edit made by Archandriel. April 27th 2025
The city looked peaceful from up here.
Beyond the misted curve of the bay, Vancouver still shimmered like a postcard—glass towers catching the morning light, ocean mist curling gently at their feet. To a distant eye, it was tranquil. Serene, even.
But distance was a lie.
Down below, the sirens never stopped. Protestors clashed with riot units on East Cordova. A block over, gunfire marked another Variant sweep gone bad. The media called it a city in recovery. Summers knew better.
She shifted her gaze to the south, the faint vibration of the aerial transport thrumming beneath her boots.
Far from the skyline, Delta's industrial port was waking up—if it ever slept at all. Stacked containers stretched like tombstones under high floodlights. AI cranes moved with inhuman grace, lifting sealed cargo into convoys of self-driving trucks.
One of them was hers.
A black freight container, non-descript but warm on thermal scans, was being secured to an AI unit now merging into lane six. The container seemed to hum with hidden weight, a silent pulse of danger that made the hair on the back of Summers' neck prickle. Her gut twisted the way it always did when the stakes were real and tonight, they were as real as it got. Summers adjusted her visor and tapped the comms.
"Target container’s loaded. Convoy rolling."
The voice came from Kellan—her second-in-command—sitting next to the pilot. Summers didn’t look up. She didn’t need to. The data was already streaming through the HUD embedded in her contact lenses, overlaying tactical feeds across her vision.
The aerial drone’s footage swept across the deck of a megaship, its cranes locking containers into place with surgical precision. Below, the port yard stirred with autonomous movement—driverless trucks syncing with warehouse queues and merging onto outbound lanes.
The targeted containers—two matte black units—showed nothing on bioscans. No heat. No motion. No signs of life. The one characteristic that gave it away as their target was a marking on the side of one of the two containers. A residue the informant left by pressing his hand to the side giving off a radioactive signature trackable at a distance.
Summers frowned. The informant hadn’t mentioned anything about heat shielding. Either they were lied to—or someone higher up had underestimated what they were dealing with.
"Shielding," she muttered under her breath. "Smart."
Whatever was inside had been masked deliberately. Their informant had been reliable—classified intel flagged the shipment as a Variant trafficking op. Fifty unregistered individuals, all handpicked.
"They’re not randoms," Kellan had said in the briefing. "These ones were selected. We’re thinking traits. Genetic markers. Maybe compatibility for lab work."
Summers had seen what that meant before.
Test beds.
Not all Variants were weaponized. Some were processed—deconstructed for study, for replication, for containment trials.
She exhaled slowly, eyes still locked on the feed as the convoy shifted toward its rendezvous.
Kellan muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else, "We don’t let this one vanish."
The whole team felt it.
This wasn’t just another bust. This was the kind of op that got buried if they failed.
Mission parameters were clear—the Variants weren’t the primary target. Losing them wasn’t ideal to the USVA, but the objective was to identify and capture the receivers. Secure the buyers first, then the Variants got help. Maybe.
Intel flagged a criminal gang acting as liaison—picking up the cargo and moving it to a final destination the Task Force still hadn’t located.
Lucky for them, organized crime had taken a beating these last few months. New restrictions on affiliations. Federal sweeps.
These days, there wasn’t a gang member in the zone who didn’t flinch at the sound of rotors.
But this gang?
Different story.
Known for brutality. Sloppy, violent, and stupid enough to think they were untouchable.
Their operation was defined by brutality and reckless violence, traits that led directly to the kind of leader they followed. Their leader was the definition of blunt force: Cragskull—Tier-2 Variant. Built like a brick wall. About as smart as one too. But if you ended up in his path, you’d find yourself up against 500 pounds of walking stone with no brakes.
Police casualties were already in the double digits.
That’s why they brought BigBoy.
One of Agent Sosh Vega’s twins—her heavy unit.
Across from Summers, Sosh was hunched over her tablet, fingers dancing across the interface. Final adjustments, last-minute diagnostics. Her eyes flicked through predictive combat graphs like a symphony conductor scanning sheet music.
Noticing Summers watching, Sosh cracked a grin and gave a playful wink.
How does she stay this calm? This joyful? Summers wondered.
She always kept a steady face in front of her team. Cool. In control. But the truth was, she felt every rotation of the rotors in her chest. Every vibration stirred a buried memory—an extraction gone wrong years ago, the deafening roar of failure still clawing at the edges of her mind. She shoved the memory down, locking it away behind the practiced calm she wore like armor. Every shudder of the transport a reminder of what they were flying into. She reached for her pendant under her chest plating. Immediately calming her spike in anxiety.
