The purple walker tore through the blizzard. It crashed into the glass façade of the skyscraper across the street with a grinding crack, showering the road below in a rain of glass and shattered concrete, vanishing into swirling snow.
Its visors flickered, the head module lurched—and the walker detached from the wall, hovering for a brief eternity in midair. Lightning flared in its mechanical palms, distorting the atmosphere around it until the air itself thickened, as though saturated with gasoline. It dropped heavily to the ground, crushing a police vehicle beneath its bulk—the sirens flickered one last time.
Without hesitation, the machine extended its arm toward the shooter, catching several matte-glinting projectiles in a web of lightning. They detonated on impact, spraying the machine and the street with a cloud of shrapnel that kicked up brief fountains of dirty slush.
Its head turned toward the trio descending nearby. One of the parachutes drooped unevenly—shrapnel from the detonated shells had torn into the stormtrooper's gear. The machine twitched slightly, as though tempted to reach for the wounded.
"No!" shouted Titania through the intercom, carefully guiding the shredded body into one of the walker's mechanical hands. With the other, the purple giant tore the parachute lines loose. "Damn it—not now! Rojas, you son of—" A breath. "Colonel?"
"I'm fine. Alvarez?" the "Colonel" waved off Titania, turning to the second soldier who had crouched beside the body.
"Rojas is dead," came the curt reply as Alvarez stood. "A miserable death..."
"Forget him," the Colonel said grimly. "Vaporize the body. We're moving."
"But—"
"Colonel, orders?" Titania interjected, her voice trembling slightly as she watched through the lenses while Alvarez tapped a key on a small device, and the body convulsed once, then glowed with searing heat before disintegrating into ash—utterly unidentifiable. The sensation that this had somehow been her fault refused to leave her.
"Immediate extraction. What else?" the Colonel snapped, pressing a finger to his helmet's communicator, activating it just as a burst of small-caliber police gunfire sparked against the serv-machine's leg, forcing him and Alvarez to seek cover. "Imperial Seal! This is Hammer-One! Report!"
"Imperial Seal to Hammer-One. Twelve minutes," came the reply.
"We don't have twelve minutes!" Titania cut in, eyes darting to the energy reserve readout. The gauges loomed ominously over the final red marker.
"We're doing what we can," the pilot responded with unnerving calm. Titania lifted her head, peering into the sky through her lenses. For a heartbeat, she thought she saw a shadow flicker high above. Of course she had imagined it—it could not be otherwise.
Cursing under her breath, Titania leaned toward the toggles and rerouted the reactor's output, disabling all secondary systems. The cabin dimmed; the ventilation fell silent. Uninsulated cables radiated heat into the cramped interior. Titania raised the machine's hands defensively as grey walkers, shoulder lights flashing, stepped into view from behind the police cordon. The Colonel and Alvarez fired sparingly, but their bullets couldn't even scratch the paint of the police machines, which nonetheless kept their distance—justifiably wary of an enemy they could not yet define. Or perhaps—
"Ballistic threat," the onboard computer intoned.
"Scatter!" Titania shouted, forcing the machine into reverse just as the pavement reared up from the impact of a tracer round. Shards of asphalt scored the paint. Blood splashed. Alvarez's helmet flew off. Titania's ears rang, and the Colonel barely had time to throw himself behind a concrete barrier.
Titania raised the manipulator, veering sharply to one side. Several projectiles hung in the air, as if caught in an invisible field, wrapped in crackling lightning—and exploded. This time was worse: both the machine and Titania herself were momentarily blinded. She groaned. The damage schematic flared—the knee joint glowed warning red.
"Titania, eject! Now!" the Colonel shouted through the communicator. Titania tried to raise the machine's arm to fire, but saw only a white haze and bursts of starlight. She sent another impulse, bringing the hand closer to the visor, trying to understand why the weapon wouldn't discharge. Then she saw it: a sparking stump where the cannon should have been. Titania took a faltering step, the damaged leg giving way with a crunch. The diagram flashed with yellow-and-black chevrons as the entire limb below the knee failed, and the purple giant collapsed backwards.
"Titania!"
Silence answered him.
Out of the blizzard stepped a red Vector, emerging slowly from the white haze, its matte armor spotting golden engraving of one of the many Krosa noble houses.
"Of course they sent Royal Guard," she exhaled.
