The Night Before Battle
The clock's brass hands gleamed in the dim light: 0247 hours.
Kasper flexed his fingers, feeling the silver tracery pulse beneath his skin as he made the final adjustments to his exoskeleton. The supply route operation would launch at 0500—less than three hours to prepare for what might be their final mission. If they failed to restore the supply nodes, Rivera's entire offensive would collapse, and with it, any hope of stopping the ATA's forced enhancement program.
His quarters smelled of machine oil and copper, the familiar scents of war. The silver tracery cast ghostlight shadows across the cramped room, illuminating the network of scars mapping his body. The integration ports along his spine throbbed with phantom pain as he worked, a constant reminder of what he'd sacrificed—and what he'd become. The metallic taste of enhancement stabilizers lingered on his tongue, bitter and artificial—necessary chemicals that kept his silver tracery from overwhelming his nervous system.
"Damn it," he muttered as the left leg assembly drifted again. Three millimeters of misalignment meant the difference between perfect execution and catastrophic failure in the field.
The tactical display mounted opposite his bunk bathed the room in amber light, projecting infiltration vectors and ATA force concentrations in meticulous detail. One chance to restore the supply nodes. One opportunity to create an opening for the main forces. The odds weren't favorable.
Kasper's gaze drifted to the disruption round resting on his desk, its copper-toned casing gleaming like a promise. Santos had developed the rounds for humane combat—electromagnetic disruption designed to overload neural interfaces without permanent damage.
Too good for Montoya, after what happened at The Farm.
The silver tracery beneath his skin pulsed faster at the thought, mapping rage in cold, metallic patterns. The screams that wouldn't stop when he closed his eyes. The faces he couldn't forget. The taste of ash and blood that filled his mouth every time he remembered the facility where Montoya had conducted his "experiments" on unwilling subjects.
His gaze shifted to the secure communication terminal in the corner. Protocol dictated radio silence before high-risk operations. Nothing that might compromise operational security.
And yet.
The silver tracery accelerated before his conscious mind had fully decided, mapping neural pathways that shouldn't exist—creating connections his enhancement was never designed to make.
"To hell with protocol," Kasper whispered, the words tasting of rebellion and necessity as he moved to the terminal. If this was the end, there were words that needed saying. Risks suddenly worth taking.
The terminal hummed to life with a familiar art deco glow, brass switches clicking as his fingers danced across them. Three redirects, two proxy servers, and a ghost protocol he'd developed during his Academy days. If anyone was monitoring, they'd track the signal to an abandoned communications relay in the northern district.
The silver tracery pulsed at his throat as the connection established.
One call. Home.
His father answered on the second tone, as if he'd been waiting.
Rodrigo de la Fuente's weathered face materialized in the holographic display, the workshop visible behind him—tools arranged with military precision, enhancement components in labeled brass containers, the original exoskeleton schematics still pinned to the wall after all these years. The gold-toned port at his temple cycled recognition patterns, a momentary pulse of light beneath skin creased by decades of working with enhancement chemicals.
"Kasper." His father's voice carried the distinctive brass rasp of an engineer who'd breathed integration compounds for thirty years. His eyes—the same deep brown as Kasper's own—scanned his son's face with practiced precision, cataloging changes, noting strain. "Secure channel?"
"Triple-encrypted," Kasper confirmed, the familiar technical exchange bringing unexpected relief. "Three-minute window before automatic termination."
His father nodded sharply, enhancement port cycling assessment patterns—old habits from his military engineering days. The workshop behind him was exactly as Kasper remembered: the worn leather chairs, the brass and copper enhancement components, the faint smell of soldering flux that always clung to his father's clothes.
"Your integration ports are showing stress patterns." His father leaned closer to the display, gold tracery momentarily visible at his temple. "The adaptive neural pathways aren't distributing load capacity."
Kasper almost smiled. No greeting, no pleasantries—just immediate diagnosis. Pure Rodrigo de la Fuente.
"Left femoral actuator keeps drifting during rapid acceleration," Kasper explained, feeling tension release from his shoulders as they slipped into the familiar rhythm. "I've recalibrated the microhydraulics, but the positional memory reverts after seventeen minutes of operation."