The transport banked left, then leveled out. Bringing Summers back to the mission.
They were riding high enough that, at this hour, they’d stay invisible to the naked eye.
Below, the port glowed under industrial floodlights—quiet, mechanical, and deceptively orderly. But Summers knew better. Behind every container, every shadow, was a network of secrets waiting to be cracked open.
Local law enforcement had been ordered to stand back. Response ETA: fifteen minutes.
That meant one thing.
If this went bad, it had to end fast—or get locked down before it spiraled.
The cops’ job was simple: hold the perimeter, secure the zone, and catch the strays.
Her team would do the rest.
Take all the risk.
“Last time BigBoy faced Cragskull, he was out of commission for weeks,” Summers said over comms, eyes still locked on the HUD.
“Yeah, well,” Sosh replied without looking up, “that was before the upgrades. This time, old rock-for-brains won’t know what hit him.”
She tapped a command, bringing up a loadout schematic.
“And if that doesn’t work,” she added, “we’ve got that new foam charge the lab rats have been begging us to field-test.”
Summers raised an eyebrow.
“The one that sets like concrete in under a second?”
“Faster, if it hits anything radiating heat.”
“Great. Let’s just not hit the wrong people with it.”
“No promises,” Sosh smirked. “But I’ll try to avoid your boots.”
Aerial footage streamed across everyone's holo feed in the transport—drone feeds stitched into a live tactical overlay.
The AI truck had made its stop.
From the outside, the warehouse looked like a hollow shell—abandoned, derelict. But the scans didn’t lie.
Dozens of heat signatures bloomed inside the structure. Spread out. Moving. Holding position.
“We’ve got bodies,” Kellan confirmed, his tone shifting. “A lot of them.”
Kellan leaned forward, eyes narrowing at the screen.
“I guess Cragskull’s been busy recruiting since the last time we saw him.”
Summers didn’t answer right away. Her focus was locked on the task at hand.
As much as she wanted Cragskull in cuffs—or a crate—the primary target was whoever had ordered this shipment. The buyer.
They were either making the exchange here… or this was just a pit stop.
She tapped her comm.
“Everyone stay sharp. Eyes open for the buyer.”
Almost on cue, movement flashed on the drone feed—dark silhouettes pulling in from the west service road.
A column of unmarked black SUVs. Tinted. Synchronized.
The vehicles rolled toward the warehouse with purpose, each one gliding through the wide cargo door the AI truck had entered minutes earlier.
Two armed men stepped out from cover and swung the gate closed behind them.
That was the signal.
“Okay,” Summers said. “Operation is a go. Land this bird. Team Two, stand by for aerial entry.”
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The aerial transport thundered in low, engines beating the air into a frenzy. Instead of setting down, it dropped to a hover just meters off the cracked asphalt, dust and debris kicking up in a violent cloud.
External clamps released with a heavy snap.
Suppressor Units—sleek, bi-pedal machines—dropped from their mounts, landing hard in tight formation. Summers felt the weight of it—the precision, the risk. Each machine landing was another signal to anyone around that this was no random sweep. It was the beginning of something violent, and there was no turning back now. Their matte grey frames absorbed the impact without hesitation, weapons already tracking the dark warehouse ahead.
“Move!” Summers barked.
She jumped down, boots hitting pavement.
Kellan took position on her right—quiet, methodical, scanning for threats.
Sosh moved left, her forearm console alive with tactical data and drone feeds.
And then the Twins dropped.
Big Boy slammed into the ground, the heavy shock of his armored frame rippling through the street. A humanoid behemoth, built like a walking tank, shoulders broad enough to block a doorframe.
FEN hit a split-second later, four-legged and fast, low to the ground—its agile frame sweeping forward into recon mode, sensors flickering red.
Summers didn’t break stride.
Behind them, the aerial transport lifted, engines surging as it climbed back into the sky—ready to circle until extraction.
No alarms. No gunfire.
Only the static crackle of comms and the steady tread of steel and boots moving into position.
“All teams,” Summers said into her mic, voice cutting clean through the channel. “Suppressors forward. Sweep and clear. Breach Alpha on me. No mistakes.”
The team moved as one—silent, disciplined—crossing the broken asphalt toward the warehouse looming ahead.
In the corner of Summers' HUD, a lattice of drone feeds stitched the scene together: thermal, motion, and standard video overlays.
Aerial units circled above, tightening the net with every passing second.
They’ll know we’re here, Summers thought. If they have any brains left at all.
Beyond the immediate perimeter, local law enforcement units had already locked down every possible exit.
No vehicles out. No backdoors unchecked.
The warehouse was a box—and the lid was closing fast.
