Maxwell pressed his eye to the scope, scanning the smoke. From the shifting, swirling dust, two piercing red lights burned through the haze like predator eyes, unmoving, unblinking.

His breath caught.

The rumble of a strong diesel engine grew louder, rattling through the ground like a low growl.

As the smoke thinned, the outline of a T-90 tank rolled into view, its armored bulk cutting through the remnants of the chaos. Dirt and soot streaked its body, evidence of a long journey.

The tank ground to a halt, its turret swaying slightly before locking onto a specific point—a smoking crater just ahead, where Resistance soldiers had been moments ago.

“Who the hell sent a tank here?!”

Stan hissed, voice tight as he slammed a fresh magazine into his rifle.

Maxwell’s lips were dry as he muttered, “Not us...”

From behind the tank, shadows moved—dozens of them.

“Fuck. We're late.”

Stan whispered as he saw those people.

Figures in dark, tactical gear swarmed out like insects, their assault rifles raised and ready. Their faces were obscured by featureless masks that reflected the weak light, making them look more machine than human.

But one figure stood apart.

He emerged last, stepping with a slowness. His head was cloaked in a hood so deep it seemed to swallow the light, the shadows hiding his face entirely.

Yet beneath the hood, an unsettling shape protruded—a pair of sharp, elongated appendages stretching outward to the sides.

He raised one gloved hand, the motion deliberate. The soldiers behind the tank froze, crouched in formation, weapons aimed but unmoving.

Inside the T-90, the gunner trained the turret as he peered into the sight, his thumb hovering over the trigger. The crosshair centered on the smoky void ahead, where bodies and debris littered the ground.

Above, the tank commander popped open the cupola and put his hands on the machine gun mounted onto the turret, his head swiveling in slow arcs as he scanned for threats.

And then, the smoke stirred.

A shadow moved within the mist, slow and deliberate. The gunner’s finger twitched on the trigger. The commander straightened, his eyes narrowing.

The Architect emerged.

The mist clung to her like a shroud, swirling around her lower body, obscuring her legs and giving the illusion that she was gliding forward.

Her shield flared to life, a translucent barrier that pulsed with light, pushing the smoke aside in rippling waves.

Each step she took was deliberate, her boots hitting the ground with a faint echo that somehow cut through the silence.

Her double-bit axe gleamed under the dim light, the edges razor-sharp and faintly glowing. Her expression was carved from stone, her eyes fixed on the tank commander above as if daring him to act.

The commander froze, his grip tightening on his weapon. The gunner hesitated, his thumb trembling on the trigger.

The tank commander’s breath hitched, sweat trickling down his temple as he turned sharply to the gunner below.

“Switch targets! Aim for the Architect!”

The gunner didn't answer. He swiftly realigned the turret. The servos whirred, the barrel locking onto the stoic figure cloaked in shimmering mist.

“Engaging!”

The commander didn’t wait. He squeezed the trigger on his mounted machine gun, firing a torrent of bullets. The rounds streaked through the air like hornets, slamming into the Architect’s shield. Sparks erupted on impact, but the bullets ricocheted harmlessly, scattering like pebbles tossed at a mountain.

“Should we engage the girl?”

One of the masked soldiers asked, his voice clipped and uncertain, his rifle trained on her.

“No!”

Barked another soldier crouching behind the tank’s starboard side.

“Don’t waste your ammo!”

The tank gunner aligned the turret’s crosshair squarely on the Architect’s chest, his finger hovering briefly over the trigger.

“Firing HEAT!”

The gunner slammed the trigger.

The primer ignited the charge with a thunderous roar, sending a 125mm High-Explosive Anti-Tank (HEAT) round screaming from the barrel. A jet of fire and smoke erupted from the muzzle, briefly illuminating the battlefield in fiery orange.

The round streaked across the space between them and the Architect in a fraction of a second, its tip sparking as it met the glowing surface of her shield.

BOOM!

The burst of molten metal bounced off the shield and sprayed in all directions. The shield flared brilliantly, shifting from a cool blue to a blinding orange, ripples of energy radiating outward like shockwaves in a pond.

Yet the shield held firm.

The Architect stood motionless, her stoic expression unbroken as molten fragments fizzled and died against the invisible barrier.

