With a loud metallic clang, the armored door slammed shut, like the throat of a steel beast contracting, swallowing the woman's heart-wrenching cries and the child's weak sobs without a trace.
The muffled thud echoed across the deserted street, striking Mike's chest like a sledgehammer.
Several dozen meters away, under the optical camouflage cloak, his body was heaving violently.
Even though he wore a long-sleeved civilian outfit, the bulging muscles in his arms strained the nano-fiber fabric into marble-like ridges.
His fists were clenched so tightly that the joint plating of his tactical gloves let out faint creaking sounds.
"Those bastards…" he hissed through gritted teeth, each syllable laced with boiling rage. "Did you see that kid's arm? Thin as a twig!"
The night wind carried the bitter stench of industrial waste. Even if it couldn't lift the edge of Mike's cloak, Leon could easily imagine the fury on his face.
"Calm down," Leon said, his voice low and restrained.
He stood motionless in the shadows, his face beneath the hood and mask tinged with the cold glow of his visor.
Years of experience as a field agent had taught him how to channel anger into precise action. But the tight line of his jaw betrayed his inner turbulence.
"Those sons of bitches," Mike growled. "Leon? That kid hasn't eaten in three days, and these assholes are still out enforcing some bullshit 'curfew ordinance'? This place is rotted to the core."
The scene they had just witnessed was intolerable for Mike—especially because his own children were around the same age as the boy now locked up.
That child's gaunt, malnourished face—paired with the blood from the mother's scraped knees—set a father's fury ablaze within him.
Leon stood beside him, face grim and silent.
He wasn't lacking in anger—he had simply learned, over years of investigation, how to control it.
Far down the street, the scenery resembled a gray-toned oil painting.
A massive maglev train roared past, city towers flickered with pulses of low-frequency energy, and the air was thick with a persistent stench—an odor that suggested the burning of organic matter.
"This planet's technological level isn't low," Leon finally said, scanning the surroundings. "Their alloy smelting techniques, maglev systems, energy tower heat dispersal—on par with our Empire's primary colonies, even superior in some aspects."
"But people can't even eat," Mike replied coldly. "It's not a lack of tech. It's man-made disaster."
"More precisely—systemic rot," Leon murmured.
As they spoke, the prisoner transport vehicle slowly began to move, following a patrol car down the street.
The prisoner van's matte black body bore no insignia—only a string of cold red serial numbers sprayed on the rear.
The sealed compartments had no windows, only a few narrow ventilation slits.
Mike's gaze followed the receding vehicle, his fists tightening once again under the cloak.
"Why don't we just move now?" he asked through the encrypted channel. Under the hood's shadow, his eyes burned with dangerous intensity—he was clearly ready to launch full-scale war right now.
"Give me thirty seconds and I'll have the Salamanders' Third Company dropping orbital pods right on these bastards' heads."
His finger hovered over the emergency comms interface on his tactical wrist unit. "Launch full-scale integration now and be done with it."
But Leon grabbed his wrist, the reinforced fibers of his glove making a subtle rubbing sound under the strain.
"I want to flatten this place even more than you," Leon said calmly. His visor displayed a projected route of the prisoner transport's trajectory. "But those civilians might be scattered across multiple locations. Going in now would get them killed."
Mike took a deep breath, recalling the boy's skeletal arm and the blood on the mother's leg. His anger was justified, but this wasn't the time.
As senior agents of the Investigation Department—and veterans at that—Leon and Mike were authorized to modify mission objectives according to on-the-ground conditions.
Seeing the local populace being oppressed, imprisoned, and starved right before their eyes made it clear that any delay could cost more innocent lives.
Leon wasn't rejecting Mike's proposal—he was preparing to identify all detention locations before calling in the higher-ups to initiate the integration strike.
"You're right. I lost my head for a second."
Mike quickly backed down from the orbital strike idea, though his voice still smoldered with anger. "We'll lock down all detention sites first, then have the Salamanders rain hell on them—after we request approval to bring in the Imperial Guard."
He adjusted the power on his cloak, its surface rippling like water. "I can already see the grins on the guys' faces."
Leon gave a silent nod.
The Salamanders—and the Imperial Guard—had waited a long time for their first real opportunity to act in this new parallel universe. Every second of delay was torture for these giants.
Caged beasts, waiting to tear apart anything foolish enough to challenge the Empire.
Now, this tyrannical regime would offer the perfect hunting ground.
The two agents silently followed the van. Their tactical boots made no sound on the pavement.
Leon's visor continuously scanned the environment, marking all potential defense points onto the shared tactical network.
As they passed a ruined supply station, they noticed graffiti in a nearby alley, clear through night vision mode—
"Death to Mengsk,"
"Raynor will return," and countless other phrases. Some were outlined with phosphorescent paint, glowing eerily in the dark.
"Looks like we're not the only ones who want to topple this regime. That so-called terrorist, Jim Raynor, must be one of them," Mike whispered.
He also noticed spent shell casings scattered on the ground—further proof of recent uprisings.
But civilian mobs, no matter how passionate, could never match the firepower of professional troops.
