Gunfire cracked across the canyon just after first light. The sun was barely up, yet the world had already dissolved into chaos. The desert air, so still hours ago, shook with the roar of engines and the rattle of rifle fire. Dust and smoke mingled in choking layers, obscuring the rocky pass where Sergeant Illar’s patrol was dug in. Mattius pressed himself flat behind a jagged outcropping, trying to steady his breathing.
Moments earlier, he and the others had taken up positions at dawn, just as they’d decided the night before. The intense quiet that preceded the clash had put everyone on edge, but when the first raider vehicles appeared—a cluster of ramshackle trucks and skimmers in swirling plumes of sand—an entire day’s worth of tension released in an instant of violence.
Illar shouted over the din, ordering her squad to hold their ground. Defenders crouched behind boulders, returning fire in short, desperate bursts. A half-dozen raiders advanced with surprising discipline, their vehicles weaving toward the defenders’ position. Mattius glanced to his left and spotted Tarl and Ainnel lying prone behind a collapsed slab of concrete, rifles trained on a battered skimmer. Each muzzle flash illuminated their grim, sweat-streaked faces.
The intensity of the onslaught made the world shrink to the immediate scramble for survival. Bullets and stray shells pinged off rocks, sending up shards of stone that whizzed through the air. Mattius ducked, keeping his pistol tight against his chest. He risked a peek and spotted a small figure darting across the open ground—a raider brandishing a handheld launcher, trying to angle for a better shot at Illar’s people.
A wave of dread knotted Mattius’s stomach. In the Quarter, he’d hidden from street shootouts or fled before gangs could catch him in the open. Here, running wasn’t an option. Any attempt to bolt would leave him exposed. He forced himself to hold position, heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat.
The raider with the launcher fired, blasting a chunk of rock near Illar’s vantage point. Shrapnel clattered across the canyon floor. Illar barked for covering fire. Tarl obeyed, leaning out to squeeze off rounds that forced the raider back behind a twisted hulk of a crashed vehicle. But the barrage only bought a momentary lull.
Amid the chaos, Mattius remembered the battered scout drone he’d discovered the previous day when the ambush began. At first glance, it had looked like little more than scrap—an old reconnaissance unit with half its sensors knocked out. He’d felt compelled to yank open a panel and try to fix it. Something about the wiring had nudged the part of him that could sense mechanical flows. Despite the swirl of dust and gunfire, he’d coaxed the drone online, patching over burnt circuits with bits of stray wire. It had sputtered, then hovered uncertainly, as if acknowledging him.
Now that same drone hovered behind the front line, blinking in a nervous series of pulses, as though waiting for a command. He could see it through the haze, faint lights shining near a boulder. The memory of how he’d repaired it—in what seemed an impossible set of circumstances—cut through the panic of the current firefight. Could it help them now?
Mattius pressed against the rock, ignoring the bullets skipping overhead. Slowly, he inched away and rushed across an exposed gap to where the drone drifted. The short sprint felt like an eternity; gunfire crackled in all directions, and each footfall jarred his spine. He slid behind a half-buried chunk of metal plating, shoulders heaving.
A soldier crouched nearby—someone Mattius barely knew—aimed over the top of the plating, returning fire. The soldier gaped when Mattius dropped down beside him, but said nothing, too busy fending off an advancing truck. Mattius faced the drone. Its oval chassis quivered as if uncertain. He recalled how, with the broken exteriors peeled back, he had glimpsed its internal layout. If he could direct it to harass or distract the raiders—force them to split up or retreat—maybe the defenders could regain control of the canyon.
He placed a hand on the drone’s scorched casing, feeling that familiar, curious tingle. Despite the thunder of battle, he shut out the noise and tried to focus on the lines of code and circuits inside the machine. The drone responded with a jittery hum. Warm pulses flickered through its housing, echoing in Mattius’s mind like a half-heard voice.
