY ARE! GET THEM!!!” The lead man yells, waving his gun like a damned hanky. And I react on pure instinct.

“Auto-Stunner!” I yelp - and my right arm is suddenly, freakily, out of my control. It snaps outward, then down - hand splaying open, all on its own. Grenades skimming around the track of my belt. One jumps into my palm, and I stare at a point on the ground.

Right in their midst.

Before the first bullet can fly, my arm snaps upward. Zinging that grenade, right into their midst.

The detonation is instant. It hits the ground, and bounces upward. Blasting out a massive cloud of lurid blue powder that sweeps out and out, almost to my nose. Choking, coughing, they stumble free - sending me ducking back.

But it’s too late.

One breath is all it takes, and they got plenty. In seconds they start to wobble. Legs go numb, and limp. Fingers fail on triggers - too weak to pull. And then, by bits and drabs, the whole group drunkenly collapses into a trembling heap. Guns tumbling aside.

I slip deeper into cover, between the cars along the edge of the street. Pausing as the spent grenade bounces on back to me - shedding powder from its anti-static shell as it leaps from rubble to pavement. In an instant, it connects with my armour - rolling a spiral up my leg.

Barely a shell, now, but reloadable.

What ain’t a shell, however, are the DIY tank-bots screaming over the rubble toward me. Utterly unaffected, and ready for murder. Worse - the drone network has zeroed in on me. Slave guards for the live Carrier firing my way. A dozen kids screaming I’m a killer, and crying bloody vengeance for their parents.

I dodge back from the widening cloud.

Risky move, thank to whoever controls em, but I don’t regret it. A dozen down, and zero dead. Give em an hour, and they’ll be fine….. ish.

Me though? Not so sure.

I duck back between two cars as a DIY sentry drone skids past on rubber orb-wheels. It swings to face me, and I rock it’s world with a quad-shot. Leaping in close to smash a rifle rigged up as a turret. Ripping out wires with razor-edged claws. A second rolls out - this one with actual armour. Swinging its wide-bore tank-gun right at my face. I flip back into cover behind the cars, and a massive rocket-round goes right at my head. Detonating against the wall, two buildings down.

Swearing again, I snap. “Wheeler!” And the infiltrator-kit in my bracer responds. Firing a thick plastic disc into my palm. I flick it between the cars - backing off as I do, and it bonces on its edge. Leaning into the corner, and spinning wildly. Like a trick shot. It accelerates, suddenly - blasting toward the tank. Clink. It magnetises to the shell of the drone. And then-

BOOM!

-the shaped charge bores a big nasty hole right through the electrical meat of the drone. Turning its plastic guts to slag.

‘Wheeler’ Sabotage bots: 2/3

“OVER THERE!!!” Some kid shrieks, as if I weren’t bloody failing stealth already. Fresh gunfire smashing off the face of the building above me. I duck back behind a wrecked car, and stick my head under it - rough feet flying toward me. GMO clawed.

Gotcha.

Rocket-rounds scream fire overhead - spirals of hot smoke choking my vision. But I got ears. The nearest gun - his gun - is just some dinky little pop-pistol.

I skulk right - toward the Carrier, along the burnt-brick wall of the street. Charred cars on one side, empty windows on the other. And he follows. Sniffing the air. Tracking me, now. A slither of fleshy tail, darting from cover to cover. I can hear him. Feel him. The click of claws. The rattle of shaking fingers as he reloads. Steering his friends over comms.

I slip between two cars, and crouch there. Cycling the tips on my grapple. Not harpoon. Not…. Ah….

Glass mode.

I flick a hand across the gap, and the kid spins right out of cover. Whole body. Filling the narrow space, as he waves that little popgun.

He finds nothing. He frowns.

But my grapple sure as shit finds him - the rubbery bolt unfurling into a mess of sticky threads that snatch at his arm. Yanking him face-first into the pavement - so hard he skids on it. “DROP THE GUN!! DROP IT!!!” I scream as if he hasn’t lost it the second I yanked him. Holy shit, he’s crying…. I kick his ‘weapon’, and my armour targets the collar. Analysing. Noting fine ‘trap’ wires, woven into the surface of wider cables. The light already beeping. Rising to a wail.

A sharp tool flips from my wrist.

Not time to get fancy. Gotta assume it’s cheap junk, bulk made. Basic enough to not fool my implant.

