Chapter 150: Class-D Riot
The corridor smelled of metal and disinfectant.
Zulu Team moved like shadows, boots silent against the reinforced floor. Their weapons swept from corner to corner, synchronized arcs of motion practiced a hundred times in drills. The only sounds were the faint creak of their gear and the distant hum of ventilation.
Bryant raised a fist, the universal command to halt. Instantly, the formation froze.
A gloved hand flicked through the dim light: Two fingers forward, one down. Check low.
Ethan, heart pounding, crouched and swept his sector, muzzle aimed just above the floor level. Clear. He signed back: Clear left.
Bjorn stacked up behind a reinforced door, his broad frame tense under the weight of his shield. Mason slid to cover the opposite corner, rifle angled down but ready to snap up in a breath. Harris moved like a ghost, his movements precise, scanning overhead pipes for any sign of trouble.
Bryant crouched slightly, signing quick commands: Tight spacing. Slow advance. Silent.
Zulu adjusted instantly. Each man shifted positions, a chain of muted efficiency. Ethan swallowed hard under his balaclava, his breathing loud in his own ears despite the muffled hush around him.
A soft double tap on his shoulder, Logan's signal: Move.
The team flowed forward again, the only communication a series of sharp hand gestures, nods, and the faint click of safeties disengaging. At every intersection, someone knelt, someone covered, and someone signed clear before the line advanced.
The silence was suffocating, broken only by the soft hiss of Ethan's breath in his headset. He reminded himself: Trust the formation. Trust the team.
Up ahead, Bryant stopped at a T-junction, holding one hand up and forming a closed fist. Everyone sank into cover. Another sequence of signs: Contact possible. Prepare.
Suddenly, a grenade sailed from the intersection ahead and landed right in front of Bryant.
"Grenade!"
The blast erupted with a sharp pop, releasing a cloud of pink smoke that engulfed Bjorn and Bryant. Their vests lit up with bright indicators.
"Goddammit," Bryant muttered through the haze. Both men were out.
Almost immediately, a burst of paint rounds cracked against the walls from the intersection. The whistle of impacts echoed in the confined hallway.
Harris raised his voice, sharp and commanding:
"TL Down! On my signal, we push!"
He yanked a training grenade from his rig, lobbed it toward the source of the fire, and ducked behind cover. Seconds later, boom! A wave of pink mist flooded the corner.
"Go!" Harris roared.
Zulu charged. Boots pounded against the floor as they cleared the corner in formation. Three enemy agents were already down, pink smoke hissing from their vests. They raised their hands lazily, signaling elimination.
Harris snapped out orders without slowing down:
"Logan, Mason, right side! I've got the center. Ethan, take the left! Bobby, keep us covered!"
The team broke apart, peeling into their assigned lanes. Ethan slipped down the left corridor, heart hammering, rifle snug against his shoulder. The tight, methodical movements came back to him like muscle memory, reminding him of his Green Beret days. The familiar thrill brought a sharp grin beneath his balaclava.
Suddenly, a hand shot out from a side doorway, hooking the barrel of his rifle upward. Ethan reacted instantly, shoving back, just as a hostile agent lunged out, blade flashing in the dim light.
Ethan slammed the knife arm aside, twisting for leverage, and drew his sidearm in one fluid motion. Before he could fire, the agent disengaged, slipping back into the doorway like a shadow.
Oh, you wanna play it that way? Ethan thought, and pushed in after him.
The second he crossed the threshold, a chair flew straight at his head. Ethan ducked hard, the chair splintering against the wall behind him. Out of nowhere, the agent was on him again, driving the knife toward his throat. Ethan caught the wrist, gritting his teeth as the blade hovered centimeters from his neck.
The agent smirked, eyes gleaming. Then, with a mocking pat on Ethan's vest, his training rig hissed and belched pink smoke.
"You're out, cadet," the agent said with a grin. "War is unfair. Any trick to win."
Before Ethan could answer, a sharp crack split the air, thwip! The agent's vest flared and vented pink smoke. Both men turned toward the doorway.
Bobby stood there, rifle leveled, eyes glowing faintly behind his metallic faceplate.
The enemy agent cursed. "Goddamn machine! Why don't we get one of those?"
Bobby tilted his head slightly, his voice cold and synthetic:
"Apologies, Agent. War is unfair."
Ethan burst out laughing, even as pink smoke curled from his vest. The enemy flipped him the bird with a grin, muttering under his breath as he stormed out. Ethan followed, shaking his head, still chuckling.
