10:23 A.M.
The air at Sector 20's border tasted like rust and burnt wires.
Echo crouched behind a collapsed billboard, her augmented eye whirring softly as it adjusted to the smog-choked light.
Behind her, Nail and two rookies—Rook's latest recruits—shifted restlessly, their fingers tapping against rifle stocks.
Echo's knife scraped against the pavement as she dragged the tip in a slow arc, carving a crude map into the dust.
The Red Dogs' territory sprawled before them, a maze of derelict factories and barricaded streets.
Her team's job was simple: scout, mark positions, vanish.
But the weight of Vey's words clung to her like the stench of scorched metal.
"Even if we hand Lucent over, you think Blaze will let us walk away?"
Her jaw tightened.
Nex was dead, but his ghost haunted every decision.
The Steel Talons had survived by being ruthless, not by playing errand boys for some resurrected pyromaniac.
Yet here they were, dragged into a war because of an outsider and his Spire-born shadow.
Nail cleared his throat. "Echo, you've been staring at that map for five minutes. Orders?"
She didn't look up.
The knife stilled.
"Red marks are supply caches," she said, voice flat. "Dogs stockpile there before pushing into our territory. Hit them fast, hit them quiet. No engagements unless cornered."
One rookie—Liz, maybe—swallowed hard. "What if we run into Scorchers?"
Echo's eye flicked to the kid's trembling hands.
Green.
She'd seen that look before, on faces now buried in unmarked graves.
"Then you run," she said, sheathing her knife. "And pray they're too busy playing with fire to chase you."
A beat of silence.
The rookies exchanged glances.
Nail just smirked, cracking his knuckles.
Echo stood, brushing dust from her pants.
The horizon pulsed with distant heat.
She didn't believe in omens, but the sky looked like an open wound.
"Move out."
Echo became a ghost moving through the ruins.
Her conduit pulsed softly as the Rank 1 - Silent Step glyph activated beneath her boots, absorbing every footfall into nothingness.
The crumbling buildings offered perfect cover—she moved through their skeletal remains like smoke through fingers, her dark combat gear blending seamlessly with the shadows.
When gaps between structures grew too wide, her grapple gun whispered its metallic song.
The magnetic head found purchase on distant railings with unerring accuracy.
Each swing carried her weight effortlessly, years of urban infiltration making the dangerous crossings look effortless.
She landed each time without so much as a whisper of displaced dust.
The commercial building stood exactly where intel said it would be—its upper floors offering a perfect vantage point overlooking the Red Dogs' primary staging area.
Echo slipped through a shattered window frame, her augmented eye immediately adjusting to the dim interior.
The stale air smelled of mildew and old blood, the carpet squishing unpleasantly underfoot.
She took position at the northwest corner window, its glass long gone.
Kneeling in the perfect sniper's crouch, she activated her ocular implant's zoom function.
The Red Dogs' base snapped into sharp focus a kilometer away.
Chaos reigned below.
Dogs scrambled like ants from a disturbed nest.
Some hauled crates marked with explosive warnings, their muscles straining.
Others argued over a holomap, fingers jabbing at sectors Echo recognized as Talon territory.
A group near the perimeter tested weapons, their nervous laughter carrying faintly even at this distance.
Echo tapped her conduit twice. "Karen," she murmured, voice barely above a breath, "designated position secured. Streaming feed now. They're mobilizing but disorganized. No visual on primary targets ye—"
Her words died mid-sentence.
There.
Third floor window.
Movement where there shouldn't be any.
Her implant automatically enhanced the image, focus tightening like a vice.
Cinder.
The Scorcher leaned casually against the window frame, one knee bent against the sill.
Sunlight glinted off the fresh scars crisscrossing her bare arms—Pen's work from their last encounter.
But it was the smile that froze Echo's blood—not a predator's grin, but something far worse.
The pleasant expression of someone greeting an old friend.
Slowly, deliberately, Cinder raised her hand.
Fingers wiggled in a cheerful wave.
Echo's finger hovered over her comms.
Every instinct screamed to abort, to warn the team.
But something in Cinder's posture—the relaxed shoulders, the lack of immediate aggression—made her hesitate.
This wasn't an ambush.
This was a message.
The feed still streamed to base.
Karen was seeing this too.
Somewhere in the ruins, a coin flipped through the air, catching the morning light.
***
10:47 AM
The wind howled through the skeletal remains of Sector 20, carrying with it the scent of rust and burnt oil.
Mags moved like a shadow beneath the looming structures, her boots silent against the cracked pavement.
Nex's shotgun rested against her back, its familiar weight a constant reminder of the man who had once wielded it.
In her left hand, she carried the metal briefcase containing her anti-materiel rifle—cold, precise, and waiting.
The mission was clear: eliminate the leaders of the Red Dogs.
But Gideon came first.
Her mind cycled through the details of each target, committing their faces, their habits, their weaknesses to memory.
Gideon stood at the top of the list.
Towering and broad-shouldered, he was hard to miss.
