“Down!” Temur yelled, smashing aside the door, weapon clapping off rounds as she entered the room. There was no hesitation from the assassin and with supernatural grace they flitted back into the shadows, always one step ahead of the bullets.

  Determined, the SRU officer gave chase with her gunfire, the muzzle flashes doing their best to obliterate the darkness. It was all a strange and hypnotic dance that Mitchell might have enjoyed more if he wasn’t smack in the middle of it.

  Temur’s voice screamed inside his brain. “Move your ass!”

  Channeling the fear into his legs, Mitchell bolted for the entrance, flinching every time the playroom was overtaken by the sound of gunfire. He dashed past Temur and swung back behind her as a child might shield themselves behind a parent. Fearless beyond what he could hope for, she yanked a grenade from her harness, the arming spoon flying free as she did so.

  “Popping smoke.”

  With a discordant hiss, smoke vented out of the canister and filled the doorway in a thick gray cloud. Temur was already bustling Mitchell back before it’d finished, delivering a suppressing fusillade into the vapor as they retreated. Her rifle’s magazine now spent, she lost no time reloading, letting the weapon hang on its sling as she seamlessly drew her pistol. It was such a profound display of soldiering that Mitchell felt his body relax. Surely where so many failed, the elite members of the SRU would triumph?

  A dim cherry glow appeared within the smoke and while his brain was struggling to make sense of everything, Mitchell watched the faint light dance before it rocketed out of the mist with ungodly speed. It was upon them in the blink of an eye, no living human capable of evading the hurtling glow. All Mitchell could do was tense up and wait for the end to take him. A wet puncturing sound echoed throughout the mill, followed by the revolting aroma of smoldering skin.

  Much to his surprise, the light ended up being a curved sickle-style blade, the weapon burning white-hot by whatever battery cell lay embedded into its grip. It had flown with such velocity and precision that it was now embedded hideously into Temur’s chest. Her body armor barely slowed the blade and she was gaping at the intruding metal in disbelief.

  As the jingle of chain reached Mitchell’s ears, the SRU officer was brutally wrenched into the cloud. It was too familiar to the depot raid, visions of that night flashing through his mind at nauseating speed. His stomach flipped and he spewed his last meal onto the wood floor.

  The undisputed herald of death emerged from the smoke, cloak fluttering behind and Temur’s rifle now cradled in their arm. The ferocity, the speed, the power. It all seemed so obvious that Mitchell chastised himself for not considering the reality before. His superiors had looked at the obvious rationale, denying any possibility that their adversary would amount to anything more than an augmented hired gun looking to ruin profit margins. But twice seeing their foe in the flesh, he didn’t need to examine the runes on their cuirass again to know the truth.

  As if to cement his theory, the assassin’s gauntleted hand closed around the rifle’s grip.

  “Authorized user detected. Weapon release engaged.”

  This thing, this fiendish slayer of men, was a Dragoon. Not noble and forthright, like the super-soldier who’d accompanied them on this mission, but his bestial cousin. A creature who relished in the slaughter and their ability to enact it. There was a twisted aspect to how they looked, a darker and more ancient iteration that was nothing akin to those epic stories he’d read on the net. For every angel in heaven, surely there must be a counterpoint below, a demon seeking to destroy.

  “What’s happening? Report!” the familiar voice of his demigod demanded over the communications synch. An uneasy moment passed as Mitchell remembered their network was no longer secure.

  With a euphoric shudder, the devil in the skin of a Dragoon gazed at the flooring. “He’s here. Glorious.”

  Part of Mitchell’s brain willed him to shout out to his armored chaperone, warn him of this threat and what it was. Another portion demanded he make use of the submachine gun he’d so flaccidly been toting around. However, both instructions were drowned out by fear and the need to survive. Prey animals rely on remaining motionless to escape a predator and that was the strategy Mitchell was clinging to, directing whatever was left of his self-control into not wetting himself.

