Tap, tap.
The gale carried fine rain, lashing against the irregular polyhedral metal façade marked with Atlas' nested white-and-red 'Λ' arrowhead logo.
A villa nestled in the tropical rainforest—lush vegetation, cascading waterfalls, rippling pond waters—created a damp, primitive, and terrain-complex environment.
Suddenly—rumble!
A muffled peal of thunder was followed by lightning once again turning the dusk sky a ghastly white.
The 'irregular polyhedral metal façade' shifted sideways, revealing its full nature.
It was a Bal-27 assault rifle equipped with a long silenced barrel.
Held firmly in someone's grip, raindrops splattered on its surface, water droplets scattering.
After the fleeting lightning faded, darkness returned. Amid the rain, faint sounds of combat boots squelching in the mud could be heard—alongside the metallic clink of charging handles and magazine latches. Several pitch-black humanoid silhouettes advanced in staggered formation, moving in alternating steps.
"Watch the tripwire mines. Avoid the cameras. Sentry machine guns up ahead…"
Hearing the scout's transmission, the man in the knit cap calmly and lightly pressed against the villa's edge, crouching at the corner wall. He raised his hand and gave a signal—position secured.
He wore jungle camouflage combat gear, outfitted with an EXO exoskeleton. His rugged features, straw-yellow beard, and a tattoo of the Union Jack on the right side of his neck radiated a seasoned battlefield aura.
Clearly, a veteran of many years.
"Two on the platform. Three in the corridor. Two roving sentries. One on the second-floor balcony."
Hugging the wall, the man expertly marked positions, raising his left hand slightly to operate the tactical terminal embedded on his inner forearm. A small screen displayed a shared dynamic map, through which he issued precise commands.
"Joker, the three in the corridor are yours."
"Rivers, the one on the second-floor balcony is yours."
"The two roving sentries—mine."
"Mitchell, the two on the platform—yours."
"Everyone in position. No noise. Deploy the silent field."
With his arrangements complete, the man in the knit cap reached for the load-bearing slot on the back of his exoskeleton and retrieved a disc about the size of a basketball. He stomped it onto the ground, then twisted the handle 90 degrees counterclockwise—bzzz…
The silent field generator.
In short, a noise-cancellation device. The actual principle was similar to active noise-canceling headphones—emitting waveforms that countered environmental sound.
Tiny particles of dim blue light flickered into being.
Within the silent field, the entire world seemed to turn hazy in an instant—like being surrounded by swarming insects. External sound became low, muffled, and sluggish.
"Take them out."
He said.
Not long after, aided by the timely cover of thunder, a chorus of bang bang bang erupted almost simultaneously around the modest villa.
Thud.
With muffled groans, those hit collapsed backward, blooming with spurts of blood across chest and back.
Thump, thump.
"Don't rush."
As the silent field dissipated, the man gently laid the immobilized guard—whose chest bore a bloody hole—flat on the ground. Ascending the steps, the man in the knit cap emphasized, "Slowly approach the bedroom."
"Copy."
×N.
"Hey, Gideon, Mitchell—this is way easier than we expected. Wasn't this op supposed to be crazy hard? Doesn't make sense."
Kneeling with weapon drawn at the villa entrance, a man with thick blond slicked-back hair and oversized matte dark-red AR tactical goggles whispered jokingly.
"Shut it, Joker. We're mid-mission. Quit goofing around."
Called 'Gideon,' the man in the knit cap bared his teeth in a grin and made a mock punch at Joker—a warning gesture.
No need for Joker to say it—he too felt something was off.
But there was no time to think more about it.
Ultimately, he was just a moderately well-known grunt in Atlas' Rapid Response Forces. When a mission came down from above—so long as it made sense—he had to carry it out without question. This was his job, his livelihood.
He only hoped that Director Vela wouldn't take things too far…
Just then, a beep-beep came through their comms channel.
[Prophet (codename): Atlas 0-2, surveillance network disabled. We're tracking the hostages. Recon shows you've got thirty seconds—there's a chance they'll hand them off early. Found them. Hostages are in the media room, south wing.]
"Copy. We've cleared the outer perimeter and are en route to the media room. Rivers, cover the rear."
