Rorik ducked as the sword hissed overhead, then arced back with a smooth flip. Buttery and acrobatic. Right foot firm, left coiled to pivot.

  Three-Seven shot toward him again, sword high, digital eye filled to the brim with murder.

  He bounced on a heel—felt the wind of decapitation—seized the machine's arm, and hurled it around into Two-Six. A resounding collision that collapsed a mountain of crates over them, a storm of pointed splinters and whining metal.

  He kicked up pipe number three from the ground, then backed into a clearing as the synthenoids jolted upright. Enraged. Their carapaces glinted beneath the cool moonlight that seeped through the porous ceiling.

  Rorik wiped his brow, drew in a sharp breath. The warehouse was now a dueling ring, deadly swishes and whirring stomps underscored by the gunfire right outside. A firefight that had only intensified, a clear indication of reinforcements. Enemy, by the sounds of it. Omni-Corp's rifle of choice was chambered in a lighter caliber than the G4L. Unmistakable.

  He almost hated being preoccupied in here, but the boys weren’t the goofs they were damn good at pretending to be. They'd probably both be just fine.

  Extra emphasis on probably for Jakobs.

  “We wanted a fight, superman!” Three-Seven thundered, maneuvering to his left.

  “Not a starsdamn game of tag!” Two-Six added, circling opposite, servos announcing each irate step.

  “Working with what I got, fellas.” Rorik adjusted his grip with a half-hearted spin. “Plus, it’s been kind of an off day for me.”

  “We don't give a fuck!” Three-Seven raised its four-barrels with an ominous click. “I’m over this. After we kneecap you, we’ll keep you alive for a good little while. Hmm. Then really have some fun with you.”

  “—uhhh?”

  “He means torture, get your mind out of the gutter,” Two-Six snapped with mechanical gusto. “But he's right. We most certainly do have other priorities.”

  A verdant fluid spewed from Three-Seven’s wrist at the words, a rain of sparkling mist. An acrid stench forced its way into Rorik's lungs, just as the stream ignited with a roar. A winding serpent of liquid fire.

  He squinted at the flare, rolled into a sprint as the flames jetted after him. Heat licked his neck as he ran through the maze, molten torment a misstep away. Bullets. Bolts. All whistled by as crates exploded, as brittle shards slashed at his face. With gritted teeth and a shout, Rorik dove behind a chunk of half-buried construction equipment.

  Ricochets screamed off its bulk as his hand gripped his pistol, eyes darting for anything, anything to gain an edge.

  Come on, think. Think!

  The synthenoids fanned wide, feeding the budding deluge of flames. Crossfire just itching to split him in two, when Rorik saw a foam suppression pipe enshrouded on the ceiling. He opened fire without a blink, a volley that made the pipe spark, groan, swell as it vented a wild stream of shrieking coolant.

  The trigger clicked empty—time was up!

  With a grunt, Rorik sprang to latch his claws into the slick metal, then wrenched down—the pipe burst to life with a sonorous hiss. Thick foam blasted out in heavy clouds, blanketing the room in an avalanche of soapy suds. Mist collided with flame in a violent sizzle, a sea of boiling, blue bubbles.

  Until the entire warehouse fell eerily silent.

  Visibility at 17%. Patience Integrity -1%.*

  “Blonde-headed bastard,” rasped Two-Six, his voice ironed flat while he struggled to stand, unsteady in the slick foam. "Gonna crush him into paste."

  He wiped his optics and switched to infrared. The superman—now designated Greg, all male bipeds resembled a Greg—was already on his feet. Fast.

  Too fast.

  Claws raked his shoulder-plate before his systems could re-calibrate—sparks spat out the wound as sub-dermal sensors screamed in protest.

  Armor integrity: 92.2%

  He roared with a spinning backhand that rendered a crate to dust. Greg was far more agile than any organic had the right. A well-timed duck here. Pivot there. A retributive dent in his durtanium with each blow. An ancient form of combat—dirty boxing if his recognition software was correct.

  Which it was.

  “Come on then!” Two-Six growled, dodging, calculating multiple angles of approach mid-sentence. "You hit like a toddler!"

  “Goo-goo ga-ga!”

  A right cross rang his faceplate like a bell.

  Odd reply. File for later.

  His sword uncoiled with a satisfying snikt, catching the dim light, but Greg was already inside his guard. Risky. Illogical. Effective.

  The foam muffled everything, but each impact reverberated through Two-Six’s chassis. Elbow. Rib-plate. Jaw-hinge. Minor, but rapidly accumulating structural flexion. Greg ducked another frustrating slash—into an uppercut that staggered Two-Six four wobbly steps back.