Sweat trickled down his temples as he pushed a single thought: Scan for targets, move fast, circle behind. The drone’s sensor lights flashed in a brief pattern. A hitch of doubt crept in—was he imagining any of this? But the drone bobbed, then whirred into motion, zipping out from cover at an angle parallel to the enemy line.
Mattius dared to crane his neck, watching the little device glide dangerously close to the raiders. He realized it had no proper weapons, but its hardened shell and unexpected presence might sow confusion. Indeed, a shout rose among the attackers as the drone darted overhead. One raider took aim with a rifle, but the drone slipped sideways, narrowly dodging a line of tracer fire. Three or four others twisted around, eyes off the main defenders.
Illar, ever sharp, seized the opening. She rallied her squad forward. Tarl and Ainnel flanked one of the trucks, sending shots into the engine block. Mattius caught glimpses of the skimmer that had pinned them earlier—now sputtering smoke as it tried to swerve away. The defenders closed ranks, focusing concentrated bursts on the lead enemy vehicles. Within moments, two trucks were crippled, their tires shredded. One crashed into a rocky outcrop with a clang of tortured metal.
Yet the fight was far from over. Several raiders leapt from the wreckage, guns blazing. Rounds zipped past Mattius. He ducked again, hearing them snap into stone. The soldier beside him cursed under his breath, returning fire in rapid bursts. The acrid smell of gunpowder hung thick, meshing with the stench of burning rubber and body heat.
The scout drone soared wide, looping behind a cluster of raiders who’d taken shelter near a ridge. They turned, startled, trying to bat it out of the air. In that split second, Tarl rushed out, firing in a flanking maneuver. The brief confusion was all it took to scatter the group. Two raiders fell, and the others scrambled back, cursing angrily. Mattius pressed a hand to his chest, relief flooding him that this risky plan was actually working.
A distant, crackling hiss alerted him to something else in the canyon’s gloom. He looked up, eyes stinging from dust and tears, to see two faint silhouettes perched on a far ridge—much too far for him to identify features. The shapes were slender, cloaked, and strangely still, as if they were mere statues. There was no reason for them to be there—this was a live battlefield, with lead flying in every direction. Yet they stood, unflinching, watching the chaos. The same unsettling sense he’d felt in the Quarter prickled at the back of his neck. He blinked, and for a second, one of them turned—perhaps meeting his gaze across the distance. Then a swirl of wind-blown debris obscured his view.
He shook his head, forcing himself to refocus. A savage roar came from the nearest wreckage as a raider with a bandolier of grenades began hurling them blindly. Mattius flinched at each dull explosion. Shards of metal spun overhead. Sand kicked up in great gouts, clattering off the battered plating that sheltered him.
Sergeant Illar’s voice rang out: “Advance! We’ve nearly broken them!” Mattius dared another peek. Indeed, many of the raiders seemed in full retreat, their vehicles stalling or reversing away from the canyon’s choke point. The battered drone swooped in again, bobbing uncertainly, a testament to its new purpose. It had no weapon, but it forced the attackers to split their aim. That disruption spelled the difference between total defeat and a fighting chance.
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Mattius hopped from behind the metal barrier, pistol clutched tight. His heart thundered in his ears, but he advanced at a crouch, firing a few shots to cover another soldier who sprinted forward to secure better ground. Each trigger pull rattled his arm, but adrenaline smothered the pain. The drone circled overhead, scanning for stragglers or hidden threats.
Within minutes, the raiders’ formation had crumbled. One of their trucks, cornered by Illar’s squad, smoked from every vent, the driver howling curses before bailing and fleeing on foot. Smaller skimmers veered around, heading back into the dunes. The defenders pressed on, shifting to corral the last pocket of resistance. Sunlight struck the canyon floor in bright patches, revealing the tangles of wreckage and drifting clouds of dust.