"Alpha, status," a voice crackled in Summers' ear—Command net, monitoring the operation from remote HQ.
"Breach Team Alpha advancing to entry point," Summers replied, her tone crisp. "Perimeter stable. No external contact."
“Copy, Alpha. Proceed at your discretion.”
They reached the main service door—an industrial steel barrier, tall and solid enough to stop a truck.
No sentries. No movement.
Summers signaled a halt, raising a fist. The team stacked up instinctively along the left side of the main doors.
Blueprints flickered onto Sosh’s forearm tablet—outdated schematics, but better than nothing.
The door specs scrolled past: reinforced steel frame, no external override, likely welded secondary locks.
Blast required.
Sosh dropped to a knee at the center of the main door without waiting for orders.
She moved like she belonged there—controlled, methodical. Her short red hair stuck to her forehead, damp from exertion, half-hiding the fierce focus burning in her eyes.
With a few quick commands, she dispatched FEN, the quadrupedal recon unit, to circle the structure.
The machine loped away with a low hum, its scanners sweeping for tripwires, guards, or any surprises waiting in the dark.
Big Boy followed immediately after, the heavy Suppressor unit thudding into place behind Sosh.
The towering machine positioned itself like a wall, plating hissing as he locked his legs wide, shielding her with his massive frame. One broad armored hand hovered near her shoulder—ready to grab her clear if things went south.
Summers watched them work, her jaw tight behind the helmet.
Everything looks right. Feels wrong.
Too quiet.
Too clean.
Summers reviewed the feed that kept track of heat signatures. The majority of the men were near the back of the warehouse maybe 100 meters within. No signs of them being alerted by their presence.
Sosh’s fingers danced across the tablet, uploading blast parameters to Big Boy’s internal breach systems.
Data lines flickered between them as Big Boy’s forearm ignited a soft pulse of readiness light.
Big Boy released an explosive container from his back, rotating it to the front and pressing it against the doorway with his weight.
“Breach charge loaded,” Sosh said quietly into the squad net, not even looking up.
Summers adjusted her grip on the rifle, muscles coiling tighter with every second.
"Breach Team Alpha ready on point," she said into Command Net. "Requesting green light for forced entry."
A moment’s pause.
Then HQ came back, cool and professional.
“Green light, Alpha. Entry at your discretion.”
Summers exhaled slowly, steadying herself.
“Stack up,” she ordered, voice sharp and final.
As Sosh moved back into formation.
The buzzing of aerial units filled Agent Summers’ ears as she pressed her back to the left side of the entryway—the final barrier between her team and the warehouse floor, where the targets according to the heat sensors. Six men seemed to be guarding the SUV convoy. One of them must have heard the breach charge; he was walking towards the noise. Beyond the warehouse floor was the rest of the crews, likely finishing off the buy-off of the victims who were being trafficked through the state. Her breath slowed. Methodical raid. Clean so far. But you never get used to the sound of a breach charge going off. One wrong angle, one half-second delay, and someone dies.
She felt a tug at the back of her vest—the signal that Sosh was back in position. She gave a sharp nod to Big Boy. Its weight shifted forward.
The breach charge blew.
A large portion of the thick steel door launched inward. A shriek of tearing metal. Then impact—steel crashing into the figure approaching.
Blood sprayed as it blasted inward and crashed into a figure crouched too close to cover. Blood fanned across the floor as the body disappeared under the steel slab.
In the same instant, two aerial units zipped past on either side of Summers as she found cover behind Big Boy's hulking frame. Two Suppressor units flanked her sides. Sosh and Kellan fell into entry formation positions.
Blinding strobe pulses flickered in her peripheral vision.
A beat later, concussive grenades thudded into the far end of the chamber, erupting in synchronized flash bursts—light, noise, and pressure slamming through the warehouse in a single, overwhelming assault. Screams tore through the chaos as targets reeled under the shock.
Summers moved fast, behind Big Boy's armored frame. Her HUD pulsed green—the unit’s front-facing feed filling the majority of her vision.
Three targets left, behind crates. Two more on the right. One already down.
Her team poured in with smooth, practiced arcs. No shouting. No wasted motion. Every step timed. Every angle covered. Just as they trained. Just as they hoped they’d never have to do for real.
Pushing forward through the chaos, Summers caught movement to her left. A unit reacted first, firing and dropping one of the targets who was recovering from the shock and awe faster than the others, throwing him onto his back.
Summers stepped out from Big Boy's shadow—as he continued ahead—moving towards the incapacitated gang member. As she got into range, the man, feigning unconsciousness, suddenly kicked Summers' feet out from under her, slamming her onto her back. The man climbed on top of her, hands around her throat, struggling with the force of his heavier frame. A Suppressor unit was sending warnings to Summers' holo feed, expressing that it couldn't take actions that wouldn't put Summers in danger.