  Two-Six had never staggered before...

  His processors surged, simulated rage pushing his calculations into overdrive.

  “Analysis complete!” Two-Six bellowed, as he dropped into a low, balanced stance. “Upgrading threat level!”

  He intercepted Greg’s next approach with a flurry of brutal counters. Durtanium-fisted strikes that hammered the man’s temple, cheek, and jaw, forcing him back and drawing a plume of blood from his nose. Two-Six logged a private smiley face in his command console, binary heart almost brimming with satisfaction.

  They broke apart briefly, a minuscule moment to study one another. Man and machine battered and bruised under a bright shard of moonlight.

  “When I’m done, your remains won’t even fill a piss bucket...”

  "...Greg."

  Adrax yanked the lever hard, spinning the T-11 through what appeared to be a shopping center, spartan and gray like the rest of Avansen. Jakobs, sat below him, laughed like a lunatic as he shifted the stabilizers at random.

  A veritable kid in a candy store.

  The console sputtered warnings as they burst back out into the street, much to the chagrin of retreating Omni-Corp. Flames twisted in their wake as the asphalt groaned beneath the tank's propulsion. The main cannon thundered to life, atomizing soldiers one by one in a blinding amethyst volley.

  The enemy answered in kind. Bullets. Ionics. All raging against the T-11's steadily dwindling aegietheric.

  “You drive like a bitch!” Jakobs keyed the console and retook control, quick to whip them around with an erratic spin. "Whoo!"

  Adrax loured at the shiny back of his head. Deciding against smacking it, he instead re-activated the topside auto-cannons, targeting stragglers with quick three-to-five second bursts. Flesh and black armor rendered to bloody bits in a hail of glory.

  Needless to say, they were having a pretty good time.

  But he couldn't help but wonder where the LT had ended up. It'd been a few good minutes since eyes-on, and comms were jammed like a stopped-up toilet. Better odds reaching him by shouting out the hatch.

  Rorik had never shied from a fight before, and no way anyone here took him down. Right?

  Jakobs turned with mad abandon, firing needlessly into the side of the warehouse. A series of explosions that straightened Adrax’s shoulders, that refocused him on keeping them from dying in a ball of white-hot thunder, despite his reckless friend's best efforts.

  "He’ll be alright," Adrax decided in a hushed whisper, more of an affirmation than actual belief.

  Got my own hide to worry about anyhow.

  Rorik rang Two-Six’s skull with a thunderous head-butt—sending it into the sedan in an eruption of glass and pink alloy. The iron tang of blood trickled down his throat, eyes watery as Three-Seven tackled into him, a black blur of rage.

  They tumbled to the floor, flesh and metal at war in the grime. Its sword inched closer to cut his throat as its guns clicked, without effect, barrels either warped or choked shut with gunk.

  “Just fucking die!” Three-Seven shrieked, with a bloodthirsty determination that was all too human.

  The far wall detonated, then again—a deafening barrage of ionic bolts tore through from outside. Violet pulses that exploded crates in molten flashes of hellish ardency.

  Three-Seven, in lieu of retreat, reached for Rorik’s belt, where the click of a scatter-burst poured a cold glass of reality down his spine.

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  "My memory-chit will survive. And if not? See you in hell...semen-sack!"

  Rorik's nerves ignited with a spark of defiance. The icy blade drew blood as he bucked, pushed, then kicked out with all his strength. Three-Seven lurched ceiling-ward with a shrill cry, into the path of the last crackling bolt, consumed in a shower of circuitry and glowing scrap.

  His feet kissed the floor in a scramble, no time to gloat as Rorik fumbled the furiously blinking grenade—chucking it as he dove for cover.

  It thundered to life behind him, swirling the sea of foam toward its crimson nucleus like a wicked funnel cloud. His claws sparked rebelliously across the floor, a terrible screech, bones popping in protest as he fought to hold on...

  Boom.

  With a muted thud, he was on the other side of the room, cheek pressed to the slick and cold ground. Ears ringing, skull on fire.

  After a second, or maybe an hour, he forced himself to a crouch, and twisted a crooked finger into place.

  His vision pure static, but just clear enough to make out Two-Six standing in the fog, singular eye locked on him tight. Dour, vengeful mood loud and clear.

  No more games.

  First they walked, then a jog, then a sprint—a screaming charge where metal met flesh in a resonant crash.

  Its blade punctured Rorik’s trauma-plate, cracking ribs, skewering through to the other side. His navel flushed with the hilt, blood and agony bubbled over his lips in a pink froth.

  Rorik clamped down, wrenched at the synthenoid’s shoulder and neck with a malicious, deliberate torque. Two-Six stumbled to a knee, servos grinding to a halt, as the murderous machine unstitched Rorik's torso from his legs. Slow.