The van suddenly turned at a crossroads ahead, its heavy wheels crunching shattered glass as it headed down a desolate road toward the city outskirts.
Leon and Mike exchanged a glance and quickened their pace.
Their cloaks remained undisturbed despite the speed, their forms like invisible phantoms gliding through the shadows.
As the van left the city's perimeter and picked up speed, Leon suddenly surged forward.
His tactical glove's adhesion module activated, and he gripped the van's rear ladder firmly.
Mike followed instantly. His boot soles met the metal roof silently as they flattened against the vehicle like geckos.
The road soon gave way to wilderness.
Animal eyes glinted in the underbrush. Charred checkpoint ruins stood on the horizon.
Minutes later, their visors showed they'd traveled about fifteen kilometers from the city. A rotten stench filled the air—not from garbage, but from decaying flesh.
Then a town appeared on the horizon, and even for battle-hardened agents like them, the sight drew a breathless pause.
The town was a complete ruin. Houses burned like torches, lighting up the night.
The main road was littered with civilian vehicle wreckage—some with doors ajar and dried blood inside.
The most horrifying part was the makeshift "disposal sites"—
Heaps of corpses dumped in open lots. Some were charred beyond recognition, reduced to twisted skeletons.
Next to one partially burned pile, workers in hazmat suits used mechanical arms to toss new bodies into a pit. Black smoke curled into the night like ghostly wails.
As the van slowed before a gate, Leon's visor focused on a rusted metal sign—
"Deadwater Base. Trespassers will be shot on sight."
Below it, several fresh corpses were nailed to a barbed wire fence, "Traitor" painted in red across their chests.
Inside the base, the defenses were suffocating.
Snipers lay prone atop watchtowers. Automated turrets rotated with the van's movement. All patrolling soldiers wore fully enclosed power armor.
When the van stopped in front of a warehouse, Leon and Mike slipped down into the shadows.
The warehouse door creaked open, releasing a nauseating mix of blood, waste, and disinfectant.
Leon's visor immediately detected high concentrations of sedatives and painkillers in the air.
"This isn't a prison or labor camp," Mike muttered over the encrypted channel, voice heavy with fury. "This is a slaughterhouse."
Leon didn't answer. He was frozen by the scene inside.
Hundreds of metal cages, each packed with three or four ragged civilians.
Further in, figures in lab coats scanned inmates shackled to metal beds. Carts nearby were piled with blood samples and testing kits.
It was clear now—the captured civilians weren't just to instill fear. They were being used as disposable test subjects.
Using their cloaks for cover, Leon and Mike moved deeper into the base.
After bypassing two guard towers, they reached a section sealed by blast doors.
Mike placed an electromagnetic decoder on a side entrance terminal. Thirty seconds later, a soft beep signaled access.
A crack of cold light revealed a massive storage area—nearly the size of six football fields, stacked with thousands of olive-green containers.
Their visors scanned the contents.
On the left: rows of assembled power armor, still slick with maintenance oil.
On the right: racks of weapon components.
"Damn," Mike breathed. "That's enough to equip ten auxiliary companies."
Leon focused on the digital manifest at the back.
A holographic list detailed recent shipments—over 200 tons of medical supplies and 3,000 sets of infantry gear sent to six nearby military outposts in just the past week.
The warehouse also held vast reserves of food and civilian goods.
"This place is a major logistics hub," Leon whispered. "They're stockpiling supplies while civilians starve."
"They need to die," Mike growled. "Let's show them what judgment means."
They exited and pressed deeper into the base.
After clearing three more checkpoints, a towering alloy structure came into view.
The suspected command center rose like a spear, its data antennas stabbing into the night and broadcasting encrypted signals.
Leon and Mike used their visors' quantum decryption functions to tap in. Soon, clear audio streamed through:
"Third transport has arrived at Karn Outpost. Unloading complete."
"Seventh armored company reports ammo shortage. Requesting urgent resupply."
"Alert—Zone B-7 civilian riot. Deploy suppression units."
Their systems rapidly parsed the data and mapped the command network.
This wasn't just a supply node—it was the neural hub for the entire region.
Every order, every shipment passed through here.
Controlling this meant cutting off the enemy's lifeline and paralyzing their defense grid.
Leon opened a secure channel and called Chris, stationed with the Salamanders:
"Chris, this is Leon and Mike from Team Seven. Do you copy?"
Chris responded almost immediately: "Special Operations receiving, loud and clear."
Leon wasted no time. He uploaded their collected intel and stated:
"Team Seven has confirmed this planet's human regime operates a major military logistics base. Based on analysis by myself and Agent Mike Monady, we deem this regime unworthy of diplomatic contact and recommend full extermination.
To prevent further harm to the civilian population, Team Seven formally requests authorization for the Special Operations Unit and the Salamanders Third Company to conduct an orbital strike on this base.
Additionally, we request immediate deployment of the Imperial Guard stationed at the frontline base, to coordinate with Special Ops and the Salamanders for a full integration campaign against this star system."
(End of Chapter)
[Get +20 Extra Chapters On — P@tr3on "Mutter"]
[Every 50 Power Stones = 1 Bonus Chapter Drop]
[Thanks for Reading!]