Mikey staggered backward, lungs heaving, his chest tightening like a vice. Every breath felt thin—too shallow, too fast. His ears rang in a high, piercing whine, like a needle drilling into the back of his skull.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
He turned to the body and froze. The soldier's corpse lay twisted on the chrome floor. The man's head was a ruin. One eye still intact, blankly staring at the ceiling. The other half of his skull was just gone—blown out, raw and pink, like the inside of a fruit.
Mikey dropped to his knees.
Air wouldn't come fast enough. His throat burned. His ribs trembled with every ragged breath.
Oh God.
He clutched his stomach.
A sour pressure welled up in his gut and lurched to his throat.
He doubled over and vomited violently, blood and bile mixing on the floor in front of him. His arms shook. His fingers tightened on the pistol. He stared down at it like it had turned into some alien artifact.
I shot him… I shot him right in the face…
Tears streamed down his cheeks, warm and unnoticed. His vision swam.
He wiped his mouth with his sleeve—only then noticing the dark smears across his face. Not just blood on his hands—on him. Coating his cheeks, dried around his mouth, dotting his collar.
"Ah!"
He jolted back, a half-choked cry tearing from his lips. The soldier was still dead. Still sprawled across the ground. Still missing half his head.
I killed him.
I…
…did that.
The ring in his ears distorted everything. It was as if someone had thrown a blanket over the world. The chaos of war dulled to a distant thrum. He could see it—Bobo's massive frame barreling through the smoke, Ryosuke slicing through bodies, Luce crouched on the crate, dead calm—but Mikey heard only fragments. Ghost sounds. A war in pieces.
His limbs trembled. Not from fear. Not from adrenaline. From shock.
His heart beat like it was trying to claw out of his chest. His throat felt full of glass. His hands shook so violently the gun wobbled in his grip.
They don't know...
They didn't see it happen...
None of them saw what I did...
He wanted to scream. Not out of guilt—but out of hollowness. Because he felt nothing. No glory. No justice. Just... this raw, gnawing emptiness where his innocence used to be.
A blur moved through his vision.
A figure—a soldier—charging at him.
Mikey saw it like a dream. The man's mouth was open in a scream, but Mikey couldn't hear it. Just saw the fury in his eyes. The gun rising. The boots pounding the floor.
Move.
Mikey's arms acted before his brain did. He raised the pistol with both hands, eyes wide, tears still clinging to his lashes.
BANG.
The shot shattered the silence like a dam bursting.
Sound crashed back into him—gunfire, shouting, steel clashing against steel, flames roaring somewhere nearby. The world rushed in all at once.
The soldier stumbled mid-charge, leg crumpling beneath him. He hit the ground with a grunt, clutching at the shredded meat of his thigh.
Mikey stared.
He walked forward in a daze. Every step felt like it wasn't his.
The man on the ground looked up at him, mouth gaping. Eyes wide.
He didn't beg.
He didn't have time to.
BANG.
The man's body dropped flat.
Mikey lowered the gun.
His hands were still shaking. His face streaked with blood and tears. He didn't blink.
Second kill.
Just like that.
No applause. No fanfare. Just more silence behind the noise.
He'd crossed a line.
And something inside him knew—he couldn't go back.
Mikey stood amid the storm of violence, unmoving. The war raged around him—flames, bullets, screams—but in his mind, everything had gone still. His vision swam. Blood ran into his eyes. His hands trembled, the pistol shaking as if it weighed a hundred pounds.
Then—thud.
Luce dropped from the crate, boots slamming into the ground. She landed and froze.
Two bodies at Mikey's feet.
Blood soaked his hands. His face was streaked with crimson and gray, flecks of brain matter caught in the strands of his hair. His chest heaved like he was suffocating. His pupils were huge. Glassy. Hollow.
He turned slowly toward her, like a puppet with cut strings.
"Luce… I…"
His voice cracked. A tear rolled down his cheek.
"I did it…"
Luce's eyes softened for only a split second—she'd seen this before. That thousand-yard stare. That sick, sinking silence after your first kill. That point of no return.
But before she could speak—
"Luce! Mikey! We're pushing to Two!" Bobo's voice cut like thunder through the smoke.
Luce turned. She bolted forward—but stopped. She looked back.
Mikey hadn't moved.
Still frozen in that moment.
"Damn it…"
She spun around and ran back to him. Without hesitation, she slapped him hard across the face.
SMACK.
"GAH!"
Mikey stumbled sideways, blinking like he'd just woken from a nightmare. Luce grabbed him by the collar, her face close to his.
"Wake the fuck up, kid! You wanna die here?! MOVE!"
Her voice cracked something open inside him. The ringing in his ears finally faded. The world surged back.
Mikey gasped—then nodded, just once, barely.
They ran.
They sprinted through the flames and bodies, ducking behind crates and weaving between panicked prisoners and fallen soldiers.
Ahead, Ryosuke was a blur of precision. He led the charge—first in line. Bobo stormed behind him like a freight train, then Luce, then Mikey trailing just a breath behind her.