  Like worn fabric.

  They screamed in unison. Raw. Primal. Not one insult or taunt uttered. Just the vicious throes of wills too stubborn to stop, as it all went very, very—

  Dark.

  ...

  ...

  ...

  The warehouse was gone.

  Maybe it had never existed.

  An ocean of cloud surrounded him, dense and smoky plumes that made his throat itch.

  It was cold. An indescribable sensation both seen, felt, and oddly enough heard. And from that frigid darkness a collage of phantasmal images spawned. Scenes of different times and places, some memories, some not, rushing on either side in streams of white light. A pulse of incomprehensible reality that was somehow, comprehensible.

  Echoes of laughter and distant screams drew Rorik deeper into the void, floating along like a cartoon character after fresh pie.

  He saw the past.

  His mother rocking him as a baby, the warmth of her arms. His first kiss, soft with the taste of mint and nerves. The first life he took—slick blood dripping from his claws. The inferno of The Star-Way Conflict, the hateful haze of The Red Mist War, the desperate push of The Exodus. Time unraveled its mysteries, moments crashing into one another, chaotically more and more out of order.

  I'm in The Veil again.

  But deeper. Much deeper. And very much stranger.

  At the thought, a silhouette coalesced on the featureless and distant horizon. A faint specter akin to a bat that loomed like darkness made flesh. Impossibly tall. Sickly, gaunt and poised, red gaze sharp and predatory. Piercing enough to birth a lump of dread at the base of Rorik's throat. A genuine fear so foreign, he didn't even know how to process it.

  Thank his lucky stars, as the hairs at his neck raised, it faded back into nothingness, as quickly as it had arrived. The streams of visions fell away too, and the temperature turned cozy, pleasant actually. An odd pressure at his brow forced his eyes shut, and when they opened again, he saw… her.

  ...Kara?

  It wasn’t the past, couldn’t be. Not a vision either. She seemed tangible, as if he could rest a palm on her shoulder.

  Perched atop a cloudbreaker, Kara watched the sun rise over a world he'd never known. Toes curled at the ledge, one dark slipper abandoned to the misty breeze, a jarring contrast to Kara's fuchsia pajamas. A bottle ghosted her lips, rosy liquor diminished with each soft sip. Her bangs stuck to her forehead. Jet-black. Tousled. Chin-length strands that framed pale cheeks and luminously emerald eyes. Heavy. Hollow. Devoid of their usual irreverent fight.

  It hurt to see. Really hurt. More than he'd ever dare admit to her face. It felt like it'd been an eternity since they'd seen one another, but Rorik knew it had been barely a blink. Eighty years, fleeting as the snow.

  Kara let the bottle fall, watching it spin out of sight. Then, with a fractured smile she turned—not toward him, but at him. Exquisite beauty marred by a terrible sadness.

  "Wake up. Wake up. You don't want to see this, James. Trust me."

  Kara’s voice was atypically kind, silky, yet laced with its signature bite. Sweet on the surface, deadly underneath. Like honey stirred with shards of bloody glass. Rorik tried to ask what she meant, but couldn't. For once, his big fat mouth was glued shut tight.

  Yet the words still somehow conveyed the depth of her pain, a damnable ache that he knew all too well. His heart skipped as realization struck, anguish burned in his chest as he tried to rip her from the ledge. Barely brushing her arm as a spiteful breeze yanked him back, tore him away inch by inch.

  Rorik fought with all he had to stay—to save her, teeth bared in fury, but the moment fractured, and the clouds disappeared with a big bang.

  He jolted back to life, ablaze with ungodly suffering.

  "Fuck you!" Rorik roared into a lonely echo.

  At no one.

  The universe.

  Existence.

  He ached with each panting breath, and the phantom of Kara's agony retreated neath the throb of his own. Through blurry eyes the moon greeted him, colder, more distant than before. The severed head of Two-Six rested on his chest, crescent eye filled with empty, soulless spasms of light.

  Torment lanced through his barely tethered legs. And with grit teeth, he shifted to the nasty grind of bone and ruined armor. Blood saturated the floor, and soaked his fatigues. The fabric heavy with warm viscera.

  He nearly passed back out, but clutched onto consciousness like a vise—had to hold on, wait the pain out.

  It wouldn't last much longer.

  No. Not long at all.

  Rorik's skin convulsed. Crawled. Sinew after sinew, bone after bone began to stitch itself into place. Muscles slithered languidly around each other like wyrms, a familiar sensation that washed down his legs like static. Tortuously gross at times, but necessary.

