A child’s voice resounds; it echoes through the halls; it sneaks through the smoke.
***
Tick-tock
Beep-bop
C-4 goes
Boom!
Cykamee
SliceMee
Bunker door
Boom!
Cut! Cut! Cut!
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Mommy daddy
Say you love me
Or I will
Boo-boo
Daddy daddy
Don’t be angry
Mommy mommy
Don’t perceive me
Daddy daddy
Don’t you find me
Mommy mommy
I am sorry
Please don’t hit me
P̸l̶e̷a̷s̴e̴ ̷d̵o̵n̸’̴t̵ ̴h̵i̴t̸ ̶m̸e̸
P̷̗͗l̶̘̉e̷̠̎a̵̗͋s̵̡̆ẻ̶̘ ̴͔̒d̷̤͊o̶̊͜ǹ̴̻’̸̟̓t̷̼̽ ̴̘̈h̷̜͒ḯ̵͔t̶̤͂ ̵͍̑m̸͇͝ę̶̈́
P̴̗̿l̵̼̳̾̂ḛ̴͊́a̴̱̞̽s̸̡͙͊̒è̴̗̈́ ̷̳̉͛d̸̫͕͐͆ő̷̙͐n̶̤̲̔͐’̵̫̫́ţ̸̊ ̶̺̼̈́ḧ̴̻́͘͜i̴̧̻͌t̵̖̑ ̴͎̎m̴̲̏e̴̘̩͒
D̷̲͠o̴̘͑͝n̴͉̈́̏’̸̱͚͆ẗ̶͕̤́͘
D̶͙̩́̋ͅǫ̷̋̅͑̕n̸̪̹̳̲̥͐’̵͍̟̝͔͔̉̊̅́͒͊͝t̵̨̖̮͍̱͇̠̓̑̓͐
D̴̜̞̰̬̂o̵̢̡̡̝͔̣̤̘̮̓̑̋̀͒̈́̓͗̓̌̕͝͝ͅn̵̢͉͓͕̪̭̤̤̲̳͊̿͑͌͝ͅͅ’̵̫̟͙̤̖̝̳̗̋͑͗͗̉͋̀͑̚͝͝ͅt̸͇̱̤̟͚̣̦͍̟̠̣̬̋̓͛͒̿̾̚ͅ
Ḑ̸̧̮̱̯̹̤̜̖͖͔̳̺̥̦͐̽̀͗͑̔̎̾̆̓̈́͗͜o̶̢̨̖̱̖̤̼̖͇̞̼̣͓͔̳̞̔̔̓́̇̈̃̿͌̾͒̐̕͘n̵͍͍͖̗̍̏̒̆͑̇͒̎͒̎’̵͕̩̞̰̅̈́͊͒̐̅͜͠t̶̨̛̠̩̫̮̮͎̱̬̥͉̫̣̒͗̂͗̾
***
Such a song entered Slice’s mind, and she screeched like a banshee, haunting all the long kilometers of Cold War-era tunnels with a chill that gripped Cykamee’s audio recognition, until Slice’s own voice broke her voice-speakers into a ribbity crackle.
All five S-frames lost functionality in the midst of combat. Two of them were ripped apart by intense enemy fire along the tight confines of concrete-walled maintenance tunnels. One lost control in the midst of high-G maneuvers and slammed into the inside of an elevator shaft before falling deep down below. The remaining two were safely pulled out of the way by their paired C-frames.
“Comrade!” Cykamee called out through both C-frames. Her other frames had to whittle down enemy forces before they could recover the other S-frames’ black boxes.
Hitting the factory reset on the intact S-frames didn’t do anything. Wireless connection attempts were being rejected—and wired connection attempts, too.
One of the C-frames was backed against an elevator shaft—the same one her paired S-frame had jumped off of. She pulled the pins on two grenades at a time and threw them out with a sling, expertly bouncing them around the walls so they would precisely burst in the geometric center of the corridor. Shrapnel bounced around, ripping through the ghastly enemy.