Pressing a hand to his earpiece, Gideon replied in a low voice.
The team moved at a quick, cautious jog over carpeted flooring, quickly reaching the outside of the media room.
"Mitchell, place the resonance device."
Gideon pulled a cylindrical device—shaped like a grenade but actually four irregular circular crystals clipped together—from his tactical pouch. He unlatched it and tossed two of the crystals toward Mitchell, who was standing against the wall.
"Got it."
The young black-haired man known as Mitchell caught them and gave a firm nod.
Though he also had a full beard—thicker even than veteran Gideon's—he still looked noticeably younger.
Clack, clack.
With practiced movements, the two men affixed the four resonance devices in a horizontal rectangle across the media room wall.
Zzzzz—
A soft current buzzed as white light flickered—the four resonance emitters linking into a mosaic display, like a glitched-out TV screen.
The resonance devices emitted waves that could detect lifeforms through most obstacles.
"Okay, showtime. Fifteen seconds, tops."
Gideon shouldered his weapon, aiming down sights and locking onto targets.
"Five hostages. Four sitting on the ground, low posture. One… is being beaten. Hostiles are all upright or seated. Watch for weapon outlines. Targets marked—five armed individuals. Heart rates at 90 BPM, normal levels—calm and relaxed."
Inside the rectangular x-ray view created by the devices, five red-marked mosaic blobs showed clear outlines of armed hostiles.
However—
"Gideon, what are they fiddling with?"
Joker asked, confused.
"That is…"
Just as Gideon was about to take a closer look, clang!—the x-ray feed showed a bathroom door inside the media room opening. One armed hostile emerged, apparently just done using the toilet. Instead of staying inside, he started heading straight for the main media room door.
"He's coming out."
Mitchell moved in front of the wooden door, weapon raised.
"Damn it—take them down."
Gideon made a snap decision.
He aligned his sights on the red-marked head in the x-ray view and pulled the trigger.
Bang!
Thud, thud…
The moment the door opened, Mitchell dropped the hostile with a single shot.
Inside the room, all five red-marked hostiles collapsed at once—their red outlines disappearing.
Dee-woo!
Alarms blared across the villa.
"All targets inside eliminated. No booby traps confirmed. Mitchell, prioritize hostage rescue."
Gideon ordered.
Bang! Wearing a specialist-class EXO exoskeleton with a built-in shield, Mitchell charged forward, slamming open the half-closed wooden door. He stepped inside—and saw five hostages huddled on the floor, visibly unharmed.
And on the opposite side of the room—beneath thick steel cables strung like parallel bars—hung three humanoid machines.
Painted in dull olive and charcoal gray, their steel bodies gleamed with cold luster.
Clank!
The moment Mitchell entered, the restraints snapped open.
The three armed robots activated.
Square-shaped heads lit up with flashing red indicators.
Clack!—followed by the harsh friction and collision of mechanical limbs—
Ratatatatata—!
Gunfire erupted without warning.
In a single breath, the five hostages fell into pools of blood.
[Prophet: Rescue operation failed. Hostages deceased.]
"What the hell?! Armed robots… fuck!"
Joker, who had just entered the media room behind Mitchell, barely had time to register the scene when—boom!—a barrage of grenades flew toward him.
Boom! Boom!
Explosions rocked the room. Joker staggered, dazed. As he bent forward in pain, a spray of bullets tore into him, lifting him off his feet.
"Joker's down."
Dodging gunfire and incoming tracking grenades, Gideon activated the assault-class EXO exoskeleton's rear-thruster, leaping and landing hard at the far end of the hallway.
"Mitchell, the mission's blown—fall back!"
His weapon muzzle flared, bullets pinging off the deployed foldable blast shield built into the exoskeleton.
Mitchell fired while retreating.
Because this was a hostage rescue op, he hadn't brought any high-caliber weapons. His rounds pinged harmlessly off the robots' armored hulls.
"Gideon, cover me—"
Before he could finish, one of the three armed robots lunged with lightning speed, knocking the weapon from Mitchell's original right hand.
Then, it grabbed his left prosthetic arm—still holding the blast shield—and pulled with brutal force. The robot's twin torque motors and hydraulic system output such strength that even Mitchell couldn't break free immediately.