I stab down. Right through the core chip. Twisting. Shattering the board.

Silence.

Except for the shouting. The running. The screaming behind me, and the kid sobbing under my foot. I pat his pockets. Grubby kid. Skinny. No armour. No grenades. No snacks, even. Just a reload, and that’s it. Just fuzzy lil mousie ears, and an underfed belly. Bald tail a quivering whip, held still. I ziptie his hands, and shove him half-under a car. With a squeak. Round ears bending as he rolls. Dark, non-human, eyes staring up at me. Nosie wiggling.

Guess we found the damn rats.

“One moment.” Polybius states, as I’m about to bung him under there.

“No t-”

“Spook. If you wish to save them, I need a full scan of the collars.”

I pause. Shouts nearing the cars.

“Well, shit.” I curse. Glancing about. “Face down, rattie. No peeking.” I snap at the kid, extend my left palm. Tiny implanted dots glow on its surface. Our tear-streaked kid wincing as the rainbow light flows across him. Virtual versions of the boy, the collar, and various grazes rise from his neck. I grab the lot, storing his full info. And then I yeet the kid under the wreck - and run like the bloody blazes.

“Pol. I need a bleedin’ wide-scale solution on these collars.” I hiss, quietly, as I bolt round the back of the Carrier. Unfortunatly that slave-team on it is sticking tight and close. Not like they’re disciplined. More like their heads’ll fall clean off if they leave it.

My implants analyse the scene. Zooming in tight. I can’t scan from here, and it would be…. dangerous…. To let on that I have that particular implant. But I don’t need to. We got some humans. Some rat or mouse GMOs. Can’t smell from here, but I’m guessing both.

“I cannot breach their systems from here. However, if you had connected me to that collar I might have had leeway.” Polybius replies in its weirdly harmonic metal voice. An undulating mess of triangles shifting around my gun.

“Didn’t have time.” I grunt. “Is it all one network?”

“That is hard to say. I would assume multiple conflicting networks hashed together into one control system. Security is likely poor.” Polybius states. Opening a wave of vScreens that flicker through details. Everything from the graze on the kid’s knee, to bone and joint strength, and genetics. Right down to elaborate virtual models highlighting the complex, living, machines that makes up a single cell. Highlighting the mesh of human and unknown, unclassified, nonhuman parts. Enough information to literally clone him.

I ignore all of it - zeroing in on the key details.

GMO Child

Species: Rodent. Half GMO.

Age: 11-12

Gender: Male

Implants: Tracking chip (neck).

Conditions: Malnutrition. Mutation. ‘Waterway Flu’ Variant A483 (Incubating, non-contagious).

Injuries: Grazed (Mild). Signs of recent beatings & trauma. Past fractures.

Notes: It is unclear how or why GMOs exist. Some speculate they were created as ‘pets’ or soldiers. Others as an attempt to ‘recreate’ the mythical creatures known as ‘animals’. GMOs exist in various levels and types: From recessive ‘Demi’ GMOs who seem human, to ‘Full’ GMOs who are obviously not.

Human Control System (BROKEN) :: Mark Eight (CLONE)

Slave Collar

WARNING: This collar appears to be a shoddy, poorly manufactured, fake/copy. As such, it is likely of low quality and may not be under warranty.

Original HCS-8 Details: The ‘HCS-8’ is The City’s leading slave-collar brand, well known for it iconic orange plastic shell. Boasting a small but deadly Personal Explosive Device (PED), the HCS-8 collar features multiple features guaranteed to ensure product compliance! Including: neck-shocker, tamper failsafes, sedative injection, tracker, camera, comms, and much much more!

“Damnnit, we need somethin’ that’ll kill all of the collars at once. Not a sales pitch.” I lash my tail, eyeballing the final Carrier. “Right..... I got one stunner left, but I can’t break all of….” My eyes flick. “….nine collars in five seconds.”

“Then don’t.”

“Then how?” I snip back. “EMP would set em off.” Not that I have one.

Polybius churns in eerie, shivering, patterns. All numbers and shifting trajectories. “I have an alternate solution.” It concludes, finally.

“What?”

“Kill the master, free the slave.”

My head tilts - twisting toward the corner of the street. Now barely twenty metrics away.

“Murder it bloody is, then.” I whisper.

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