“What the hell?!”

The gunner shouted, his voice trembling with disbelief.

“Keep firing!”

The commander barked, frustration thick in his tone as he unloaded another burst from the machine gun.

The rounds were useless, ricocheting off the shield and scattering in futility.

“We need to break through! Switch to APFSDS—now!”

“Copy!”

The gunner’s finger hit the controls, overriding the system to halt the autoloader. The mechanical arm paused, its gears grinding as it stopped pulling another HEAT round from the magazine.

The magazine hummed to life, spinning with a metallic whine as it rotated clockwise.

A long, slender APFSDS (Armor-Piercing Fin-Stabilized Discarding Sabot) round slid into position, its tungsten tip glinting menacingly under the dim interior lights.

The autoloader’s arm grasped the new round and smoothly extracted it from the carousel. Then, it guided it toward the breechloader.

Suddenly, the entire tank system seized up. The hum of the electronics fell silent, and the reloading arm froze mid-extension, the APFSDS round suspended in its claw-like grasp.

The gunner’s heart stopped. His eyes darted to the monitors as they flickered once, twice—then into complete darkness.

“Fuck! We got a problem!”

The commander whipped his head around, his knuckles white on the turret handles.

“What?!”

“I’m overriding it!”

The gunner shouted back, leaping from his seat. He grabbed the suspended round with both hands, straining against the metal arm’s relentless grip.

His muscles burned, veins bulging as he poured every ounce of strength into wrenching the round free.

But it wouldn’t budge.

“Come on, damn it!”

He hissed through gritted teeth.

“What’s the holdup?!”

The commander barked, swiveling his body to peer down.

Outside, the Architect stood motionless, her shield shimmering faintly, her eyes fixed on the tank like a predator sizing up wounded prey.

“Did you bring a screwdriver or something like that?”

The gunner snapped, slamming his fist against the unyielding arm.

“I don't know. Ask the driver!”

“Fuck!”

He scanned the magazine for another APFSDS round.

His stomach sank.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

The remaining rounds were buried deep in the carousel, tucked beneath rows of HEAT rounds.

“Shit!”

He spat, his breath coming fast and shallow.

The only firepower keeping the Architect at bay was the commander’s machine gun.

Bullets sparked and ricocheted off her shield, their impact creating rippling flashes of light in the haze. Yet, she continued her advance, unfazed by the futile assault.

Behind the tank, the Resistance soldiers stirred. The ringing in their ears was beginning to subside.

Ezra wheezed, each breath labored as Oliver crouched beside him, patting his back and whispering something unintelligible over the roar of gunfire.

Nearby, Peter groaned, one eye cracking open. His vision blurred for a moment, then sharpened—and his stomach twisted. The hulking silhouette of a T-90 loomed just meters away, its massive barrel shifting slightly as it targeted the Architect.

“Shit.”

He breathed, his voice barely audible over the battle.

The commander, completely fixated on the Architect, sprayed another burst from his mounted gun. He didn’t glance down, didn’t register the movement below him.

“Give me the gun!”

Joshua hissed, crawling through the debris toward Ezra. His hands trembled, but his voice was steady as he grabbed the AK-47 from Ezra’s slack grip.

Ezra groaned but didn’t resist.

Joshua pressed the stock of the rifle against his shoulder, his body tense as he lined up the iron sights. The commander was an easy target, his head and upper body exposed as he leaned into his weapon.

Then, he held his breath. His finger tightened on the trigger.

Then he pulled it.

The burst of gunfire echoed across the battlefield. The rounds tore through the air and struck home.

The commander jerked violently, blood spraying as the bullets ripped into his head and chest.

His lifeless body slumped forward, collapsing into the turret hatch, his arms hanging limp.

Inside, the gunner froze, his hands still gripping the jammed APFSDS round. His head snapped upward, eyes wide as he saw the commander’s body fall into the turret.

“Assholes…!”

He cursed.

Joshua didn’t stop to watch. He dropped back behind cover, his breathing ragged as the rifle trembled in his hands.

“Snipers, listen up!”

Oliver barked into his transmitter, his voice sharp and urgent.