The three-headed dog tattoo on his shoulder pulsed faintly with bioluminescent ink, a beacon in the dark. A man who led with his fists and his fury.
Then there was Vega, the scout.
Lean and scarred, his eyes never quite settled on anything, always darting, always searching.
His forearms were a canvas of kill marks, each one a story. The fresh burn beneath his med-gel was new—likely from a recent skirmish.
Tenn was next.
Small, lanky, her arms replaced with multi-tool augments that whirred softly as she worked.
The engineer, the one who kept their weapons running, their traps primed.
Not a fighter, but dangerous in her own way.
Arden was the brains.
Wiry, white-haired, his ocular implant glinting with cold calculation.
He was the kind of man who saw people as pieces on a board, willing to sacrifice anyone if it meant gaining an edge.
Felix was pure violence.
Hulking, his subdermal plating shimmering under the light, augmented fists capable of crushing bone without effort.
The enforcer, the one sent to "clean up" problems.
And finally, Isla, the youngest.
No augments, just restless energy and a temper that had earned her a place among the leaders.
Rumors said she'd fought her way up, too many brawls to ignore.
Mags exhaled, her breath a thin mist in the cold air.
She adjusted her grip on the briefcase and kept moving.
The weight of the briefcase shifted in Mags' grip as she adjusted course, her boots whispering across broken concrete.
She hadn't told anyone she'd be operating this close to Echo's position—not out of distrust, but because silence was her nature.
Missions were cleaner when she worked alone.
The underground called her the Silent Killer.
She hated the name.
It wasn't just the implication—that she was some mindless weapon—but the way it reduced her condition to a gimmick.
Words had never come easily to her.
They lodged in her throat like shrapnel, painful to force out.
So she spoke only when necessary, and even then, in fragments.
A streak of superheated light split the sky.
Mags froze.
The trajectory led straight to Echo's position.
A second later, she spotted the scout sprinting through the ruins, her form flickering between crumbling walls.
Someone had spotted her.
Compromised.
Mags' fingers tightened around the briefcase.
The plan needed to change—now.
Staying this close was dangerous.
But falling back too far would make the shot impossible.
She needed a new position—somewhere with sightlines to the Red Dogs' base but far enough from the chaos unfolding near Echo.
Her gaze swept the sector.
There.
A half-collapsed watchtower, its rusted frame leaning precariously over the street.
It was farther than she wanted, but the angle was clean.
And more importantly, it looked abandoned.
Mags moved.
The wind howled through the skeletal buildings as she navigated the rubble, her mind already calculating adjustments—wind speed, distance, the inevitable interference from the smog-choked air.
The briefcase clicked open as she reached the tower's base.
Inside, the anti-materiel rifle lay in pieces, waiting.
She began assembling it with practiced hands.
***
10:50 A.M. – Sector 20, Abandoned Parking Structure
The air in the alleyways was thick with the scent of damp concrete and rusted metal.
Nail moved like a shadow, his boots silent against the cracked pavement as he slipped between the skeletal remains of Sector 20's buildings.
His assignment was simple: scout the secondary Red Dogs outpost tucked deep in the sector's underbelly, far from the chaos brewing near their main base.
The parking structure loomed ahead—a crumbling relic of the Old World, its concrete stained with decades of grime and graffiti.
Nail scaled the exterior with practiced ease, fingers finding purchase in the fractured supports.
The second floor offered the perfect vantage point—high enough to see but not so exposed that he'd catch unwanted attention.
He crouched low behind a crumbling railing, the metal cold against his palms.
From his waist pouch, he produced a pair of compact binoculars, the lenses flickering to life with a soft hum as he adjusted the zoom.
The shelter came into focus.
At first glance, it looked unremarkable—just another dilapidated house in a sector full of them.
But intel didn't lie.
This was a Red Dogs safehouse, a place for their runners and stragglers to regroup.
A single guard leaned against the doorframe, his posture slack but his eyes sharp.
The windows were sealed tight with blackout curtains, their edges frayed from years of use.
No light escaped.
No sound either.
Nail's jaw tightened.
Too quiet.
He shifted the binoculars, scanning for movement—any sign of reinforcements, any hint of what might be hidden behind those curtains.
Then—
A flicker.
One curtain twitched, just for a second.
Long enough for Nail to catch a glimpse of someone inside.
The curtain fell back into place, but the image lingered in Nail's mind—someone watching from the shadows, their presence deliberately hidden.
Before he could process it further, his comm unit buzzed sharply against his hip.
Liz's voice crackled through, hushed but urgent. "I'm at the location. The warehouse on the west side is crawling with guards. More than intel suggested."
Nail thumbed the receiver, keeping his voice low. "How many?"
"At least twelve visible. Heavy weapons. They're not just guarding—they're waiting for something."
A beat of static, then Echo's voice cut in, her tone clipped. "Hold position, Liz. I'll reinforce shortly."
Nail's grip tightened on the binoculars. "Wait. What happened at the main base?"