His father's enhancement port cycled problem-solving patterns. "Connection degradation at the spinal integration node. It's compensating incorrectly." His fingers moved off-screen, brass rings clicking against the terminal controls. "Disengage the tertiary nerve bundle at L4 and reroute through the secondary pathway. The redundant system will stabilize drift."
Kasper raised an eyebrow. "The bypass contradicts standard integration protocols."
A ghost of a smile touched his father's lips, crinkling the web of lines around his eyes. "When have you ever followed standard protocols, mijo?"
The familiarity of the exchange—and the rare term of endearment—eased something tight in Kasper's chest. For a moment, he was back in the workshop at home, brass lamps casting warm light as his father guided him through exoskeleton maintenance while his brother Javier tested prototype enhancements in the adjacent chamber. Before Mirage City. Before the ATA. Before everything changed.
"There's something else," Kasper said, revealing his forearm where the silver tracery pulsed beneath his skin. "The silver adapts differently than predicted."
His father leaned forward, enhancement port cycling intense analysis patterns. The gold tracery mapped complex calculations, old-world precision meeting new-world adaptation. "The integration shouldn't progress autonomously," he murmured, voice still clinical despite the concern flickering in his eyes.
"It responds to emotional states," Kasper admitted. The silver tracery pulsed once, mapping something he wouldn't name. "Combat readiness, tactical assessment... other things." He didn't mention the nightmares. The way the silver traced his grief in cold, metallic patterns beneath his skin.
His father's enhancement port cycled recognition, then something deeper. "Like your mother's neural architecture." The words came slowly, weighted with memory. "Her enhancement rejection created similar adaptive patterns before we stabilized it. Before you were born."
Kasper tasted something unexpected—sweet, like the cinnamon tea his mother used to make when he was young. A memory his conscious mind had forgotten, but his body remembered.
The silver tracery pulsed with surprise, mapping confusion along Kasper's forearm. "You never told me mother experienced rejection syndrome."
"It wasn't relevant until now." His father's voice softened, the engineer briefly yielding to the parent. "Your genetic profile showed no rejection markers. Neither did Javier's."
The mention of his brother hung between them. The silver tracery at Kasper's throat pulsed once—grief momentarily overriding tactical focus.
"How bad is it in Costa del Sol?" his father asked, changing course with characteristic directness. Brass instruments gleamed on the workbench behind him, a stark contrast to the sleek, modern enhancement components. "The official reports are inconsistent with observed enhancement failure patterns."
The smell of copper grew stronger in Kasper's quarters—psychosomatic response to memories of combat against ATA forces. The silver tracery mapped tactical assessments automatically.
"Bad," he admitted finally. "The ATA has been testing neural primer in water supplies. Mass enhancement without consent. We're implementing countermeasures, but—" He hesitated, the weight of what they'd discovered at The Farm pressing against his chest. "Our timeline has been compressed."
The question that had haunted him since The Farm rose unbidden: Would humanity still be human after Montoya's forced evolution? The copper-sweet taste of fear coated his tongue as he considered what would happen if they failed to stop the ATA's plans.
His father absorbed this with a single nod, though his enhancement port cycled alarm patterns. "Military-grade neural primer requires specific chemical catalysts." The gold tracery pulsed with what looked like regret. "The formulation I developed with Zariff—"
He stopped abruptly, the unfinished sentence hanging between them—another piece of their complicated history.
"Be careful with the exoskeleton's neural interface," his father continued, voice tightening. "If primer contamination reaches your integration ports, the rejection syndrome could accelerate beyond manageable parameters."
The warning carried more than technical concern. The silver tracery mapped the subtext that neither man would speak directly: fear of losing a son. Fear of another void medallion delivered with formal condolences.
A warning flashed at the corner of the display: thirty seconds remaining.
"Tell mother I'm—" Kasper paused, searching for the right words. Safe? Fine? Neither was true. "Tell her I'm still me. Despite everything."
His father's enhancement port cycled complex emotional patterns, the gold tracery briefly visible from temple to jawline. When he spoke, his voice carried unusual softness. "The silver adapts differently than predicted, Kasper." A pause, heavy with meaning. "So do you, mijo."
The connection terminated, the holographic display collapsing into darkness. The silver tracery pulsed once more at Kasper's throat—acknowledgment and promise intertwined—before fading beneath his skin.
Three minutes. Barely enough time to bridge the distance between what was and what had become.
The clock on the wall read 0253 hours.