And in combat, a moment was all it took.
The robot pushed in close, gun muzzle to chest—bang—blood burst.
Seconds later—ring ring ring—
Alarms rang throughout the villa.
Outside, the thunder, rain, and wind all stopped. Through the windows, the once-gloomy sky morphed into a massive segmented holographic display—like a formatted interface.
The master control console of the training simulation broadcast: [Exercise complete.]
"Reset."
At the same time, a crisp, clear female voice rang out over the artificial broadcast.
"Good work, everyone."
As the voice faded, the 'dead' hostages on the floor began getting up, dusting themselves off. The six 'killed' armed personnel followed suit.
"Next time, you're playing the terrorist."
One of them clapped his helmet and joked with the former 'hostages.'
Another helped the fallen attacker—Joker—back to his feet. "Took a hit, huh, Joker."
"Total setup."
Standing up, running a hand through his slightly disheveled hair, Joker shook his head.
"I thought 'increased difficulty' meant more people or more traps—since when did we start using robots? Are those even Atlas products? Their combat response and AI are top-notch…"
As he spoke, he looked toward the three robots, now idle—one of which even reached out a hand to pull Mitchell back up.
On their left shoulder plates, the 'Λ' arrowhead logo lit up.
"Of course. These are Director Vela Russell's prized creations."
An Atlas employee who had played one of the kidnappers replied enthusiastically.
"Mitchell, how does it feel?"
Following standard operating procedure after a failed rescue attempt, Gideon walked over with a smile and patted Mitchell on the shoulder.
"I didn't expect the added difficulty to be robots—especially ones this advanced. This was my first time fighting robots…"
Mitchell spoke with genuine awe, staring at the three armed machines that still watched him silently through cameras and recorders.
"So, how about writing a reflection report for me?"
A female voice cut in abruptly.
Tap, tap.
A clutter of footsteps sounded as a small crowd approached.
Mitchell and Gideon looked over to see a striking blonde woman striding in, surrounded by Atlas employees.
Her high heels tapped rhythmically against the carpet as Vela stepped before the three battle-scarred armed robots. Her slender fingers gently traced the ridges of their armored shells. Then she looked at the two men before her—one with a yellow beard, the other black.
The rough-featured yellow-bearded man was Gideon.
The more refined black-bearded man was Mitchell.
"Director Russell."
Mitchell followed Gideon's lead and bowed slightly in respect.
After all, Vela—the one who promoted the mass production and affordability of bionic limbs and artificial organ implants—had saved countless lives. She deserved respect.
After a small nod, Vela's elegantly arched brow lifted slightly. She looked at Gideon and said:
"You too. Write me a detailed report on this exercise."
"Oh, come on. Don't torture me with that."
Gideon slumped his shoulders and raised his hands in surrender.
Mitchell, on the other hand, hesitated thoughtfully. Then he turned to Vela and said:
"Director, if Atlas plans to commercialize these armed robots, how will you address the risk of abuse? Like in this exercise—if terrorists deployed robots alongside their human operatives during a real rescue mission…"
"Oh?"
Vela gave a meaningful glance at this 'godson' of Jonathan Irons—brought in under his personal endorsement.
She smiled.
"No wonder you're the war hero personally recruited by Mr. Irons. Sharp instincts. The Marines made a mistake abandoning someone like you."
A perfunctory compliment.
Mitchell remained expressionless.
After the courtesy, Vela shifted tone.
"Problems are necessary for progress. That's one of the reasons I introduced these robots to you in such a sudden, overwhelming fashion—to create urgency. So you would face them unprepared, driven only by instinct. That makes the impression last."
"Technology evolves. As elite members of Atlas' Rapid Response Forces, you must evolve with it. Learn how to counter these machines—and learn how to fight alongside them."
She didn't answer Mitchell's question directly.
"Without threat-detection grenades or resonance devices, you can't even fight anymore?"
She threw back a challenge based on the flaws exposed during the exercise.
"I won't be staying long in California. The goal of this visit is singular: to fill in the gaps in your training."
And to fill in the gaps in her own Atlas.
"Come with me. Mitchell—Irons left something for you. I'm just here to pass it along."
She said coolly.