  A sudden gunshot startled both him and the assassin, the bullet ricocheting off the demon’s armor. With the elegance of a dancer, they slid into a half crouch, rifle pointing out to greet this new adversary.

  Servos whining in the darkness, Perkins charged through the crisscrossing support beams, firing as she advanced.

  The abomination returned fire, and the pair weaved between the joists as they tried to secure a kill shot. Bits of rotten wood sprayed in every direction as stray rounds demolished random timbers and Mitchell hunkered down into a ball to avoid being caught in the crossfire. That’s what he kept telling himself, anyway. In reality, he was a second away from bubbling over into a sobbing lunatic. The noise, the terror, the metallic taste of blood in the air. It was all too overwhelming.

  “Mitchell!” Perkins shouted, the volume of her voice inside his brain causing him to wince. “Give me the rifle!”

  Hands quivering, he tried to unsling Nguyen’s weapon still draped across his back. In the best of times, it might have been an awkward deed, but with the fear and adrenaline it felt more like he’d forgotten how to use his limbs. Staring at the shootout through eyes filled with unshed tears, Mitchell struggled to will his mind into forming a plan to get the rifle over to Perkins.

  As if sensing his dilemma, the SRU officer diverted her path, coming directly at him.

  “Throw it!”

  Planks rumbling from the weight of her exoskeleton, Perkins neared Mitchell, one hand reaching out for him while the other continued to pump out bursts at the scarlet fiend. Summoning whatever strength he could muster, Mitchell hurled the gun into the air, praying his aim would be true.

  The ghostly voice suddenly hissed over his communications sync.

  “I don’t have time for this.”

  With impossible accuracy, the sickle blade whipped through the gloom, a fiery comet coming to devour hope. It snatched the rifle out of the air, its superheated edge slicing the weapon in half.

  The demon wasn’t finished either, twirling their armored form between the trusses with such fluid grace that one might assume they were watching an elaborate dance, not a herald of the abyss. Each move diverted the chain connected to the blade and Mitchell watched dumbfounded as it whipped and snaked around the supports as if it were a living creature.

  “Come on, ballerina! Is that all you’ve got?” Perkins mocked as she slammed a new magazine into her own gun. Shouldering her rifle, she was a mere instant away from resuming their gunfight. The abomination had other plans.

  A striking serpent, the chained blade dropped out of the air, filling the darkness with a faint red cloud as it passed by Perkins’ face. For a moment it seemed as though nothing had happened, the SRU officer blinking in confusion. Then her head slid into two smoking pieces.

  It was the final straw. Mitchell didn’t even try to restrain the onslaught of tears and snot as he screamed. His heartbeat increased to a rate at which he was certain it would explode, and he crawled across the floor, the animal part of his subconscious driving him to gain as much distance as possible from the crimson devil.

  The rattle of chain and searing pain in his buttocks told him that the sickle blade had found him and loosing a wail he was dragged back toward Perkins’ slain form and the murderous creature that had killed her.

  An unbelievably powerful hand clamped itself around his face and lifted him like a child. Being so close to the demon, he was surprised by the myriad of smells that wafted off its infernal form. Blood to be sure but also the tang of old metal and a surprisingly floral scent that almost comforted him.

  “Don’t cry, little lamb. You’ll bear witness.”

  A haze of vapor poured from the vents on the side of the death’s head mask and Mitchell found he couldn’t look away, captivated by the face of the horror that was going to end his mortal coil.

  Then he was falling.

  Perhaps by some hidden access or maybe the flooring had given out, Mitchell and the ruby-armored fiend passed from the second story into the dusty stone chambers of the lower level. Despite the drop, he hardly felt the impact, the demon holding onto him firmly yet gently, as one might grasp a small bird. It was almost reassuring, being held by a deity encased in flesh. Of course, that sensation vanished when the abomination tossed him aside at the first sight of the proper Dragoon.