“The tank’s distracted by the Architect—this is your chance! Take it out while it’s vulnerable! But be advised, the tank’s not alone. Enemy soldiers are covering it!”

Maxwell and Stan pressed their eyes to their scopes, Oliver’s urgent voice still ringing in their ears.

They swept the area around the tank, their trained eyes locking onto the faint, shifting silhouettes along its left side skirt.

“Got movement.”

Maxwell whispered.

Stan nodded, steadying his aim.

“On my mark.”

Both snipers adjusted their grips, slowing their breathing as they lined up their shots.

“In three…”

Stan murmured.

Maxwell’s finger hovered over the trigger, his heart pounding in his ears.

“...Two…one…fire!”

The sharp crack of simultaneous gunshots split the air.

From the tank’s left flank, two masked soldiers dropped instantly. Their helmets burst like fragile shells, blood spraying in violent arcs as the bullets punched clean through.

The splatter painted the tank’s side armor. A fraction of a second later, the delayed gunshots of the rifles reached the battlefield, echoing loudly.

The third soldier froze mid-step, his head snapping toward the source of the sound.

“Sniper!”

He shouted, his voice laced with panic.

The remaining soldiers scrambled for cover, darting behind the tank’s bulk as bullets rained down around them.

The air was filled with the sharp ping of rounds striking the tank’s side skirt, some embedding deep into the steel while others ricocheted away.

But the snipers showed no mercy.

Stan fired again, his scope tracking the panicked movements of another target.

His shot ripped through a soldier’s cheek, shattering bone as it exited through the opposite side. The bullet didn’t stop there—it tore into his shoulder, severing muscle and sinew.

The man dropped his rifle as his knees buckled, collapsing in agony. His jaw hung from his face, barely attached, as he writhed and screamed, his voice gurgling with blood.

“Keep firing!”

Maxwell growled, his finger squeezing the trigger repeatedly.

Muzzle flashes lit up the snipers’ concealed positions, briefly illuminating their faces. Their precision was indeed relentless, every shot intended to pin the enemy down.

The first soldier on the right skirt caught sight of the flashes and shouted something that blended into the echo of the gunshot.

“Artillery team! We need assistance! Enemy tank, 29 degrees north! Concentrate fire—now!”

Maxwell barked into the transmitter, his voice cutting through the chaos while his hands slammed a fresh magazine into his rifle.

The distant rumble of the artillery team’s preparations echoed back.

Some men scrambled to adjust the coordinate railing, grunting as they traversed the barrel toward the target.

Others cranked the elevation lever, the creak of metal grinding against metal mixing with their labored breaths.

The barrel tilted skyward, inch by inch, as the team worked to line up their shot.

Meanwhile, masked soldiers dragged their wounded comrades behind the tank’s side skirts, groaning in pain as blood pooled beneath them.

One soldier knelt beside the man whose jaw had been obliterated by a sniper’s bullet. Hesitating for a moment, he yanked off the blood-soaked mask.

A collective gasp escaped the soldiers nearby.

The man’s face was a nightmare. Half of it was mangled beyond recognition, blood dripping in rivulets down his torn skin. His cheekbone was shattered, and parts of his skull gleamed through the gory mess.

“Holy shit, Rocky!”

The soldier exclaimed, recoiling slightly before trying to lighten the moment.

“You look like a goat chewing on grass when you groan!”

Rocky gurgled, his remaining teeth bared in a grimace as he managed to lift his shattered jaw.

“Don’t… call me that!” he growled, his voice muffled and distorted.

The humor didn’t last.

“Fuck, there’s nothing we can do here!”

Another soldier shouted, his voice quaking with fear.

He pointed shakily at the Architect, her shield shimmering faintly as she strode closer, unhurried and unstoppable.

“Better shoot that girl right now! No one’s countering her!”

Desperation took hold. The remaining soldiers raised their rifles, spraying bullets at the advancing figure.

But it was futile.

Each bullet struck the Architect’s shield with a burst of sparks, ricocheting harmlessly into the surroundings. Some fragments pinged off the tank’s armor; others.

Peter gritted his teeth, forcing himself upright despite the searing pain coursing through his body.