As the battle ebbed, the adrenaline in Mattius’s veins began to subside, replaced by a bruising kind of weariness. Soldiers picked their way through the carnage, stepping over twisted metal and lumps of debris. The morning had erupted in chaos; now only the moans of the wounded and the distant rumble of smoking engines broke the silence. Tarl and Ainnel emerged from behind a jagged wedge of rock, exchanging grim nods. Sergeant Illar paced around a disabled truck, rifle still raised in case any raider feigned surrender.
Mattius lowered his pistol, chest heaving as he caught his breath. The drone hovered nearby, its once-battered chassis scorched even worse, as if stray shots had grazed it. He rested a hand on its side, feeling faint vibrations through the plating. It had performed far beyond what anyone would expect of a recon unit, let alone one that had been junk an hour earlier. He couldn’t quite explain to himself how he’d done it—there was just a sense of alignment, of coaxing the mechanical sinews to work in synergy with his intent.
Illar strode up, eyes locked on the drone. “You’re telling me that thing was dead weight before, and you patched it up?” she asked, panting from exertion.
He shrugged, trying not to let the exhaustion seep into his voice. “I… saw a chance to fix it.”
She glanced at him, then at the little machine. “Good job. You gave us an opening that saved a lot of people.”
Her praise felt hollow in the face of the smoldering ruin around them, but Mattius allowed himself a thin nod. “Some got hurt anyway,” he said quietly, catching sight of a wounded soldier slumped against a rock. Two medics hurried to help, boots crunching on spent shells.
Illar followed his gaze. “War spares no one. Take what victories you can get.” She signaled to a few troopers, instructing them to sweep the area for any hidden raiders. Then she turned back to Mattius, lowering her voice. “You did well out there. Keep those instincts sharp.”
He nodded again, unsure what else to say. The sergeant moved away, barking new orders. Another truck rolled up from behind, belching smoke; a squad inside hopped off to secure the pass. Tarl and Ainnel passed by, giving Mattius a glance that carried a complicated mixture of relief, respect, and lingering disbelief at what he’d done with the drone.
The air vibrated with the aftermath of violence: the rasp of the wounded, the urgent calls for medics, the hiss of a battered engine about to fail. Vultures—unseen but ever-present—screeched somewhere high on the canyon walls, as if sensing fresh carrion below. Mattius felt a deep weariness settle into his muscles.
He swallowed the dryness in his throat, scanning the ridge. At that extreme distance, he couldn’t see the watchers anymore. He wondered if they had left or simply blended into the dust. The notion that they observed him—from the Quarter to here—brought back the prickling sensation of being judged. Yet the immediate demands of the scene demanded more attention. He let the question of those silent figures drift to the back of his mind.
As some of the troops began stacking crates and clearing away shattered vehicle parts, Mattius spotted Ainnel cradling her rifle, shoulders sagging with exhaustion. He walked over, the scout drone bobbing at his side. Despite her fatigue, she managed a weary smile.
“I thought we were done for when they rushed us like that,” she said. “What you did with that thing…” Her eyes flicked to the drone. “I can’t say I’ve seen anything like it.”
Mattius ran a hand over the drone’s scorched plating. “I’m not sure I have either,” he admitted softly. “But we made it.”
A distant hush fell across the canyon as the last pockets of raiders retreated beyond the ridges. Smoke trailed in black ribbons against the brightening sky. Illar, standing atop a rise, shielded her eyes from the sun, searching for signs of a counterattack. None seemed forthcoming. The patrol had held the choke point.
Mattius blinked, remembering his mad rush to fix the drone in the first place. That frantic spark of problem-solving had saved more than just himself. He tried not to think about how many had died on the receiving end of the gunfire. War demanded its toll, whether real or simulated. This felt far too vivid to dismiss as an elaborate test, though a small corner of his mind insisted it wasn’t real. The faces of the wounded told a different story.