  He was a tapestry of flesh rewoven courtesy of an ancient curse.

  When its grotesque, inhuman work was mostly done, Rorik sat upright, a corpse from his grave. Two-Six’s skull slipped as he stood, yet he caught it tight. Almost affectionately so. It was a trophy. An anchor. A solemn reminder of every time he'd died.

  What remained of his trauma-plate was torn away with the remnants of his shirt. Dry blood clung to his chest, chiseled muscle caked in grime.

  He limped along, healed the last of his wounds as he kicked an exit door free. The city of Baloen greeted him with stillness and dust-ridden air. And behind every blink, Kara teetered at the edge of suicide, an afterimage that was hopefully not reality.

  But real or not, it certainly wouldn't fade anytime soon...

  "Hey, Lieutenant."

  Rorik wiped his eyes to find Jakobs, roasting a kebab over the scorched hull of a T-11, bullet-riddled trauma-plate black with soot. Adrax lounged against a pile of brick behind him, devouring his own meal with fervor. Not a single iota of a fuck between them—two ash covered ghosts bathed in the light of a verdant fire.

  A perfect snapshot of their morbid, and incredibly absurd lives.

  "Where’ve you been?" Jakobs rotated his spit with a whistle, as if they’d separated in a store instead of a warzone. "Want one?"

  Rorik’s breath came slow, aching to leap over and throttle him senseless. Instead, he rebounded Two-Six's severed skull off of Jakobs’ head with a thunk.

  "Ow! You mop-headed fuckstick, mother—what the hell?!"

  "For not coming to help me, you jackass!"

  Jakobs blinked, rubbing his temple with genuine confusion. "But, you never need help? Like ever?"

  The illogical part of him wanted to stay pissed. And after a day like this who could blame him? But the logical Rorik relented with a long sigh, and went to scoop up Two-Six, who was caked in even more grime.

  "Sorry, Jakobs."

  "Another souvenir, Lieutenant?" Adrax asked almost cheerfully between gluttonous bites. "What's that number five since being here?"

  "Yeah. Another fine addition to my collection. I'll probably rework his subroutines or—"

  Rorik’s nose twitched. A strange scent had wafted through the smoke and roasting flesh. Metallic. Pungent. Familiar.

  "You girls smell that?"

  "Death and sizzling ass-cheeks?" Jakobs quipped. "Plenty to go around."

  "No. That."

  Jakobs hacked out a plume of brown snot, then sniffed again, but Rorik was already in motion. With each step the air thickened, boots crunching through a sea of ruin and dead bodies.

  Until the source of the odor finally came into view.

  The black crate.

  It was cracked open, the protective plating wrenched away at odd angles. Tubes and shattered vials oozed out into puddles filled with Bio-Hazard labels. A faint yellow steam emanated from the mess of ruptured glass sprinkled around.

  Now the scent was achingly recognizable. But off-kilter in a way that made it difficult to...?

  "Oh shit," Rorik stopped short, sudden enough for Jakobs to barrel into his back.

  Nearby bodies began to thrash. Shriek. Guttural, and hellish. Terrible spasms wracked their limbs, and bones snapped back into place with a macabre dance of rebirth.

  From beneath blackened armor, the Omni-Corp soldiers grew, plates gave way to pulsating flesh. Tufts of fur sprouted from skin like vengeful vegetation. And their helmets shattered, brittle as eggs to reveal snarling snouts, glowing eyes, and razor-sharp claws.

  They let out a howl that shook the stars.

  Primal. A chorus that spoke to something in the marrow of Rorik's bones, a declaration of violence saluted toward the moon.

  He drew his claws, and reloaded the pistol before Two-Six again hit the ground. Fate had had a hard-on for him today. With the whole death, Kara, and no sleep or food thing. And yet, in that moment, oddly enough Rorik didn't seem to mind much. Not at all.

  He'd fight the whole starsdamn planet, if necessary.

  Though as swiftly as they rose, the newborn wolves collapsed with choking whimpers. No ceremony. No climax. One second they were primed to attack—the next?—all dead as the damn dirt.

  Jakobs had re-positioned, but circled back around the crate, G4L half-raised, more uncertain than cautious. The two of them stood still for a good long while, the crinkle of flames and the muffled battle for Baloen the only banter.

  Rorik’s gaze drooped with a strange peace, and though he tried, he couldn’t begin to rationalize how this had happened.

  Replicating them, us, should’ve been impossible…

  “Dude.”

  Adrax chimed in at last, finally bothering to lazily saunter his way over, only to point out at the dirty kebab near Jakobs’ even filthier boots.

  His voice low, deadly, and serious.

  “...I know you're not gonna waste that?”