Both men crossed back into the hallway, joining the cluster of eliminated players near the extraction zone, where Bryant and Bjorn were already waiting.
Bryant leaned against the console, eyes fixed on the monitors. Beside him, the rival sergeant mirrored his focus, arms crossed.
"Fifty says my team clears this before the clock hits zero," Bryant said evenly.
The other sergeant smirked. "You're dreaming."
On-screen, chaos unfolded. Harris moved like a machine, precise, silent, no wasted effort. He sidestepped a strike, pivoted, and drove a crushing kick into an opponent's chest. The agent hit the floor hard, his smoke device flaring pink. Harris didn't even glance down, already scanning for the next target.
One of the observers let out a low whistle. "Damn. He didn't even blink."
Bryant allowed himself the smallest of grins. "That's Harris for you."
Seconds later, the last opposition marker went red. The board flashed: Zulu Team – Victory.
Bryant exhaled through his nose, extending a hand. "Pleasure doing business."
The rival sergeant handed over a folded bill without a word. Bryant took it with a smirk.
The blast doors opened with a heavy clang, and the squads filed out. Helmets came off, and laughter broke out among most of Zulu. Mason cracked a grin.
"That kick, corporal… straight out of a movie."
Ethan jogged up to Harris, still grinning. "Seriously, hell of a move, Caporal."
Harris didn't slow his pace or look back. His tone was flat, almost bored.
"It worked. That's all that matters."
Harris boots hit the floor in the same steady rhythm as before, as if the match had never happened.
Both squads gathered in front of their sergeants. Bryant was the first to speak.
"Alright, Sierra and Zulu, let's start the debriefing." He glanced at the other sergeant, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "First question: how the hell did you know I was there when you threw that grenade?"
The other sergeant chuckled. "It's hard not to notice you with that smell of yours."
A few suppressed laughs rippled through the agents. Bryant shot him a cold stare, but the man shrugged.
"Jokes aside, it was pure instinct."
Bryant: "…."
"Next, Sierra team, you got completely outplayed by Zulu when they hit you with that second grenade. They forced you to scatter and lost all formation. However, using ambush tactics was a good call. Next, for-"
Before he could finish, the alarm blared violently through the facility:
"Riot Alert. Level Four, Sector Nine. All non-combat personnel are to evacuate floors two through six immediately."
Everyone froze for a second. Then the radio crackled to life.
"Security Command to Sierra, Romeo, and Zulu Teams. Proceed immediately to the riot site on Level Four, Sector Nine. Reinforce security forces and neutralize the situation. Engagement rules under Security Protocol 3.1."
Bryant grabbed his radio without hesitation. "Zulu Actual, copy that."
The other sergeant responded right after. "Sierra Actual, roger."
Another voice came through. "Romeo Actual, acknowledged."
Bryant turned to his squad, his voice sharp and commanding.
"Gear up in the armory, NOW!"
Ethan's pulse quickened. The weight of the situation slammed into him like a hammer. Without wasting a second, he sprinted toward the lockers with the others, throwing on his gear and strapping every weapon in place. His hands moved fast, too fast for comfort but adrenaline left no room for hesitation.
As soon as he slammed the last magazine into his vest, he dashed back to Bryant, who was already armed and ready.
"MOVE OUT!" the sergeant barked.
Sierra team fell in behind them as they sprinted through Sectors Six, Seven, and Eight, boots pounding against steel floors, radios buzzing with chaotic updates.
After more than ten minutes of sprinting through Site-19's endless steel corridors and stairwells, the two squads finally reached an open blast door. Beyond it lay a marked zone on the floor, a designated checkpoint leading to another massive blast door.
In front of that second door stood a formation of heavily armed security officers, shields and batons in hand, their stances rigid and ready.
Waiting with them was the lieutenant of Sector Nine, easily recognizable by the dark crimson beret resting on his head. Two sergeants flanked him like twin pillars of authority.
"Sierra and Zulu?" the lieutenant asked in a calm yet commanding tone.
Bryant and Sierra's sergeant answered in unison. "Yes, sir."
"Good. You were the last pieces we needed." The lieutenant's voice dropped a notch, heavy with urgency. "Shield 09 Team,the ones initially assigned to the Class-D Containment, got caught off guard. They managed to pull out before things got fatal."