Her combat training kicked into gear. Literally inserting her knee into the man's groin and simultaneously breaking the man's upper guard, she made her way through, throwing the man to her side, sliding on top of his back and forcing his arms behind him.
Cuffs on, Summers scanned her team, confirming they were also securing their targets.
The sharp sounds of grunting and zip ties echoed across the floor.
She pushed forward with the Suppressor Unit that stayed at her side, methodically clearing her sector. Overhead, glass shattered as additional aerial units breached the upper windows, fanning out across the rafters in a final sweep.
Within moments, the entire space would be marked.
Summers took a beat, pressing herself against a column as she assessed the larger situation.
Across the warehouse, the remaining targets, gripped by confusion and fear, had turned on each other.
The initial confusion had faded—now, with the sounds of the breach clear in their ears, panic took hold.
Gunfire erupted between rival groups, muzzles flashing in the half-dark.
A distinct sound—louder, heavier than the others—cut through the chaos.
Cragskull.
Summers' HUD overlaid the live drone feeds across her vision.
The aerial units swept the cavernous space, scanning heat signatures among the maze of obstacles and debris.
Some targets were already sprawled motionless across the concrete—possibly dead.
Most of the survivors were clustered near the center, exchanging fire.
Near the rear loading zone, Summers spotted a larger heat signature grappling with another man, pinning him hard against the AI transport main cab
Before she could fully register it—
An implosive blast detonated across the warehouse.
The drone feeds flared with thermal chaos. Several heat signatures near the two figures were thrown violently backward, collapsing inward like ragdolls sucked into the epicenter.
Summers ducked instinctively, feeling the pressure shift even at her distance—the sudden vacuum rushing to fill itself with a low, guttural whumpf.
The whole building seemed to hold its breath.
"Summers, are you good?" Kellan said from his own pillar.
"Yeah. What do you think that was?"
"From the readings, I think an implosive explosive was used," Sosh answered.
"Alright, press on. Double-check bodies. Secure the rest of them."
As the team swept behind the Suppressor Units, the remaining alive immediately surrendered, holding their hands above their heads.
Once the resistance was subdued, the team to secure a footing into the warehouse’s center. Behind them, Recovery units and secondary teams rolled in to assess injuries and stabilize the suspects—while keeping them restrained.
The containers weren't on the truck bed.
“Are we too late?” Sosh asked, not looking up from her tablet.
Summers turned, scanning the space. The floor was clear. Just a few shipping containers still suspended from the overhead crane system. Aerial scans had passed over them once—thermal signatures reported as negative. She spotted the radioactive signature above. Two cargo containers lifted in cranes.
She gestured upward. “Bring those containers down.”
“Open it,” he said, already raising his weapon in case things turned.
“Right away, boss,” Sosh replied, not missing a beat.
She tapped the control panel on her wrist-mounted tablet. The display blinked to life with diagnostic data as she selected the proper unit.
From the rear of the formation, a bipedal construct broke from standby—its massive, armored frame moving with surprising precision for something built like a small tank. Matte-black plating, reinforced arms, glowing optic clusters for low-light targeting.
He moved past the agents, his steps sending subtle vibrations through the warehouse floor. Sparks erupted as his welding arms extended, slicing clean lines along the sealed edges of the container’s locking brackets.
The metal groaned and split.
A moment later, the doors peeled open, and BigBoy’s high-intensity shoulder lamps flared into the dark.
Twenty people. Emaciated. Dehydrated. Blinking into the harsh white light.
One of them looked up at Kellan and rasped:
"Help..."
"These people need water," Kellan said aloud, knowing the Recovery Units would hear. One was already moving, containers in its arms, calm and mechanical.
An Aerial Unit zipped inside and began an immediate bioscan of the shackled prisoners. A red pulse blinked in Summers' HUD: All Subjects - Variant Positive.
She didn’t react. The informant had been right—they were smuggling inactive Variants into the country. She and the team began pulling the survivors from the container one by one, forming a circle on the floor to give Recovery Units space to stabilize them.
One woman suddenly lunged at Kellan. He tensed—ready to drop her—but stopped as soon as he felt her weight. She was too frail to hurt anyone.
"My daughter!" she sobbed. "You need to find my daughter!"
“We will, ma’am,” Kellan said, grabbing a bottle from the Recovery unit’s pack. “Here—drink. Sit down. You’re safe now.”
As the last victim was seated, the second container hit the ground with a heavy metallic boom.
Kellan approached it the same way as the first. He placed a palm against the door.