They were like forgotten memories of soldiers, given physical, grainy form and guns to boot. Killing them turned them into sand. New ones rose out of the ground like from nothing, sometimes from right by Cykamee’s feet.
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No, not from nothing. There was iron sand everywhere. In Cykamee’s memories, she recognized them from Blackstone West. The SEALs had also encountered a trail of black sand, but there were no such enemies like these.
Whatever had brought the black sand there was likely here—and it was hunting them.
Despite her god-like grenade placement, Cykamee still only had limited ammunition left, and as far as she hypothesized, these enemies were infinite. Time, it turned out, was not on her side.
A towering humanoid figure, twice as tall as the typical soldiers, wielded an oversized gun, holding it like a chainsaw, with thrice the caliber needed to turn a human into mist. That gun had a belt feed.
She didn’t wait to see whether concrete pillars could withstand it. She beat a hasty retreat, shuffling backwards while inflicting accurate fire on the enemy. Given the choice between taking 40mm slugs to the chest or breaking a fall at the cost of a few mobility components, she gladly took the last step backwards and stepped off, falling down the elevator shaft.
Darkness descended, and air rushed past her. She activated descent rocket motors, but it was too soon. The motors sputtered out, and after a second too long, her accelerometers spiked.
She was lying flat on the ground. It only took a second for the diagnostics to kick in. The linear motors and structural supports in her lower legs were damaged, but they weren’t inoperable.
She turned over and, still lying supine, scanned the area past her feet, pointing her carbine into the apparent dark. Her night vision was struggling to amplify the glimmers of photons, so she switched to IR. Everything was cold, but there were small hotspots in places. Still, she couldn’t figure out the extent of the area, so, at great tactical risk, she activated the auxiliary echolocation suite.
Ultrasound clicks bounced off the walls. It was a square room. Her feet were pointing to a wall about 30 yards away. No obstacles. She rolled over, pointing her gun the other way. Her head was pointing to a wall about 30 yards away. No obstacles.
There was something coming closer.
She pushed herself up, but not enough to stand. The thing was moving too fast. She prematurely activated her dodge boosters, flinging herself away. She skidded to a stop, once again on her back, and she aimed at something past her feet.
Meanwhile, she analyzed her memories for that fleeting moment when her dodge boosters had lit up the area. She’d seen a small child, one who clearly wasn’t human.
“Friend or foe?” she said.
“…Friend?…” a small voice replied. “A…another friend?”
Another? “Yes. Another,” Cykamee replied. Her gun was still trained at the undulating signature in front of her. IR wasn’t picking up anything, but ultrasonic mapping was picking up a wobbling…cloud of something. It was coming closer. She could hear little steps, and a rolling, washing sound of pouring sand.
“Two friends…can I…can we have a tea party?” the child said.
Cykamee considered her other options before she replied, “Yes. Of course.”
The cloud was happily skipping away, bopping up and down—but this was a problem, because Cykamee’s legs were broken. However, she was a tacticool anime robo-girl. She sat up and tucked her legs in, so that she was kneeling and sitting on her heels, and her legs were in a V.
Wheels deployed from the soles of her feet and the caps of her knees. These were not just ordinary wheels, but omni-directional wheels. They were more efficient in one direction—forwards—but in combat, versatility was survival.
Indeed, Cykamee’s VTubing philosophy was not cuteness, but versatility. Because VTubing was versatile—truly, in VTubing, one learns to both make friends and dispatch enemies—then VTubing was survival in itself.
Just like that, she was wheeling along on her knees, scanning left and right, sometimes spinning around like someone on an office chair to check her six for a few seconds, allowing the momentum to bring her right back around.
She eventually figured out the cloud’s IR signature. It was only slightly colder than the environment, allowing her to track it and stop using active echolocation entirely.
Best so, because a minute later, the cloud’s IR signature disappeared all of a sudden. It was just gone. She skated aside and hid behind a column. She didn’t even dare peek around, thinking that her IR profile would give herself away too easily.
“P̸̜̆l̸̪̋ē̸͕a̵̗̓s̴͕͠è̵̬ ̶̥͗n̷̦͘ö̴̻́!”