From the other side of the blast door came the sounds of chaosc violent banging, fists pounding metal, and an unending chorus of furious screams. The steel trembled with every hit.
The lieutenant continued, his voice sharp and clear over the noise.
"Here's the plan: Shield, Zulu, and Romeo, you're our first line with the riot shields. Romeo, you'll provide support from the second line. When the breach starts, we'll lift the door just enough for you to toss flashbangs. The moment they detonate, we storm in, shields first. You have full authorization to beat down and restrain any Class-D outside their cells. Zulu and Romeo, your combat drones will hold the third line and provide suppression with smoke launchers and non-lethal rounds. Understood?"
The combined roar of voices shook the corridor.
"YES, SIR!"
Ethan followed the motion of the others, slinging his rifle across his back. With practiced precision, he deployed his riot shield and gripped the baton in his right hand, stepping into formation shoulder-to-shoulder with Bjorn and Mason.
"One minute to breach!" the lieutenant barked.
The tension spiked. Ethan could feel his pulse hammering against the inside of his skull. The guttural roars and metallic pounding from beyond the blast door filled his ears, vibrating through his shield like a living beast begging to be unleashed.
"Ten seconds to breach!" The countdown ripped through the air like a gunshot.
Then came the final count.
"Three… Two… One… LIFT THE DOOR!"
The blast door screeched open just a few inches, and through the gap Ethan saw filthy sneakers and twitching hands, desperate Class-D fingers clawing at freedom.
"FLASHBANGS! NOW!"
Sierra's front line yanked pins in perfect sync and hurled the grenades into the opening. For two eternal seconds, nothing. Then-
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The explosions tore through the confined space, the concussive force deafening and disorienting the mob inside. Screams turned to guttural moans of pain and confusion.
"FULL OPEN! MOVE!"
The blast door surged upward, revealing a scene of chaos and ruin. Dozens of Class-Ds writhed on the ground, hands over their eyes, ears bleeding from the sensory assault. Some crawled blindly, trembling like broken animals. Others stumbled aimlessly, arms outstretched, faces twisted in rage and terror.
But beyond them, further down the corridor, stood those who had evaded the flashbangs. Hardened inmates with bloodlust in their eyes. Some clenched sharpened pipes; others were already bolting deeper into the containment wing.
The lieutenant's roar shattered the air:
"CHARGE!"
And then it happened. Like a steel tide, the entire assault force surged forward. Shields locked tight, boots hammering the floor, a single wordless cry rolling like thunder through the steel halls.
Ethan felt the surge of bodies around him as the formation pushed forward. Riot shields slammed into the first wave of disoriented Class-D inmates like a steel wall, knocking them backward. The sound of boots striking metal grated through the chaos like drums of war.
"HOLD THE LINE! PUSH!" The lieutenant's voice bellowed from somewhere behind Ethan, but the roar of dozens of voices and the clashing of steel drowned nearly everything.
A wild-eyed inmate lunged from the left, swinging a sharpened chair leg like a club. The blow crashed against Ethan's shield, jarring his arm to the bone. Before the man could swing again, Ethan drove his baton into the man's ribs with a sickening thud. The Class-D howled and stumbled back into the crush of bodies.
Another came at him immediatelyx bare fists, spittle flying from his mouth as he screamed incoherently. Ethan sidestepped, pivoted, and slammed the edge of his shield into the man's jaw. The impact was brutal; the inmate dropped like a sack of concrete.
Don't stop moving. Don't stop thinking.
Bjorn was beside him, silent as a glacier, his massive frame shoving a screaming rioter backward with sheer force. Mason struck fast and vicious, his baton cracking against arms and knees like breaking branches.
From the far side of the corridor came a deafening crash, metal pipes against steel walls and then a rain of projectiles: broken plates, chair legs, chunks of torn metal. One smashed into Ethan's shield, another grazed his helmet hard enough to ring his ears.
"KEEP YOUR SHIELDS UP!"
A flash of movement to his right, an inmate with a jagged shiv lunged for Mason's exposed side. Ethan reacted without thought, bashing his shield sideways and ramming the man into the wall. The shiv clattered to the floor, and Ethan drove his baton into the man's thigh before moving on.
The corridor became a meat grinder. Bodies slammed against shields, fists hammering steel. A guard screamed as a Class-D tackled him to the ground, fists pounding his helmet like a drum. Before Ethan could react, Bobby's cold metallic voice rang out from behind:
"Target subdued."
