In a remote area, the shrill echo of alarms reverberated through the corridors while hurried footsteps pounded against the cold floor. In the distance, sharp bursts of gunfire shattered the air like thunder, heralding an impending storm. Suddenly, a uniformed figure burst into what appeared to be a conference room. Inside, five figures seated around a circular table turned their heads toward the newcomer, their faces barely illuminated by the dim glow of the screens in front of them.
"What are you doing here?" asked an authoritative voice from the center of the table, its tone sharp but laced with concern.
"I'm sorry, General, but we're under attack," replied the soldier, breathing heavily as he came to a stop before the group.
The man addressed as "General" stared at him intently, his visible eye narrowing skeptically. The flickering light from the monitors cast dancing shadows across his weathered face, marked by years of service.
"That's impossible. This place is hidden," said the General, his voice steady but tinged with uncertainty. He paused briefly before continuing: "Who's attacking us?"
The soldier swallowed hard, as if fearing the words that left his mouth moments later.
"Sir… We're being attacked by appliances. They've gone berserk and turned into some kind of lethal armed robots."
A heavy silence fell over the room. The General leaned back in his seat, processing the information with a mix of disbelief and frustration.
"First orphans with powers, and now killer appliances…" he muttered to himself, more as a release than a question.
Before anyone could respond, another figure entered the room. It was a man about thirty-five years old, dressed in a dark green uniform and a long coat that reached down to his knees. His presence commanded respect even before he spoke.
"Didn't you see the news, sir?" said the newcomer without preamble, addressing the General directly.
The General looked at him, confused, while the other four members of the group exchanged equally intrigued glances.
"Ah! It's you, Major Mike. What news?" asked the General, raising an eyebrow.
"Apparently, sir, Radar's leader—Zeus— spilled the beans," said Major Mike, his voice firm but charged with urgency as he adjusted his stance in front of the General. He paused briefly, as if carefully choosing his words before continuing. "When he saw his plan wasn't working on the controlled ones, he activated these machines belonging to TechRaise."
The Major leaned slightly forward, resting his hands on the central table. His expression was serious, almost grim, as he looked directly at the General.
"With this attack…" —he paused again, this time more deliberately, as if to emphasize what he was about to say— "We believe… No! We are certain that TechRaise is one of the many companies tied to that man. If it's not directly his, it's under his influence. They're now attacking everyone."
Major Mike's tone grew even more intense, almost like a warning echo resonating throughout the room. His words hung heavy in the air, brimming with implications, while the other members of the group exchanged worried glances.
General Bronjort let out a low growl, bringing a hand to the black patch covering his right eye.
"So that fool Drake couldn't handle that guy," he muttered, exhaling a slow plume of cigar smoke.
"And there's more, General Bronjort," continued the Major, adjusting the collar of his coat. "The individual known as Zeus… is actually Milo West, Drake's brother."
The General froze for a moment, as if the words had struck something deep within him. Finally, he switched on the light at the center of the table. The room, which until then had been shrouded in dimness, lit up, revealing details that had previously remained hidden. The light accentuated the General's weathered face, where every wrinkle seemed to tell stories of battles past.
"So that man was still alive… How did we not see this coming?" he reflected aloud, his tone laced with self-criticism.
The tension in the room was palpable, like a rope stretched to its limit. It was then that Major Mike decided to intervene once more.
"Sir, I've come here for your safety. We need to evacuate the premises. The personnel are trying to contain the devices, but there are too many, and they outnumber us."
The General looked at him with calculated calm, taking a long drag from his cigar.
"I don't see, Major, how we're in any position to abandon a meeting of the 'SQUARE,'" he replied, his tone firm but tinged with irony.
"I'm sorry, sir, but protocol dictates that we must protect the head of the organization as the absolute priority," Major Mike insisted, leaning slightly forward.
General Bronjort nodded slowly, acknowledging the logic behind the Major's words.
"I understand your concern, Major. But with you here, I can rest assured of my safety and that of my peers," he said, gesturing toward the other four individuals in the room.
However, the soldier who had arrived first couldn't contain himself any longer.
"Sir, they outnumber us!" he exclaimed, nearly shouting.
"Silence, boy!" Major Mike reprimanded him, stepping closer and whispering into his ear: "We cannot give up. The General is right—his safety is paramount, but our unit must hold together and defend this place."
The General, whose hearing was still sharp despite his age, clearly caught the Major's murmur. A faint smile crossed his face.