The four of them carved through the chaos like a razor through silk.
Whirrrrr—CLANK!
Ryosuke kicked off with his cybernetic leg, vaulting high into the air. Five feet above a stunned council soldier who looked up and shouted, panic in his eyes. The man raised his rifle and fired.
CLANG!
Ryosuke twisted mid-air, the bullets pinging harmlessly off the obsidian-flat of his blade. He angled downward, his leg cocking back—
CRUNCH.
He came down like a missile, his heel crashing into the soldier's skull. The man's head imploded like a melon, his body collapsing instantly.
Ryosuke didn't miss a step—landing into a sprint, sword already slashing at the next enemy.
Behind him, Bobo barreled forward, slamming his metal shoulder into one soldier and sending him ragdolling into a wall. He grabbed another by the vest and flung him like a sack of meat. The next two came at him from both sides—he twisted, took a few bullets to the arm like they were spitballs, and then plowed through them like a bulldozer.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Luce's pistols rang out in rapid rhythm. Perfect shots—center mass, head, head, head. She ran with her arms extended, both guns kicking in harmony, her braid whipping behind her like a war banner.
Behind her, Mikey ducked low, hugging the walls and crates, but keeping up. He wasn't breathing normally. His legs hurt. His arms were sore. The gun was shaking in his hand.
But he was running.
He was still running.
The four of them—warrior, juggernaut, sharpshooter, and shell-shocked rookie—moved as one.
A single unit.
A wave of destruction cutting through the madness of Ward 3.
And Ward 2 was just ahead.
They didn't slow down.
The sound of their boots on the chrome floor was a war drum, echoing off steel and smoke as they tore through the crumbling chaos of Ward 3.
The gate to Ward 2 rose ahead—massive, armored, and looming like the entrance to a fortress. Fifty feet. That was all that separated them now.
Then—
BANG! BANG!
The ground exploded just ahead of Ryosuke, smoke and flame engulfing the space where his foot had almost landed. He veered instantly, diving behind a reinforced pillar on the left, shoulder skidding into cover.
Boom—crack-crack—BOOM!
Shells rained down, the rhythmic hammer of heavy machine gun fire shaking the entire corridor.
"Shit—MOVE!" Bobo shouted.
With one arm, Bobo grabbed both Luce and Mikey and hurled them toward the opposite pillar like sandbags. They hit the ground in a scramble just as more bullets shredded through where they had just been.
THUD!
Bobo raised his chrome arm just in time to block another shell. The impact rattled him backward, feet sliding against the floor—but he didn't fall. He held his ground, arm still up like a makeshift shield, and ran low to join Luce and Mikey behind cover.
"Where's it coming from?!" Mikey yelled, trying to make himself small behind a chunk of broken plating.
Luce peeked out. CRACK—a bullet nearly took her head off.
"Watchtower!" she yelled, ducking back. "Connected to the gate!"
Bobo's eyes narrowed.
"How high?!"
"Forty, maybe fifty feet!"
Bobo's mind snapped into motion. He scanned the terrain, eyes darting from the tower to the other pillar—then to Ryosuke.
The gunfire paused—click, click—a reload window.
Bobo moved.
He bolted into the open lane between the two pillars, standing in the exposed hallway like bait, body gleaming with sweat and soot. He looked up at the tower and bellowed:
"RYO!!!"
No hesitation. Ryosuke understood instantly.
He burst from behind cover, cybernetic leg launching him high—air slicing past his face, sword behind him.
Bobo planted his feet. He cocked his massive metal arm back like a catapult.
Ryosuke landed on the arm mid-jump, foot locking against the alloy with a clang.
"SAY HELLO TO 'EM!" "RYO!!!"
With a primal roar, Bobo hurled Ryosuke into the air.
It wasn't just a throw—it was a missile launch.
Ryosuke soared—10, 20, 30, 40 feet—his body cutting through the smoke like a blade. Wind ripped through his long matted hair, his sword glittering like lightning drawn back in a coiled strike.
The soldier in the tower looked up, mouth hanging open in disbelief.
Too late.
Ryosuke brought the blade across.
SHUNK.
The soldier's head came off clean. The body slumped forward, still clutching the gun in a death grip as it collapsed over the railing.
Mid-flight, Ryosuke spun and caught the pole of the watchtower with one hand, using the momentum to swing himself into a perfect perch on the railing.
He crouched there—still, silent, framed against the smoke and gunmetal sky like something out of a myth.
Bobo lowered his arm. Luce stood beside him. Neither said a word.
They didn't need to.
Behind them, Mikey stood there breathless, eyes wide, heart racing.
His hands shook.
His mind couldn't grasp what he'd just seen.
They're insane…
He looked at Bobo's arm, still steaming from the force of the launch. At Ryosuke, now calmly scanning the battlefield like a hawk. At Luce, already checking her mags without breaking stride.
This… this is what Defectors really are…
And he was running with them.