A pause. Then Echo's reply, edged with frustration: "Cinder spotted me. Had to abort."
Nail's stomach dropped. "Shit. That'll put the whole sector on alert."
Another stretch of silence.
He could almost hear Echo's scowl through the comms.
Finally, she relented. "Yeah. That's why we'll stick to recon for now. Liz—keep eyes on that warehouse. Nail, anything from your position?"
Nail glanced back at the shelter.
The guard hadn't moved, but the air felt heavier now, charged with tension.
"Possible activity inside the secondary outpost," he murmured. "Someone's home. And they're definitely watching."
Echo's exhale was sharp. "Copy that. Stay sharp. If they're mobilizing, we need to know why."
The comms fell silent.
Nail lowered the binoculars, his pulse a steady drum in his ears.
Something was wrong.
And they need to figure out what.
***
11:01 A.M. - Steel Talons Base
The air inside the base hummed with frantic energy—boots pounding on metal grating, voices barking orders, the hiss of conduits charging.
Members scrambled like ants before a storm, checking gear, loading weapons, running last-minute drills.
The scent of gun oil and burnt aether hung thick in the recycled air.
Jack moved through the chaos like a ghost.
Hands in his pockets, shoulders loose, he strolled toward the cafeteria with the unhurried ease of a man who'd seen too many wars to be rattled by pre-battle jitters.
The old armorer needed coffee.
Or tea.
Whatever the machine spat out would do.
But this wasn't just a break.
Karen had given him a task—watch Flick.
The scout wasn't on the mission roster.
Karen had opted him out, and Jack didn't need to ask why.
The footage from the tunnels showed a traitor with three parallel scars on their left forearm.
Flick's left arm was augmented from the elbow down—sleek metal plating, standard-issue Talon scout gear.
No scars there.
But Jack trusted gut instincts over logic.
And his gut said Flick was worth watching.
The cafeteria doors slid open with a tired hiss. Inside, the mood was different—quieter, tenser.
A handful of members who'd opted out of the mission clustered around stained tables, nursing drinks and trading nervous glances.
And there was Flick, holding court near the synth-coffee dispenser.
His augmented arm gleamed under the flickering lumen lights, the tiny serial number near the joint nearly invisible beneath layers of grime.
His right arm bore a single faded scar—a diagonal slash from some old knife fight.
"—not stupid enough to run into that firestorm," Flick was saying, voice too loud, too eager.
He leaned in, grinning at the others. "You think I'd volunteer to get roasted by those Scorcher freaks? Nah. Let the eager ones play hero. I'll be right here, safe and—"
He spotted Jack.
The grin faltered.
Sweat beaded along his hairline.
Jack didn't stop.
Didn't stare.
Just ambled past toward the coffee machine, his expression blank.
But he didn't miss the way Flick's fingers twitched toward his augmented arm, as if checking it was still there.
Or the way his right hand—the flesh one—drummed a nervous rhythm against his thigh.
Too jumpy for a man with something to hide.
The machine spat out a cup of something dark and bitter.
Jack took a slow sip, watching from the corner of his eye as Flick's laughter returned—forced this time, brittle.
The old armorer exhaled through his nose.
This was going to be a long day.
Jack took another slow sip of his coffee—bitter and burnt, just like the old days—and watched Flick over the rim of his cup.
The kid was sweating like a sinner in church, his good hand fidgeting with the hem of his jacket.
Every word out of his mouth was louder than necessary, every laugh just a beat too sharp.
This dumbfuck has the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
If Flick was a spy, he'd be the worst one in history.
The kind who'd crack under the first glare, spill his guts before the knife even touched his skin.
No, this wasn't some corporate plant.
This was just a jumpy kid with a loud mouth and bad nerves.
Karen was sharp, but she saw shadows where there were none sometimes.
Flick's twitchiness wasn't guilt—it was the kind of raw, unfiltered fear that came from knowing you were the weakest link in a den of wolves.
Still.
Orders were orders.
Jack set his cup down, already turning toward the door.
Karen had also asked him to check in with Sel about the corporate spies.
Now that was a conversation worth having.
Sel had a knack for sniffing out lies, and if there were rats in the walls, she'd know.
He was halfway to the exit when Flick suddenly stood, chair screeching.
"I'm sorry, guys, but I'm gonna dip out early."
A chorus of groans rose from the table.
"The hell you gotta do?" one talon member grumbled. "You're not even on mission detail."
"Yeah, sit your ass down," another chimed in, kicking Flick's vacated chair. "Unless you've got some real important shit to handle."
Flick's grin was too wide, too quick. "Nah, nah, just—uh—gotta check something. Scout stuff. You know how it is."
He was already backing toward the door, hands raised in mock surrender.
Jack didn't move.
Didn't react.
Just watched as Flick slipped out, his steps just a little too fast to be casual.
Kid's lying.
But about what?
Jack exhaled through his nose.
First Sel.
Then, maybe, a little chat with Flick.