"That's good to hear," he remarked, taking another drag from his cigar.
Then, after a moment of reflection, he added:
"If necessary, Major, use the weapons from Arsenal B-12."
"Understood," replied Major Mike, giving a quick nod. He grabbed the impulsive soldier by the arm, and both exited the room, though not before the Major gave a brief bow to the General.
"My apologies, sir, for barging in like that," said the Major before closing the door behind him.
The General, who had risen from his seat moments earlier, sat back down with calculated calm. He looked at the other four individuals around the table, their faces now illuminated by the yellowish glow of the screens in front of them.
"Well, we can proceed with the discussions," said the General, as if the distant gunfire and blaring alarms were mere insignificant details.
One of those present, a woman whose voice carried a soft yet firm tone, broke the silence.
"But what about Drake and his team?" she asked, looking directly at the General with genuine concern.
The General narrowed his visible eye, clenching his fist so tightly that the leather of his glove creaked faintly. He slammed the table with determination, causing the documents and electronic devices on it to tremble.
"Don't worry, dear. Drake hasn't failed me yet," he replied confidently, though his tense jaw suggested otherwise. "Besides, he still has an hour left. If he doesn't do anything by then, I'll personally have to go kick some asses."
The other three members exchanged uneasy glances, their eyes fixed on the screens in front of them. The woman who had spoken only murmured a weak, almost inaudible "okay," lowering her gaze to her monitor.
Immediately after, the General picked up the old-fashioned telephone resting beside him: a bulky, obsolete device with a heavy handset and buttons worn down by years of use. He dialed a number decisively and waited a few seconds before speaking.
"Why didn't you inform me about this?" he demanded, his stern tone reverberating throughout the room.
The secretary's voice responded at the other end of the line, softly nervous.
"I'm sorry, sir. We're under attack, so I couldn't get near modern technology."
The General let out a brief, dry laugh, like a muffled thunderclap.
"I know. That's why I called you on the old line, specifically designed for emergencies like this. I don't want excuses. I want to know how the situation is progressing. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir," the secretary replied quickly, not daring to argue.
A few minutes later, the phone rang again. The General answered immediately, his expression impatient as he listened to the report.
"Sir, the issue with the Controlled has been resolved. The cure is on its way, according to our sources. However… there are bigger problems. This Zeus character has become something powerful and is wiping out Drake's agents."
The General exhaled slowly, releasing a grayish cloud of cigar smoke.
"Well, on the one hand, it's good that the matter of the "Controlled" has been resolved. But on the other hand, we have a bigger problem with these killer appliances."
He paused dramatically, thoughtfully, before continuing with a precise order.
"Miss, have the teams prepare themselves. Use the weaponry that Major Mike is to provide them from Vault B-12. Relay this message through the old system. And I want all those robots destroyed in fifteen minutes. Additionally, I need to see all available soldiers in the loading zone."
"Yes, sir," the secretary replied before hanging up the phone, leaving a metallic click that echoed in the room.
The General leaned back in his chair, staring intently at the other four individuals. His expression was serious, almost grim, as he considered his next moves.
"I believe we should postpone this meeting and take this Zeus character seriously," he declared finally, his voice charged with authority.
One of the men, wearing thick glasses that reflected the glow of the computer screens, leaned forward.
"Sir, as part of the 'SQUARE' group, you should share with us exactly what you keep in Vault B-12," he said, his tone a mix of curiosity and demand.
Another man, completely bald with a shiny head under the artificial light, added firmly:
"Yes, I demand that you tell us."
The last, a young man who removed a lollipop from his mouth to speak, chimed in with an innocent question:
"And, why didn't these machines suffer the same fate?"
The woman who had been silenced earlier looked at the three of them with an expression that spoke louder than words: Why didn't you speak up when I asked and stayed quiet, you damn fools?
The General let out a mocking laugh, visibly enjoying the moment.
"It's fair. I was saving it for another occasion, but since we're a society, I must share the secrets with you," he said, his sarcastic tone dripping with irony.
With a quick gesture, he flipped a switch on the wall. The main lights in the room blazed on suddenly, fully revealing the other four members of the "SQUARE." Their faces, now exposed, displayed a mix of surprise, discomfort, and anticipation.