  The fall had removed the monster’s cloak and Mitchell could fully see what had haunted him for so many nights since the depot massacre. They were wearing what resembled Dragoon armor, but it was shabby compared to the other demigod, chains and rusted bolts holding some of the plates together. There was nothing glorious about their appearance, his mind comparing them more to a rabid dog who prowled the alleys. It was the bastardization of divinity, a mockery of why humans revered this species.

  “What are you?” the honorable super-soldier probed, his rifle already trained on this unwholesome fiend.

  “Nothing more than a lingering phantom. A ghost of your people’s sins.”

  “Then how about an exorcism?”

  Both deities opened fire on each other, bullets slapping against their armor as they weaved behind pillars, only to engage again a second later. It was a deadly ballet as they continued to hunt each other, gunmetal and camouflage versus vermillion.

  Never in his life did Mitchell believe he would ever see one Dragoon fight, much less two against each other. They were beautiful in their diversity: one driven by tactics and training, the other by unbridled emotion. In those magnificent seconds, the roar of gunfire didn’t bother him, nor the wound on his rear end where the sickle blade had cut him. All was irrelevant compared to this epic clash of demigods.

  “I have waited a lifetime for this moment,” the eerie voice of the abomination said over the communications sync. “So many weak and feeble souls had to die before they’d send one of you. Embrace death, sergeant, and let the creator offer you justice!”

  The superheated blade whipped around a pillar, carving a blackened scar across the Dragoon’s pauldron. Hardly fazed, the super-soldier held his ground, spent casings bouncing across the stone as they spat out of his weapon.

  The shots were well placed, but his target wouldn’t hold still to let them be effective. Time and again, the bullets found vacant air where the crimson assassin once stood. They seemed to be toying with him.

  The gunmetal demigod ducked back to reload and, much to Mitchell’s surprise, glanced in his direction.

  “Mitchell! Get over here!”

  It seemed an insane notion. What could he do in a battle between such mighty beings? Yet, he didn’t want to disappoint the dominant species.

  Once more, the demon’s sinister voice echoed throughout Mitchell’s brain.

  “Do not send a human to do your work, sergeant! We are Dragoons, are we not? The children of divinity encased in flesh and steel!”

  A shrill humming became audible, accompanied by a distant emerald glimmer. It was so peculiar that Mitchell didn’t fear it at first.

  Abruptly, the abomination rounded out of their cover and unleashed a glowing bolt of plasma from their vambrace. Stone and dirt exploded from the energy, filling the air with a dizzying haze of dust and energized particles as the detonation threw both him and the Dragoon off their feet. Despite being stunned by the blast, Mitchell could register the terrifying sound of the ground giving way beneath him.

  Then everything went black.

  9

  The plasma attack had temporarily disabled his HUD, and Kirkland sucked in ragged breaths as he tried to determine where in the world he was.

  Old stone was no match for the voracious power of plasma and within seconds of impact, the floor had crumbled beneath his feet, depositing him into a dark cavern below. Much to his chagrin, the fall stripped him of his rifle and with his helmet not responding to prompts to help him locate it, Kirkland dared to ignite a flare to light his surroundings. There was a definite chill in the tunnel that not even the heat of the flare could abate. He soon realized he was not alone.

  Skulls of all sizes lined the walls, stretching far off beyond what his light could illuminate. The bones were cemented into the stone itself as though the cavern had been constructed with them serving as the mortar.

  It was a macabre display, only made more grotesque by the random skeletons that lay scattered about, almost as though those pitiful beings had crawled to that spot and died.

  Trying to maintain his focus, Kirkland pointed the flare over his head, aiming to see if there was any chance he could reach the hole through which he’d fallen. His enhanced physiology might enable him to jump higher than a human, but even he could not leap up five meters.

  He needed to navigate his way out of this tomb and kill that apparent Beta Clan remnant in the process.

  There were always whispers of survivors of their heretical bloodline, deranged headhunters who stalked the wilds in search of worthy prey. But they were rumors. Headquarters made it clear that the Beta Clan was no longer a concept worth mentioning, purged nearly two decades ago for the good of the species. Facing this one was enough for Kirkland to understand why.