Nothing. No sound. No heat.
He signaled to Sosh for a repeat.
The instant the door peeled back, a deep hiss exploded outward. Alarms shrieked across the team’s HUDs. Kellan recoiled instinctively, raising his arm against the blast of superheated air. His gloves smoked at the seams. The decals on the Breaching Unit’s chest shriveled and peeled from the thermal shock.
A new smell spread through the warehouse.
Burnt flesh.
Summers watched the scene unfold through her HUD. Aerial units fed real-time footage as they hovered into the container. The public would never see what was inside. But her team would never forget.
Charred remains lined the interior—some curled against the floor, others fused to the container walls. Claw marks burned into the steel. One had melted into the exit hatch.
At the center of it all—surrounded by ash and scorched bone—was a small child. A girl. Curled into herself. Alive. Untouched.
Kellan stepped forward again but pulled back. “Too hot.”
“BigBoy, get her,” he called.
The Tactical Chassis moved past him—Sosh's unit, always quiet, always ready. It stepped into the container, its heat shielding glowing faint orange. It scooped the girl gently into its arms.
Her chest was rising. Fast. Panicked. She was alive.
"That’s my baby!" the woman screamed from behind them, her broken voice cracking under strain. She stumbled forward, collapsing toward the light. Sosh stepped in between, steady and calm. It didn’t take much strength to hold the mother back—grief had already taken most of it.
BigBoy stepped into the open with the girl still in its arms.
That’s when it happened.
Her vitals spiked.
Her bio-signature flashed red in every agent’s visor. Summers stiffened, her instincts screaming even before her mind caught up. Kellan’s hands tightened visibly around his weapon, the air between them sharpening with sudden tension. Heart rate climbing. Brain activity spiking. Her eyes fluttered open. She heard her mother’s voice—and she began to cry.
New orders downloaded instantly. The team didn’t even need to read them.
SECURE THE THREAT.
Summers stepped toward BigBoy, weapon raised. The girl stirred in his arms, eyes wide, glowing blue under the HUD overlay.
She looked terrified.
And then Summers felt it—the heat. It rose off the child like waves off asphalt. The closer she came, the more it clawed at her skin.
She got within arm’s reach—and had to stop. Her face twisted instinctively as the heat surged. Even BigBoy’s armor was starting to glow red at the joints.
“Hey…” she said, voice calm but edged. “We’re here to help you. You need to relax.”
The words didn’t land. The girl couldn’t hear over the noise inside her own head. BigBoy’s temperature warnings flared.
“Everyone back,” Summers said. “We need to—”
A sharp crack rang out.
The girl dropped limp in BigBoy’s arms—unconscious, twitching. Kellan lowered his rifle, steam curling from the muzzle.
“Stunner only,” he said, stepping past her. “Variant threat secured. Request containment.”
BigBoy knelt and lowered the girl carefully to the floor. His arms fuming with residual heat—plating warped, scorched, blackened at the joints.
Summers removed her jacket and laid it gently over the girl's body. Her clothes had been entirely burned away—skin flushed red, coated in ash. Her breaths were shallow. Fragile. Human.
Behind her, the mother’s wail rose—sharp, ragged, unbearable.
Summers turned to Sosh and gave a single nod.
Let her through.
Letting the mother touch her daughter wasn’t protocol—and she'd probably be reprimanded for it later—but she didn’t care. The girl had been stripped of everything. At least she shouldn’t be denied this.
She wouldn’t see the light of day ever again. Summers felt a flicker of anger twist in her gut—a helpless, bitter edge she quickly buried beneath the layers of training and protocol.
Behind her, the mother cried. Somewhere between fury and collapse.
They were both Variants.
And Variants must accept their place in society.
Summers stood in the quiet. The buzzing of aerial units faded above her.
She didn’t look back. She took a second to collect herself and just repeated the line the system gave her.
“Threat secured.”
Reviews and Critiques:
I'm pen to feedback, suggestions, and constructive criticism. While I do some editing before posting each chapter, I'm not a professional editor, so your input is appreciated!
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Developmental Editing – Story structure, pacing, and overall flow.
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Logic and Inconsistencies – Plot holes, character actions, or worldbuilding details that don’t make sense.
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Confusion – Areas that feel unclear or need more work to better connect.
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Immersion, not Realism – If something breaks your engagement with the story, even if it’s technically “realistic,” I want to know.
Specific to this chapter: I feel this scene is a bit bloated. The pacing isn't what I would have liked. Just curious how people felt reading this first chapter. i also, believe this is the level of editing I am willing to release my project. In the future I will do some more editing, then hire a pro.
Spectre!
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