The command tent smelled faintly of oil and scorched fabric, a testament to the battles waged in the shadows of the enemy’s relentless march. A tall, imposing woman stood inside with her back to the tent’s entrance. She wore a sleek, dark uniform unmarred by dirt or grime, her insignias gleaming under the harsh light of the single overhead lamp. Her hands were clasped behind her, the perfect image of control.

Her aide entered quietly, the soft sound of his boots against the canvas floor the only indication of his presence. He stopped a few paces behind her, datapad in hand, his expression as cold and calculated as hers.

“Ma’am,” he began, his tone clipped and efficient. “We have secured the last of the material.”

The woman turned her head slightly, the sharp line of her jaw catching the light. Her eyes, ice-blue and unyielding, flicked toward him. “And the hostages?” she asked, her voice low and measured, carrying a disdain that seemed to settle into the air like frost.

“Dead,” the aide replied without hesitation, his words devoid of any hint of remorse. “Workers, really. Better to use them than risk the bioderms. They were expendable.”

The faintest shadow of distaste crossed her face, though it wasn’t directed at the deaths. No, it was aimed at the circumstances—that she’d been forced to rely on such crude measures to secure what should have been hers by right.

“Efficient,” she said after a pause, her voice cold and distant. “Expendable, yes. But filthy creatures all the same. Their incompetence would have slowed the extraction.”

“Precisely, ma’am,” the aide said, his tone matching her disdain. “The bioderms are too valuable to risk in manual labor. These... workers served their purpose.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. She turned fully now, stepping toward the map table that dominated the center of the room. The maps, scattered with metallic markers and annotated in sharp, decisive handwriting, detailed the region they had just gutted for resources. The hostages were irrelevant—mere ants swept aside for the good of a much grander design.

“And the shipments?” she asked, her gloved fingers tracing the edge of the map as if testing its worth.

“On schedule,” the aide replied, holding the datapad out for her inspection. “The first convoy has already crossed into Sector fourteen. As per your directive, the remaining two will depart within the hour, with doubled security on the second shipment.”

She took the datapad, glancing at the figures with an expression bordering on contempt. The materials listed—rare alloys, precision-engineered components, and experimental composites—were critical to producing their new mechs. The cornerstone of their superiority. Yet she hated how tenuous their grip on these resources felt, how easily her plans could be undone by interference from their enemies.

“Ensure the convoys reach their destinations intact,” she said, handing the datapad back with a flick of her wrist. “The loss of a single shipment would be... unsatisfactory.”

The aide nodded crisply. “Understood. Additional patrols have been deployed to secure the route.”

For a moment, she said nothing, her piercing gaze fixed on the map. The hostages. The filthy, desperate creatures who had dared to try and resist, their pathetic lives now extinguished. They had been little more than animals, their existence a stain on the grandeur she sought to build. Thinking that such vermin could have delayed her carefully crafted plans filled her with revulsion.

“They should be grateful we used them at all,” she said softly, her voice cutting like a blade through the quiet of the tent. “To serve the inevitable is an honor they didn’t deserve.”

“Indeed, ma’am,” the aide said, his tone utterly detached. “Their resistance only proved their irrelevance.”

Her hand tightened briefly on the table's edge, the motion imperceptible save to the most observant. “Good. I won’t have my resources tarnished by the likes of them. Their existence was an obstacle. Now it is gone.”

Her eyes shifted to the towering schematics of their latest mecha, projected on the far wall. The sleek, angular designs were a testament to her vision—machines built not just to win battles but to crush opposition so utterly that resistance became unthinkable. The compressed armor, the advanced targeting systems, the efficient energy cores—all of it was perfection incarnate, a stark contrast to the organic frailty she despised in the lesser beings she ruled over.

“The workers were not just expendable—they were a liability,” she said, her voice dripping with derision. “Their kind could never understand the intricacies of what we’re building here. Their clumsy hands and simple minds would have done more harm than good.”

The aide remained silent, knowing better than to interrupt. Her words were not meant to be challenged. They were absolute truths, as immutable as the steel skeletons of her mechs.

“The bioderms, on the other hand,” she continued, her tone softening slightly as she referred to the genetically enhanced soldiers in her ranks. “They are efficient. Focused. A testament to what can be achieved when weakness is eradicated. Their strength will carry us forward.”

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“Agreed, ma’am,” the aide said, his posture rigid. “And with these materials secured, production will reach the next phase within days.”

She nodded, satisfaction flickering across her features. “Good. The enemy’s antiquated machines will stand no chance with these new units. They cling to their outdated ideals and their flawed morality. But this war is not about right or wrong. It is about dominance. And dominance belongs to the strongest.”

She stepped away from the table, her coat swishing as she moved toward the tent’s exit. “Double the security on all critical supply lines. If the enemy thinks to interfere, I want them annihilated before they even realize they’ve been seen.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the aide replied, saluting sharply.

As she exited the tent, her gaze swept over the camp. Soldiers moved with precision, engineers tended to their machines, and the hulking forms of their mechs loomed like sentinels in the twilight. Every piece was falling into place.