His legs trembled beneath him, but he refused to give in. Using the jagged cracks in the ground as cover, he crouched low, steadying the RPG launcher on his shoulder.

With trembling hands, he loaded the round into the tube, and then pulled off the cap that was covering the tip of the warhead.

Every movement was slow.

His vision swam, blurred by exhaustion and lingering dust, but the silhouette of the tank was unmistakable. It loomed ahead, an iron beast, its turret motionless as if daring him to strike.

He steadied his breathing, his finger brushing the trigger. The iron sights wavered in his blurred vision, but Peter didn’t hesitate. He exhaled sharply and squeezed the trigger.

The rocket ignited, sending the warhead forward, spewing smoke and fire as it hurtled toward the tank.

“RPG!”

The warning shout rang out among the soldiers. Panic erupted as they scrambled for cover, dragging their injured comrades to safety.

Inside the tank, the driver’s eyes went wide. He instinctively ducked, throwing his hands over his head.

The rocket slammed into the glacis plate of the tank with a thunderous explosion. The reactive armor (ERA) mounted on the tank's surface detonated on impact, a chain reaction that absorbed and redirected the blast’s force.

Shards of debris flew outward, some embedding in the ground, others ricocheting harmlessly into the air.

The tank’s frame shuddered violently, jolting its crew inside.

The driver clung to the steering instruments as the floor beneath him bucked like a wild animal. A cascade of iron fragments rained down from above, slamming into his legs. He screamed in pain, pinned to his seat, blood pooling beneath him.

The heavy APFSDS round the gunner had been wrestling free was yanked from his grip by the force of the explosion. It dropped like a hammer, smashing into his chest.

The air left his lungs in a guttural scream as he felt the crack of his ribs giving way.

The pain was excruciating. He writhed beneath the weight of the round, unable to move, his cries filling the enclosed space of the tank.

Outside, Peter’s heart sank.

Through the dissipating smoke, he could see the tank’s ERA had done its job, the armor holding firm despite the direct hit.

“Fuck!”

He cursed, slamming his fist against the cracked ground in frustration.

His shoulders sagged as he realized the RPG had only managed to rattle the beast, not destroy it.

“You should’ve aimed for the barrel!”

Joshua shouted, his voice cracking with frustration.

“I couldn’t fucking see!”

Peter shot back, still crouched behind cover, his knuckles white from gripping the RPG launcher.

“What do you mean you couldn’t see? That big-ass hunk of metal was right in front of you!”

“I saw it, but not the damn barrel!”

Peter yelled, slamming the launcher onto the ground.

Back at the artillery grounds, the bot soldiers locked the elevation and coordinate levers into place.

The breechloaders clanked shut, and the gunners gripped the firing handles, their metallic hands steady as stone.

“Fire!”

The commander bellowed, stepping back as the bot soldiers obeyed, retreating from the massive howitzers.

The first gun roared to life. A blinding flash erupted from its muzzle as the primer ignited, propelling the shell forward into the sky. The air vibrated with the raw energy of the shot, the ground beneath the artillery shook violently.

The second howitzer’s firing chamber glowed red, the heat building quickly. Before anyone could react, the chamber blasted out like a pressure cooker bomb.

The detonation was blinding, tearing through the gun and sending shards of iron and molten shrapnel flying in all directions.

Thick smoke billowed out in an instant, cloaking the artillery grounds in a suffocating cloud.

The bot soldiers near the second gun were hurled away like ragdolls, their bodies slamming into the dirt.

The massive barrel of the destroyed howitzer groaned as it toppled forward, slamming into the ground. The breechloader continued to spew flames, the uneven remnants of gunpowder burning inside like a blast furnace.

Shrapnel from the explosion ricocheted wildly, some of it striking the first gun. Sparks flew as pieces of metal carved deep gashes into its body, leaving it battered and smoking.

Some bot soldiers struggled to their feet, their movements jerky and disoriented.

They coughed and sputtered as they tried to process what had just happened.

Blood streaked their faces, red trails trickling from where jagged shards had embedded in their synthetic skin.

One soldier stumbled forward, eyes locking onto the smoldering remains of the breechloader. Flames licked hungrily at the uneven pile of gunpowder inside, and fragments of the shell’s casing glowed faintly in the dim light.