A single rubber round exploded from Bobby's weapon, smashing into the attacker's shoulder and dropping him instantly. Bobby's mechanical precision swept the rear, non-lethal rounds cracking like thunder, dispersing anyone who tried to break through.
Flashbang smoke still clung to the air, mixing with the stench of sweat and blood. Somewhere in the madness, someone set something on fire, a chair leg wrapped in rags. The flames danced wildly before being stomped out by a riot shield.
Ethan's breath rasped inside his helmet. His arms burned from the weight of his shield, but the line kept moving forward, inch by inch, step by brutal step. Every time a Class-D surged forward, a shield slammed them back. Every time a weapon flashed, a baton answered.
The resistance began to crumble. Those who weren't bleeding, broken, or zip-tied were falling back, retreating into the maze of the Class-D dormitory. The guards pressed forward, herding them like cattle.
Then the noise shifted. The chaotic screams faded into distant echoes, replaced by heavy boots and short, sharp commands over the comms. The last stragglers vanished into the far end of the block.
"Sector clear!" someone called, breathless.
Ethan looked around, bodies everywhere. Some groaning, others unconscious, wrists bound in plastic cuffs. His heart pounded, his hands trembling slightly as the adrenaline clung to his veins like ice water.
But it wasn't over.
"They've regrouped," the lieutenant's voice cut through the comms, flat and cold as stone. "Cafeteria."
Ethan turned his head toward the flickering emergency lights at the far end of the corridor. The Class-D cafeteria, one of the largest open spaces in the block. If they were all holed up in there… it wouldn't be pretty.
The lieutenant confirmed the inevitable over comms:
"All units form up. They're cornered in the cafeteria. We'll finish this now."
Ethan took one last deep breath, tightening his grip on the shield. His muscles ached, sweat slicked his undersuit, and blood, his or someone else's, spattered his visor.
Round one was over. Round two was about to begin.
The cafeteria doors loomed ahead, reinforced glass and steel, smeared with grime and fingerprints. Behind them, the shadows of Class-D figures shifted like wolves behind a fence. Riot shields lined up in formation, boots heavy against the tile floor. The tension was suffocating.
"Shields up! We breach in five!" the lieutenant barked.
Ethan locked his shield in place, baton gripped tight in his other hand. His pulse hammered like a war drum. Beside him, Bjorn muttered a low curse under his breath. Mason gave a sharp nod, jaw clenched. Harris stood unnervingly calm, his pale eyes fixed on the door as if already calculating the chaos to come.
Four. Three. Two-
Something moved. A dark shape arced through the air, spinning end over end. For a fraction of a second, no one processed what it was.
Then someone screamed.
"GRENADE!!!"
The formation shattered. Shields clanged as men scrambled back, boots screeching across the tile. Ethan dove hard, his shoulder slamming into the floor as the world erupted in white.
The blast wasn't fire, just light and sound. A blinding flash, a bone-rattling crack that punched the air from Ethan's lungs. His vision went pure static, his ears ringing so loud he thought his skull had split in half.
Move. MOVE.
He tried to push up, but his arms felt like wet sand. Somewhere beyond the ringing, a new sound ripped through, the guttural roar of dozens of voices.
The Class-Ds were charging.
They hit like a tidal wave. Shadows swarmed through the fading white blur in Ethan's vision. Screams, boots, fists. The crash of shields collapsing under sheer weight. Guards were tackled, dragged down, beaten with chair legs, pipes, anything that could break bone.
Ethan barely rolled in time as a body slammed where his head had been. A boot struck his ribs, sending agony flaring up his side. Another hand clawed for his helmet, jerking his head back.
He reacted on instinct. His baton came down hard, crunching against knuckles. Someone screamed. Ethan shoved his shield between himself and the next attacker, slamming it forward with everything he had. The impact drove the man back, buying Ethan two precious seconds.
Another shape lunged. A blur of teeth and sweat. Ethan swung wide, the baton cracking against a jaw with a meaty thunk. Blood sprayed across the floor tiles. The man crumpled, and Ethan staggered to his feet, chest heaving, vision still swimming.
The cafeteria had dissolved into hell. Guards and Class-Ds tangled in a savage melee, fists hammering helmets, shields smashing faces. Somewhere, Logan roared like a beast, shoving two inmates into a wall. Bobby's metallic voice cut through the din-
"Threat detected. Engaging."
Then the thud-thud-thud of non-lethal rounds punctured the chaos, dropping attackers like ragdolls.