A few hours later, the patrol regrouped, tending to injuries and counting the fallen. Mattius felt a hollow pang in his chest each time they found another comrade who hadn’t survived the fight. Even the hard-lipped Tarl had tears in his eyes when they pulled a friend’s body from beneath a wrecked skimmer. The drone hovered just behind Mattius, quietly pulsing, almost as if mourning alongside him.
As midday heat bore down, an uneasy calm settled over the pass. Soldiers scavenged what they could from the destroyed raider trucks: ammunition, rations, fuel. Illar directed the creation of a temporary fortified line, placing the battered vehicles as cover against any second assault. Mattius forced himself to help, hauling shredded tires or bent metal plating, all while ignoring the swirl of guilt and relief in his stomach.
In the distance, the canyon walls rose like silent sentinels. He gazed up at them occasionally, half-expecting to see those two watchers outlined against the sky. He saw nothing but the wind carrying dust over the rocky spires. Either they were gone, or they’d never been there at all. He couldn’t decide which was more unsettling.
A faint smell of ozone and burnt circuitry clung to the drone, but it remained at his side, as though tethered to him by an invisible thread. Now and then, a stray trooper would eye it warily. None approached to question him further, not with so many tasks needing every hand.
By late afternoon, the canyon was mostly cleared of immediate debris, though the scars of the battle would remain. Illar gathered whoever could stand at the base of a craggy bluff. Her posture was stiff, adrenaline replaced by a soldier’s grim focus. She gave orders for a defensive rotation—some of them would rest while the others stood guard. The possibility of another raider charge weighed on everyone.
Mattius lingered near the back of the group, listening. The drone hovered at waist level, humming softly. Illar’s gaze passed over it once but she said nothing. She concluded the briefing, then strode off to examine a jammed truck turret with Tarl. A part of Mattius wanted to help, but the memory of how draining it was to fix the drone earlier made him hesitate.
Night fell with a merciful coolness. The patrol lit fires and huddled around them, making a somber meal from what rations remained. Mattius sank onto a slab of rock, exhaustion turning his limbs heavy. He managed to eat a few bites before the taste of ash and fear overcame his appetite. Nearby, a medic replaced a bandage on a wounded soldier who bit back a pained moan.
In the flickering shadows, the drone drifted behind him, as if uncertain whether to remain. Its sensor lights played across the ground. A few troopers glanced at it and then away, unwilling to break the hush with questions. The shifting glow made the canyon walls appear to dance.
Mattius remembered the shapes on the ridge. Something about them had felt so familiar—like the watchers he’d glimpsed from the rooftops in that other life, the life he’d known in the Quarter. He tried to shake the thought away, focusing on the immediate reality. Sleep tugged at his eyelids.
Eventually, as the fires burned low, Illar murmured final instructions. Some troopers would keep watch through the night while the rest grabbed what sleep they could. The drone dimmed its lights, floating near the edge of camp, scanning the darkness with a quiet whirr. Mattius rolled out a thin sleeping mat behind a scorched chunk of plating, lying down with his head resting on a makeshift pack.
He closed his eyes. The day’s events lingered like afterimages—explosions, shrieking engines, the stench of scorched metal, those watchers high up on the ridge. Despite the horrors witnessed, he felt an odd sense of gratitude that he was still breathing. The hush of the desert pressed in, the crackle of dying fires lulling him.
In that space between exhaustion and sleep, he allowed himself to think about the drone’s role. How he had somehow coaxed an abandoned machine to fight alongside them. A small feat of improvisation, maybe. But it had tipped the balance. Even if this was only a simulated crisis, it was as real to him as any day in the Quarter. And in this place, an unlikely alliance with a battered piece of metal had saved lives.
He drifted toward slumber, the last flicker of thought echoing: if morning brought another assault, he would endure. And if the watchers returned, he’d try to understand why they seemed so intent on observing. The desert wind blew softly, stirring the dust around his sleeping form, and the drone’s faint hum accompanied him into uneasy dreams.