The first turret’s shell finally reached its mark—or close enough.

It slammed into the muddy ground a few yards from the intended target, sending dirt and debris skyward. A thick plume of mud and jagged pebbles rained down on the enemy soldiers, forcing them to shield their faces.

“What the hell kind of weapons do they have?!”

One of the soldiers shouted, his voice tinged with both awe and frustration.

Up on the rooftop, Maxwell and Stan’s snipers had gone silent. Their ammunition was spent, leaving them with no reloads to continue their assault.

Peering through their scopes, they could see the enemy soldiers retreating to the rear of the tank, using its bulk as cover while they regrouped.

“Fuck this!”

Stan growled, slamming his sniper rifle down and yanking a handgun from his belt. He pulled the slide back a little and looked into the chamber.

“There’s a .50 cal rifle in the office.”

Maxwell said, glancing at Stan. His voice was urgent, but a glimmer of hope sparked in his eyes.

“That’s good news! Let’s grab it!”

Stan said, nodding.

“No.”

Maxwell replied firmly.

“I’ll get it. You stay here.”

Before Stan could argue, Maxwell was already moving. He pushed off the rooftop, sprinting toward the edge. With a single motion, he vaulted off the court’s roof, landing hard but steady on the ground below.

He didn’t stop—his legs carried him in a blur as he made his way back to the school.

Meanwhile, behind the tank, the enemy soldiers huddled together at the right rear corner. They moved quickly, slamming fresh magazines into their rifles, their hands moving instinctively despite the tension crackling in the air.

“Keep firing on the Architect!”

One barked, his voice sharp as he gestured toward the advancing figure.

The others nodded, their weapons firing again as they emptied round after round at the unyielding foe.

Each bullet bounced harmlessly off the Architect’s shimmering shield, but they had no choice—they needed to stall her for as long as possible.

“You guys alright?!”

Franklin groaned, staggering to his feet from a pile of broken rocks, blood trickling from a gash on his forehead.

“We’re intact… our guns, not so much!”

Oliver replied bitterly, shaking the remnants of his shattered weapon.

“There are three downed guys on the left side of the tank!”

Ezra shouted, pointing toward the enemy soldiers who were still preoccupied firing at the Architect.

“They’ve got good-grade assault rifles. If we flank them now, we can grab their weapons and turn the tide!”

“Bitch!”

Joshua snapped, glaring at Ezra.

“Who do you think’s in charge here?!”

“Shut up!”

Peter hissed, clamping a hand over Joshua’s mouth. His sharp glare demanded focus.

“That’s a solid idea.”

Peter said to Ezra.

“But are we sure? Do we take out the soldiers first? What about the Architect?”

“We can’t take her down!”

Joshua growled, breaking free of Peter’s grip.

“Not even the 155mm artillery could scratch her! And the tank’s rounds bounced right off her shield!”

“Then why don’t we just fall back?!”

Ezra snapped, his tone edged with desperation.

“Fall back?”

Peter countered, his voice sharp.

“If we flee, they’ll find our base and get their hands on critical intel. Killing them is our only option!”

“How would they even find our files?!”

Ezra shot back, his voice rising.

“There’s no time to explain!”

Joshua barked, his frustration mounting.

“Then what do we do? Just sit here?!”

Ezra yelled, his anger flaring.

“Ezra’s right.”

Peter interrupted, silencing the argument with a decisive tone.

“We don’t have any other choice. We have to take them out. Now.”

“Tch!”

Joshua clicked his tongue in frustration, punching the cracked ground beneath him.

Maxwell’s feet pounded against the hallway floor.

His hand shot out to grip the corners of the walls, using the leverage to propel himself around the sharp turns.

The stairs loomed ahead, and he pushed himself harder, his breath coming in sharp gasps.

“Only one God exists!”

He exclaimed.

A soft click echoed through the hall as the door’s security system recognized the passphrase. Immediately, Maxwell slammed into the door, his shoulder smashing it open.

“Carina!”

He called out.

Inside, Carina was already poised in front of the bank of monitors, her eyes fixated on the live CCTV footage of the battle outside.

Maxwell’s inaudible words tumbled out in a rush as he stumbled into the room, gasping for breath.