The woman, whose unmistakable German accent carried authority, wore an elegant crimson-red dress that contrasted sharply with her fiery red hair, pulled back into an impeccable bun. Her upright posture and toned arms suggested she practiced weightlifting. Her name was Hela Wheuigens, a high-ranking official in the European zone, known both for her strategic cunning and physical strength.
The man with glasses, Yuji Fukiwasaba, was a prosperous businessperson and one of the designated leaders overseeing the Asian continent. His short, dark hair was always perfectly styled, and his calculating expression reflected his analytical mind. Yuji was not only a successful magnate but also a meticulous strategist, though his arrogance often strained his relationships with others.
The third member of the group, Anoten Katawuanaku, was a highly esteemed African leader. His skin had a deep, polished luster, like obsidian, and his bald head gleamed under the artificial light of the room. His muscles were so defined they seemed sculpted by an artist: prominent veins snaked beneath his skin, evidence of years of rigorous physical training. Anoten exuded an imposing presence, a constant reminder of his immense physical and political power.
Finally, the fourth member, Lucas Di Sousa, was the most relaxed of the group. Of Brazilian origin, he had large, brown eyes that radiated a mix of curiosity and carefreeness. His long, black hair cascaded over his shoulders, and his habit of sucking on sweets made him appear less intimidating than his peers. However, his laid-back demeanor concealed an innate shrewdness, as demonstrated when he discreetly mentioned a spying device.
Together with General Bronjort, the leader of the Americas, these five formed the "SQUARE," a powerful group where each member represented a continent. Bronjort, positioned at the center as the star of the group, was required to consult any major decision with the others for their approval—though he didn't always follow this rule to the letter.
"Very well," said the General, breaking the silence as he observed the other four intently. "As I told you, I'll explain this first: the machines in this room are old, created before the era of advanced chips, and that's why they didn't suffer what the other machines outside went through."
He paused briefly, letting his words sink in before continuing.
"As for what we have in Vault B-12…" The General looked at his companions, who were watching him with a mix of curiosity and distrust. "What's inside are weapons designed to neutralize threats. Some have the potential to destroy anything that stands in their way. They're experimental, developed by our government, and I thought they'd never be necessary. That's why we locked them away there. But it seems today is the day they must be used."
The General made a sharp gesture with his hand, as if brushing the topic aside.
"Enough talk."
At that moment, the old-fashioned phone rang again, breaking the tension in the room. The General answered quickly.
"Sir, the remaining soldiers have used the weapons and eliminated the enemies," reported the secretary, her voice clear but hurried. "The downside is that almost the entire complex is destroyed. Most of the machines used chips from that company."
The General nodded slowly, processing the information.
"Good, we're within the fifteen-minute timeframe. Tell the soldiers I'll meet them in the hangar. By the way, are the ships in good condition, or did they also turn into strange creatures?"
"Sir, we're already in the hangar. Some soldiers helped me bring this heavy device here. There were a few skirmishes, but only the large red aircraft remains intact," she replied.
"Good, I'm on my way," said the General before hanging up.
He stood up and adjusted his black eyepatch in a quick motion.
"It's time to go to war," he announced, his voice filled with determination.
The other four exchanged glances laden with doubt. They hadn't fully bought his explanation about the weapons, but neither did they want to risk their lives confronting him. So, they remained seated as he left the room.
Once the door closed behind him, they began talking among themselves.
"That Bronjort is hiding things from us again," said Yuji, adjusting his glasses with an annoyed gesture.
"Yes," agreed Anoten, crossing his arms. "We shouldn't have let him become the leader of the SQUARE. He just declared himself so."
"Exactly," added Hela, frowning. "And now we'll have to face the consequences of his ambition."
Lucas, who was still sucking on his candy, smiled mischievously.
"Well, we'll have to keep an eye on him. To find out what else he's hiding," he said, pulling the lollipop out of his mouth with a pop. "Luckily, I stuck a tracking device on him with the stick from the candy I was eating. It'll tell us what he's up to, and, based on that, we'll decide how to proceed."
Hela looked at him with a mix of surprise and admiration.
"Interesting! I didn't expect that from you. But well, I like this idea."
Yuji nodded slowly, showing his approval.
"I have someone in the field who might be able to give us information. The problem is, there are no active communications," noted Hela.
"Alright. We're all in agreement."
The four exchanged a conspiratorial glance and nodded silently, sealing their plan without another word.
Already in the hangar, a small but efficient figure awaited beside the large red ship: it was Nubia, General Bronjort's personal secretary. She wore thin glasses that accentuated her nervous eyes as she adjusted some papers on her clipboard. The echo of the General's boots reverberated against the metallic floor of the hangar as he approached.