The hostages were gone. The materials were hers. And the future she envisioned—unquestioned supremacy, a world purged of weakness—was within reach. Her lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile.

“Let the enemy cling to their illusions,” she murmured. “By the time they understand what’s coming, it will already be too late.”

***

The convoy rumbled along the desolate road, engines humming steadily as they cut through the arid wasteland. Ahead and behind, escort mechs flanked the line of heavy cargo transports, their angular frames reflecting the harsh midday sun. Larger, older escort mechs—slow but heavily armed—brought up the rear.

Captain Alric sat rigidly inside the lead Mech, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The extraction point, a fortified spaceport nearly a hundred miles away, felt impossibly distant. The air crackled with tension, and the silence outside was broken only by the occasional gust of wind.

“Status?” Alric barked into the comm.

“All clear,” replied one of the Goblin pilots. “Scanners show nothing.”

Alric frowned. It was too quiet.

The attack came suddenly. Without warning, streaks of plasma fire lanced down from the ridges, flanking the road, slamming into the lead mecha that they had never given a classification. The mech staggered, its armor scorched, as more fire rained down on the convoy. Behind them, an explosion shook the ground as a missile struck the rearmost escort mech, tearing it apart in a fiery blast.

“Contact!” shouted one of the pilots. “Multiple hostiles—left ridge! They’re closing in fast!”

Alric yelled into his commlink. “Knockout the transports!”

The Goblins sprang into action, their engines whining as they darted from cover. Medium lasers fired from ridges, streaking through the air in brilliant arcs. The larger escort mechs moved to shield the transports, their autocannons roaring as they fired blind into the rocky outcroppings.

Emerging from the ridges came sleek, deadly mechs—Prescott’s defenders. Their angular designs and gleaming compressed armor marked them as elite units, far superior to the patchwork machines the convoy fielded. At the head of the charge was a massive mech with crimson accents, its twin plasma cannons glowing ominously.

The first Goblin to face an enemy mech fired its Fokker medium lasers in a desperate attempt to disable its advance. The beams struck the enemy’s chest, leaving faint scorch marks but doing no significant damage. In response, the enemy mech retaliated with a blast from its plasma cannons, reducing the Goblin to a smoldering wreck.

“Focus fire on the big one!” Alric ordered. “Take it down!”

The remaining Goblins regrouped, peppering the lead mech with their small lasers while the larger escorts laid down suppressive fire. The enemy unit staggered but didn’t falter, its armor shrugging off the barrage with terrifying efficiency.

Meanwhile, smaller enemy mechs swarmed the convoy. One leapt onto a transport, its spiked claws tearing through the roof and into the precious cargo inside. The driver screamed over the comms before the vehicle erupted into flames.

As the convoy’s defenses buckled under the assault, the high-pitched whine of Goblin engines cut through the chaos. Reinforcements crested the ridge to the south, their weapons blazing as they charged into the fray. A fresh wave of Goblins and a single Grant mech descended onto the battlefield, hitting the enemy flank with precision.

The Grant’s heavy autocannons roared, sending kinetic slugs slamming into the enemy lines. One of Prescott’s smaller mechs crumpled under the onslaught, its cockpit obliterated in a single shot.

“Reinforcements are here!” Alric shouted, his hope rekindled. “Push them back!”

The Goblins surged forward, their lasers and spiked fists striking with newfound ferocity. For a moment, it seemed like the tide might turn. One of Prescott’s mechs fell, then another, as the combined firepower of the convoy and reinforcements began to carve a path through the enemy force.

But the lead mech remained unshaken. Even as its armor smoked and cracked under concentrated fire, it retaliated with unrelenting brutality. A plasma blast struck the Grant, its left side exploding in a shower of sparks and twisted metal. The larger mech toppled, its pilot’s screams cut short by static.

But it was too late. Prescott’s mechs, though bloodied, pressed their advantage. The lead unit charged into the convoy’s formation, tearing through a transport with its clawed arms. Explosions rippled through the line as one cargo truck after another was destroyed, their valuable materials consumed by fire and smoke.

In the distance, Alric saw the lead enemy mech turning toward a transport. Its plasma cannons glowed, and it charged for another devastating shot.

When the smoke cleared, the battlefield was a wasteland of destruction. Prescott’s mechs stood among the wreckage, their angular frames towering over the smoldering remains of the convoy. Fires crackled, sending black plumes into the sky as the few surviving transports limped away under the enemy’s watchful gaze.

Prescott’s lead mech surveyed the scene, its crimson-accented frame gleaming despite the battle’s toll. It signaled to the remaining enemy forces with a single, deliberate motion. The defenders withdrew, leaving the convoy’s ruins as a grim reminder of their strength.

Far from the battlefield, Command received only fragments of the convoy's last transmission, drowned out by static and interference. The convoy’s loss was total—its cargo, escorts, and personnel were wiped out.

And Prescott’s defenders, emboldened by their victory, began preparing for their next move.