Ethan ducked as a plate shattered against the wall beside his head. His shield was slick with sweat and blood, his muscles screaming from the weight. He swung low, bashing knees, then rammed his shoulder forward, sending another inmate sprawling.
For a heartbeat, he thought the line might hold. Then he saw it.
The far door, the secondary corridor exit was open. Wide open. And through it, orange-clad figures were slipping out like rats from a sinking ship.
"Shit…" Ethan hissed, slamming his baton into another Class-D's ribs before breaking free. His legs felt like lead, his skull still humming from the flashbang, but he forced himself forward. He barreled past a guard struggling on the ground, past another inmate clawing at a shield, and sprinted toward the open corridor.
The fluorescent lights blurred overhead. His breath roared in his ears, louder than the fight fading behind him. All he could see were those fleeing shapes, their orange jumpsuits glowing like embers in the dark.
They were escaping. And if they made it past the next blast door…
Not on his watch.
Ethan gritted his teeth, pushed harder, and plunged after them, half-blind, half-deaf, and burning with the raw fury of survival.
Boots thundered down the corridor as Ethan sprinted, breath ragged in his throat. Three other guards were on his heels, shields clattering, batons slick with sweat. Ahead, orange jumpsuits flickered like warning lights, dozens of Class-Ds bolting toward freedom, desperation twisting every movement.
Ethan jammed his thumb on the radio.
"Zulu Six to Security Command! Multiple Class-Ds escaping the CDC! Currently in pursuit!"
Static hissed for half a beat, then the reply crackled through.
"Copy that, Zulu Six. Recapture them."
Recapture them, Ethan thought grimly, teeth clenched as he vaulted over a body sprawled across the tiles. Not eliminate. No bullets, no quick solution, just batons, fists, and broken bones.
They ran hard, the air a furnace in their throats, smashing down any stragglers. One inmate went down with a grunt, face bouncing off the floor as zip ties cinched his wrists. Another screamed when a baton cracked his knee sideways, Ethan jerking him upright before tossing him to a trailing officer.
But the main group didn't slow. They tore through the maze of corridors, wild and rabid, until-
A steel door slammed their path shut with a hydraulic hiss.
The Class-Ds skidded to a halt, curses flying like knives. They turned, eyes burning, faces slick with sweat and blood. Behind them, the guards closed in, Ethan at the front, shield raised, baton gripped tight.
One of the guards shouted, voice sharp and mocking:
"Hands on your heads, now! Or I swear, what we do to you will make police brutality look like gentle hugs!"
The inmates froze. For half a heartbeat, Ethan thought maybe, just maybe, they'd surrender.
Then a chair leg came up like a spear. Another man hefted a broken pipe.
One of them snarled, teeth bared:
"Go to hell, you bastards!"
Another guard muttered under his breath, voice dripping with frustration:
"Why the hell don't we just shoot them?"
"Because of the damn Ethics Committee and their precious human rights," someone else snapped. "We're supposed to 'preserve valuable human resources' aka these goddamn Class-Ds."
The inmates spread out, forming a rough line, their makeshift weapons raised. One of them spat blood on the floor and raised his fists, voice echoing through the corridor:
"Come on then, you sons of bitches!"
The guard who spoke first grinned like a wolf behind his visor.
"Fine by me."
He spat on the floor, tightened his grip on his baton, and roared:
"LET'S END THIS!"
And they charged.
Steel slammed into flesh, batons cracking against bone. The corridor erupted in a storm of screams, boots pounding, fists shattering against riot shields. Ethan rammed his shield into a Class-D's chest, feeling the air explode from the man's lungs. He swung low, his baton snapping against a shin, then pivoted as another inmate lunged with a jagged pipe.
The metal screeched across his shield. Sparks flew. Ethan twisted, slamming the edge of his shield into the man's jaw with a sickening crack. Teeth sprayed across the floor.
Pain flared in his ribs, another blow, from behind. He spun, parried with his baton, drove it into a gut, then hooked the man's arm and snapped it clean against his shield. The inmate howled, crumpling to his knees.
The hallway became a meat grinder. Guards pushed forward in a brutal phalanx, boots grinding over bodies as they advanced inch by bloody inch. The Class-Ds fought like demons, clawing, biting, swinging wildly but desperation couldn't beat armor and training.