Kasper returned to the exoskeleton components, fingers moving to implement his father's modification. As he worked, the silver tracery pulsed beneath his skin, mapping connections his father had never designed. Adapting in ways no one had predicted.
Creating something new from what had been broken.
The armory's brass-lined walls gleamed under the industrial lights, the air thick with gun oil, ozone, and the electric tension that preceded combat. Enhancement-integrated weapon systems lined the walls in precise arrangements, each designed for specialized combat against copper-enhanced ATA operatives. The room thrummed with the low frequencies of charging enhancement ports. Kasper tasted metal and electricity on his tongue as he breathed in deeply—the flavor of imminent violence that every veteran recognized but none could describe to civilians.
At 0415 hours, Kasper's team gathered around the central preparation table, each focused on their assigned equipment with methodical precision. The silver tracery beneath his skin mapped their positions automatically, calculating optimal combat formations even here in presumed safety.
Torres stood at the far side, his scarred hands working over a MAB 38 with practiced efficiency. The weapon's elegant brass fittings and walnut stock belied its deadly purpose—a retrofitted classic now housing enhancement-integrated targeting systems.
"Targeting calibration at ninety-eight percent," Torres reported without looking up, his enhancement ports cycling diagnostic patterns at his wrists. His movements carried the economy of a career soldier—no wasted motion, no unnecessary flourish. "Twenty-eight rounds with copper-disruption cores."
He spoke with the crisp precision of military academy training, each word as measured as his movements. The thin scar bisecting his left eyebrow twitched as he aligned the weapon's sights.
Beside him, Vega's massive frame made even the reinforced variant of the MAB look almost delicate in his hands. The large man worked in silence, his enhancement ports glowing with subdued amber light. His fingers—surprisingly delicate for a man of his size—moved with practiced efficiency over the weapon's components.
"Maximum impact configuration," Vega confirmed, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. His broad features remained impassive, but his enhancement ports cycled determination patterns. "Eight explosive rounds followed by sixteen standard. Alternating pattern."
His speech was economical to the point of terseness, each word carefully considered before being released, as if language itself was a precious resource to be conserved.
Across the table, Diaz worked with the quiet intensity that characterized everything she did. Youngest of the team, her fingers moved with unusual dexterity as she loaded electromagnetic disruption rounds into specialized magazines. Her enhancement ports glowed with bright blue light against her olive skin, cycling complex calculations.
"Disruption frequency calibrated to ATA signatures," she reported, glancing up to meet Kasper's gaze. Her voice carried the faint melodic accent of the southern provinces, a rhythmic counterpoint to Torres's military precision. "Based on patterns from The Farm. Should temporarily disable enhancement functions without permanent neural damage." A pause, enhancement ports cycling uncertainty. "If that's still the objective, sir?"
The question hung in the air, charged with meaning after what they'd witnessed at The Farm. The silver tracery pulsed once at Kasper's wrist—acknowledgment of the challenge in Diaz's words.
The smell of brass polish and weapon oil filled his nostrils as he considered her question. The weight of the KS-23 in his hands grounded him in the present, its walnut stock smooth against his palm.
"Disabling rather than destroying gives us tactical flexibility," Kasper confirmed, silver tracery receding slightly. "We need intelligence more than body counts."
Relief flickered across Diaz's features as she returned to her work, the rhythm of her movements almost musical in its precision.
Kasper stood at the head of the table, the exoskeleton now fully integrated with his system. The modification his father had suggested had stabilized the femoral actuator, though the integration points at his spine still ached with phantom pain. The KS-23 felt right in his hands—a weapon that predated enhancement technology but had proven surprisingly effective against copper-enhanced operatives.
With deliberate movements, he loaded the massive shotgun, each shell inserted with tactical purpose. Four standard high-impact rounds. Two electromagnetic pulse shells. Three armor-penetrating shells.
Then he reached for the final shell—the disruption round that Santos had designed specifically for command operatives. Its distinctive copper-toned casing caught the light, the electromagnetic disruption payload humming faintly against his enhanced senses.
Vega noticed the round, enhancement ports cycling recognition patterns. "Santos's design," he observed, the words falling like stones into still water. "Effective against command-level configurations."
"Perfect for Reyes," Torres added, neural targeting systems momentarily focusing on the specialized shell. His voice carried the edge of a soldier who had lost too many comrades. "If we encounter him during the operation."