"Well, Miss Nubia, how's the situation? Is my ship ready for takeoff?" asked the General in a direct tone, his voice booming like thunder beneath the high ceiling of the hangar.
A young woman with thin-framed glasses and a tailored military uniform, which combined a short skirt with tall boots, stood out among those present. It was Nubia, whose impeccable appearance and professional demeanor contrasted with the almost imperceptible tremor in her voice as she responded. Despite her youth, her sharp intelligence and tireless dedication were evident behind the lenses of her glasses. She quickly straightened up, tucking her clipboard under her arm, while attempting to conceal her nervousness in front of the imposing figure of the General.
"Yes, sir. Only 30 percent of the soldiers were lost, 15 percent were injured, and the remaining 55 percent are operational and waiting right behind me," she reported, gesturing toward a group of soldiers standing in perfect formation.
The General nodded slowly, his towering posture casting a long shadow under the cold light of the hangar. His height stood out even among the tallest men in the group, and his presence intimidated him without the need for words.
At that moment, a man with short red hair approached with firm steps. It was Major Mike, tall but not as tall as the General. Despite his shorter stature, he radiated authority and determination.
"Sir, the ship is operational. We can depart as soon as you give the order. Additionally, the weapons from Vault B-12 have been loaded onto the ship," said Major Mike, giving a brief but respectful military salute.
The General looked at him with approval before responding.
"Good. It's time to see what my team of special agents is up to, and perhaps lend them a bit of help," he declared, ascending the metal ramp toward the large red ship.
"Only twenty of you will stay behind to guard the base," the General instructed in an authoritative tone, his voice echoing like a ripple through the hangar. "Your task will be to ensure no rogue robots remain lurking around here. Major Mike, you decide who stays."
"Yes, sir," replied Major Mike without hesitation, adopting a firm stance as he nodded with determination.
Major Mike took a few seconds to observe the soldiers lined up before him. His eyes scanned each face, evaluating skills, experience, and resilience. Finally, he began selecting those who would remain at the base. With precise movements and confident gestures, he divided the group into those who would depart and those who would stay.
He left in charge a young soldier whose jet-black hair was styled into pronounced spikes, almost defying gravity. Though relatively young, the soldier exuded confidence and discipline. His determined gaze suggested he was more than prepared to assume responsibility.
"You're in charge here," said Major Mike, pointing at him with a firm but respectful gesture. "I trust you to keep this base secure."
The soldier nodded seriously, adjusting his helmet as he responded with conviction:
"Understood, sir. I won't let you down."
Major Mike gave him one last look before turning toward the rest of the group. The tension in the air was palpable, but so was the collective determination. The soldiers selected to stay exchanged quick glances, as if reaffirming their mutual commitment, while the others prepared to board the ship.
The aircraft, though designed for war, had a robust and antiquated design, resembling a zeppelin but without modern technology incorporated. Its size was impressive, capable of housing both troops and heavy weaponry. However, its obsolete model made it rely more on the skill of its pilots than on advanced systems.
Once inside, the General headed toward the main cabin. His footsteps echoed against the metal floor, and the smell of oil and fuel filled the air. As he walked, his thoughts began to wander, delving into distant memories.
"Well, what a family you have, old friend Rass," he reflected to himself, his lips curling into a bitter smile. "One plays at being a hero while the other plays at being a villain. I wish you were here to stop this."
His gaze, partially hidden behind the black patch covering his right eye, seemed to lose itself at some far-off point beyond the metallic walls of the hangar. His stern expression, carved by years of difficult decisions, now reflected a mix of nostalgia and concern. The wrinkles around his visible eye deepened as his thoughts carried him to places only he could see.
For a moment, the weight of responsibility seemed to crush him. His shoulders, always held proudly upright, slumped slightly forward, as if bearing the burden of all the soldiers, all the decisions, and all the losses accumulated throughout his career. The surrounding air grew heavier, charged with a silence that spoke louder than any words.
But that fleeting weakness didn't last. As quickly as it had appeared, it vanished beneath a mask of unwavering determination. He straightened his posture, squared his shoulders, and pressed his lips into a firm line. The shadow of doubt dissipated, replaced by the resolve that had always defined him. This was General Bronjort, a leader forged in the fires of war, and he would not allow anything—or anyone—to see him falter.