One by one, they fell. Some unconscious, some curled and screaming with shattered limbs. Blood smeared the walls, sweat and spit painting the tiles. Ethan's lungs burned, his arms felt like lead, but he didn't stop, not until the last man standing dropped his chair leg and hit the floor with a final grunt.
For a moment, silence. Just ragged breathing and the soft clatter of batons hitting the ground.
Then Ethan's radio crackled again.
"Zulu Six, report."
Ethan swallowed hard, wiping blood from his visor.
"…Target group neutralized. Securing now."
They slapped restraints on the last struggling Class-D and shoved him back toward the main group. The corridor reeked of sweat and coppery blood. Step by step, they forced the surviving inmates back into the CDC.
When they returned, the sight was chaos incarnate. More than a hundred Class-Ds sat or lay across the concrete floor, hands cuffed behind their backs. Some were unconscious, others groaning through shattered ribs and bruised faces. A few, miraculously, looked untouched, wide-eyed, trembling, too afraid to speak.
The guards tossed the fresh captives into the pile like discarded trash.
The lieutenant stepped forward, dragging his radio to his mouth.
"S-9 Actual to Security Command. All rioters are in custody. Requesting medical team for injured personnel."
A crackle of static answered.
"Copy, S-9 Actual. Medical team is inbound. Over."
Minutes crawled by, heavy with the stink of blood and adrenaline. Then, the sound of boots echoed down the corridor. Several medics rushed inside, trailed by additional security officers. They dropped to their knees, checking vitals, stabilizing fractures, and hauling the worst cases toward stretchers.
Bryant strode over to Ethan, visor pushed up, sweat streaking his face.
"Good work, Veyers," he said, voice gruff but steady. "You kept your head in the middle of that mess. Chasing them down? Smart call. Anything broken?"
Ethan glanced down, flexing his arms and rolling his shoulders.
"Nothing."
Before Bryant could respond, the atmosphere shifted. A new presence entered the CDC, a different kind of weight.
Ethan's eyes narrowed as several men in tailored suits strode through the blast door, black badges clipped to their lapels. Bryant muttered under his breath, jaw tightening.
"Ah, hell. Here come the real problems."
The suits cut across the room without hesitation, heading straight for the lieutenant. Their leader, a tall man with cold gray eyes and an immaculate tie, flashed a badge.
"Lieutenant. Inspector Eisner, Internal Affairs and Ethics Committee Liaison. I have several questions for you."
The lieutenant's jaw flexed like stone.
"Would it be possible to handle this later? I have an aftermath to deal with."
Eisner's expression didn't shift an inch.
"That wasn't a request."
For a moment, silence hung like a noose. Then the lieutenant exhaled slowly, teeth grinding.
"Understood. I'll follow you."
As the suits escorted him away, another figure entered, a woman in a black combat jacket, captain's insignia gleaming on her shoulder. Captain Ortega swept her gaze across the carnage, then at the line of agents in suits dragging the lieutenant out.
She muttered under her breath, just loud enough for Ethan to catch:
"Oof. Good luck with that."
Then she turned sharply, barking orders left and right as the chaos of cleanup began.
One hour later, Ethan followed Bryant down the long concrete corridor, the metallic clank of chains echoing with every step. They were escorting a line of Class-Ds back to their cells, each one cuffed and silent under the barrel of a dozen rifles.
When the last door slammed shut with a heavy thunk, Ethan finally spoke up.
"Internal Affairs? Do we have a department like that?"
Bryant let out a dry laugh, shaking his head as he locked the cell door.
"'A department like that,' huh? Kid, it's more than that. It's a whole damn mess of departments rolled into one. Think of it as… admin suits, internal security, our very own tribunal, and the Ethics Committee, all mashed together."
Ethan frowned. "Sounds like a nightmare."
Bryant smirked. "It gets better. That guy back there? Eisner? He's probably pulling double, hell, triple duty. Admin and internal security for sure… plus liaison for the Ethics Committee. He must be really fun at parties, I bet."
From behind them, Mason snorted.
"Triple duty? Please. That guy just set a new record for Most Hated Roles in the Foundation. Paperwork leech, gun to your back 24/7, and the holy priest of Ethics breathing down your neck? Damn."
Bryant chuckled, the sound low and tired. "Yeah. Can't argue with that."
The three of them walked on, boots heavy on the steel floor. For the first time in hours, the tension started to bleed out, replaced by that strange mix of exhaustion and grim amusement only soldiers knew.
And just like that, the day came to an end.