For a moment, Kasper saw Santos explaining the design, enthusiasm lighting his features as he described the non-lethal solution. Always seeking the most humane approach, even in combat. The memory tasted of copper and regret.
"Not today," Kasper decided, securing the round in a reinforced case at his belt. The silver tracery mapped his decision with cold certainty. "This one's for Montoya."
The declaration settled over the team with the weight of promise. Not tactical assessment. Not strategic calculation. Personal.
The taste of vengeance was peculiar—not sweet as stories claimed, but sharp and mineral, like blood and copper pennies mixed with adrenaline.
Torres's enhancement ports cycled concern, though his expression remained professionally neutral. Vega nodded once, understanding evident in his weathered features. Diaz glanced between them, enhancement ports cycling analysis patterns as she processed the implications.
"Final equipment check," Kasper instructed, silver tracery accelerating as he shifted to operational focus. The smell of ozone intensified as enhancement ports throughout the room cycled to combat readiness. "Communications encrypted. Extraction protocols confirmed. Primary objective remains restoration of supply nodes. Secondary objective is intelligence on Operation Crucible."
The team moved through final preparations with practiced efficiency, checking each other's equipment with meticulous attention. Enhancement ports synchronized with soft clicks and whirs, the sound merging with the deeper hum of the armory's power systems.
At 0445 hours, they gathered at the armory entrance, ready to proceed to the transport bay. The silver tracery beneath Kasper's skin pulsed with combat readiness, mapping tactical scenarios with preternatural precision.
"Anything else before we move out?" Kasper asked, KS-23 secured across his back, exoskeleton humming with contained power.
Torres's neural targeting systems cycled operational patterns, his scarred face set with military discipline. "Supply lines will be heavily defended," he stated, precision unchanged even as concern flickered in his eyes. "ATA knows they're our vulnerability."
"Which is why they won't expect a small team to penetrate directly," Kasper countered, silver tracery mapping approach vectors. The taste of copper intensified—anticipation, not fear. "They're prepared for conventional assault, not specialized infiltration."
"And if we encounter command-level operatives?" Diaz asked, her melodic accent sharpening with tension. "Without using the disruption round on Reyes—"
"We adapt," Kasper interrupted, silver tracery pulsing with certainty beneath his skin. The exoskeleton hummed in response, microhydraulics adjusting to his shifting stance. "That's our advantage over conventional forces. Over copper enhancement. The ability to evolve beyond established parameters."
The silver adapts differently than predicted. So do you, mijo.
The fundamental question that drove their resistance tasted like iron and determination on his tongue: Could humanity chart its own evolution, or would the ATA force its version of "progress" upon an unwilling populace?
Vega's enhancement ports cycled acknowledgment, his massive frame shifting as he checked his weapon one final time. "Move fast. Strike hard," he rumbled, each word deliberately chosen. "Create opening for Torres's forces."
"And we all come back," Kasper added, silver tracery briefly visible at his throat—commitment rather than tactical assessment. "That's an order."
The team straightened slightly at the unexpected addition. In their world of enhancement-integrated warfare and calculated risks, such assurances were rarely offered. The silver tracery mapped their reactions—Torres's skepticism, Vega's solemn acceptance, Diaz's momentary hope.
"Transport bay," Kasper ordered, silver tracery receding as he led them from the armory into the corridor. Their footsteps echoed against the brass-inlaid floor, a rhythmic counterpoint to the hum of their enhancements. "Operation begins in fourteen minutes."
As they moved toward the waiting transport, the weight of the disruption round pressed against Kasper's side—a promise made but not yet fulfilled. A personal mission beneath the tactical objective.
A reminder that beyond enhancement rejection and evolution, beyond silver tracery and combat protocols, something fundamentally human remained.
Vengeance. Justice. The determination that Montoya would answer for The Farm. For Marisol. For every screaming victim whose voice continued to haunt Kasper's dreams.
With each passing day, the line between man and machine blurred further. The silver tracery adapted, evolved, changed him in ways he couldn't predict. Yet in this moment, tasting the metallic determination on his tongue and feeling the weight of the disruption round against his side, Kasper knew the most essential truth of their struggle:
It wasn't about who would control enhancement technology. It was about who would define humanity itself.
The void remembers.