  That thing, his supposed kin, was nothing of what a Dragoon should be. Lacking the intelligence and prowess, replaced instead with a rampant thirst for destruction. Even comparing himself to them was enough to make him snarl. No, he would reward them with his own rage and purge them from the world. Such a noble deed would see him redeemed in his own eyes. Maybe then he would be worthy enough to explain to Talia why he had driven her away. But only then.

  He discovered his rifle beneath the weight of a collapsed boulder, the barrel bent at an unpleasant angle. There was no point trying to salvage the weapon, and holding the flare away from his body to direct potential gunfire that way, Kirkland drew his pistol. Between the sidearm, his knife, and the few explosives he had left, he felt at a slight disadvantage, given his opponent’s knowledge of the area.

  “Be calm and prudent, strong and resolute. The valor and enthusiasm of an offensive spirit will cause you to prevail in the attack,” Kirkland recited as his HUD booted back to life.

  A voice like wind through a skull responded from the darkness. “That’s it. Pray.”

  Kirkland instinctively moved, pistol hunting into the shadows for some sign of his enemy. The wayward Dragoon must have anticipated his turn because their chained blade lashed out of nowhere, slapping the flare from his grasp and sending the torch bouncing off into a pile of skeletons.

  His HUD tracked the origin of the chain and Kirkland fired, muzzle flash momentarily illuminating the shape of the headhunter charging toward him. The shot punched into their decrypted armor, but did nothing to slow them, so Kirkland pulled the trigger again and again and retreated deeper into the catacombs in a gamble to create distance between them.

  Files always noted the proficiency of the Beta Clan in melee combat, their credos asserting that a warrior should close the gap to truly know glory. It had given them a deadly reputation in close quarters, one that generations ago had been lauded by their peers. That was a different age and now Kirkland was determined to remind them why their Clan had perished. Power and crushing force were his people’s way and it did not matter who they faced, it would eventually prevail.

  His targeting reticle highlighting a few points along the skull-encrusted walls, Kirkland was ready when the superheated sickle blade attacked again.

  Sidestepping the weapon, he triggered the micro-grenade launcher concealed within his gauntlet, firing the explosives into the places that his HUD had marked. The auxiliary device would be empty afterwards, so he needed to make certain that this strike at least bloodied his opponent.

  A series of small detonations obscured the headhunter and Kirkland clapped off a few rounds into the blast to reinforce his superiority. In return, he was greeted by laughter.

  Not the happy chuckle of a friend or the smitten giggle of a lover, this was the unhinged cackling of someone aroused by suffering. It resounded throughout the tomb, giving a more dreadful and ominous vibe to the remains that surrounded him. Try as he might, Kirkland felt a flicker of something in heart that his species was meant to have truly conquered: fear.

  In that dark and lonely place, he was no longer certain of his supremacy. A flashing icon on his HUD informed him that his heart rate was elevated above usual norms but that only reinforced his dread. Faults and childhood insecurities rose to the surface, reducing the rage in his breast to a weakened simmer.

  A flurry of blades shot out of the darkness, the sharpened cloud upon him so quickly there was no time to evade. Seeing little option, Kirkland turtled up, feeling the shurikens deflect off his carapace, while a few lucky ones found their way around the plate to cut their way into his plug-suit.

  Klaxons went off in his helmet, alerting him to points on his body that the flying razors had damaged. The medical instincts of his plug-suit mitigated any of the pain, the initial discomfort stoking his fury. He was practically frothing by the time his targeting systems marked the reemerging headhunter.

  There was no urgency in the wayward Dragoon’s steps, sauntering down the tunnel as if on a leisurely Sunday stroll. Their arrogance infuriated Kirkland and his combat knife was drawn before he even thought about it, thumb toggling the button on the side of the grip to trigger the heating element built into the blade. Slowly the knife began to glow white-hot, and his tongue danced on the inside of his teeth as he pictured driving the scorching weapon through the heretic’s armor and into their foul heart.

 

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