The enemy machine advanced, its pace unhurried yet undeniable, and its speed clearly exceeded that of Titania's crippled walker, which now dragged itself backwards with labored effort, trailing a long dark smear of polymer-ringer fluid.
And yet, the enemy made no move to open fire. The reason became apparent soon enough: sparks erupted from the red machine's shoulder joint, and with a hollow detonation, a pyro-charge jettisoned first the shoulder plate, then the entire damaged arm, which crashed down onto a parked car, shattering its roof and windows in a spray of glass.
The red Vector's rifle landed nearby, thudding into the street just a meter from Titania's head. Unfazed, the red machine advanced with uncanny poise.
The Colonel heard the blood pounding in his ears. He had forgotten the cold, the snow beneath his knees. His eyes, helplessly wide, scanned the bright-red walker as it drew a massive anti-tank knife into its intact hand. The chain-blade shrieked as it ignited, driving deep into the purple machine's chest plating, sending up a brilliant fountain of sparks.
The red machine leaned in, pressing harder.
Titania made a desperate attempt to shove it back with her ruined limb, but the enemy only bore down further. The cockpit filled with the stench of burning insulation; within seconds, the central monitor cracked—and through the frontal monitor burst the vibrating tip of the screaming blade. Something inside her refused to scream. It wasn't courage, it was disbelief, bitter and silent.
"Hey! Bastard!" the Colonel shouted, lifting his rifle and firing in vain, trying at least to distract the red machine. His shots ricocheted uselessly off its armor. In Titania's remaining hand, a flicker of electricity sputtered—another, then another... Futile. Titania strained one last time and groaned in frustration. Her strength was gone. There was nothing left. Nothing—unless...
The Colonel took careful aim. Another short burst cracked the air, and one of the red machine's lenses shattered. As if startled, it turned its gaze toward him for the briefest instant—and Titania seized the moment. She directed her last reserves, a final electric impulse, into her surviving arm. The field it generated was strong enough to overload the red Vector's backup magazine mount, causing it to rupture. Heavy-caliber bullets spilled out, caught by the magnetic field, and began to orbit her hand in a tight, lightning-wrapped cluster.
The red machine turned back, renewing its assault. Inside the cockpit, something exploded with a deafening crack.
Sparks flew, clouding her vision.
A bitter-tasting polymer fluid sprayed from a ruptured actuator. Smoke engulfed the confined space. Then the charge ignited.
The bullets clustered in Titania's palm detonated like an improvised shotgun, shredding the red pilot's capsule.
The Vector collapsed. The chain-blade's shriek died.
Shoving the mangled wreck from her chest, the purple Vector lurched upright, propping itself on its one remaining arm. The cockpit hissed, then opened, releasing a gust of hot air and choking fumes into the winter chill.
Titania crawled out, pistol clenched automatically in her hand, gasping for breath despite the pressure in her chest.
Blood trickled from her nose. Steam rose from her lips.
"Imperial Seal... where are you?" she whispered into the void, sending one more desperate call over the empty channel.
Titania's fingers tingled. The taste of blood filled her mouth. She stepped unsteadily over the mangled interior of the purple cockpit. The smell of burnt metal still clung to her throat. She didn't look back—not at the machine, not at what was left inside. She hadn't saved the day. She had survived. Barely. Titania looked towards police cordon, the grey walkers lingered beyond the smoke, still hesitant.
The only answer was silence.
***
Elsewhere, in the fractured remnants of the upper floors, Cain rose with difficulty, every nerve in his body buzzing and trembling, as if the explosion had gone off inside his own skull. He staggered, steadying himself against the wall. Somewhere beneath his ribs, something ached—sharp and deep—but the pain failed to anchor him. His thoughts leapt and scattered, until, at last, one name caught and held them. In his mind, her voice still echoed—the last real thing before the world burned.
"Kasmina... Kasmina!" he shouted, finally.
Cain's eyes scanned the devastation. Dust still churned in the air, mingling with broken furniture and fragments of ceiling tile. Half the wall had collapsed, and snow now drifted gently through the gaping void. The panoramic windows had shattered during the firefight, the remaining lights flickering and casting harsh, shifting shadows across the wreckage. But nowhere—nowhere—did he see a living soul.
With effort, he stumbled toward the kitchen, searching for anything sharp enough to cut the plastic cuffs. Once free, he took off at a half-run down the side corridor.
Cain didn't hesitate. Throwing his shoulder against the restroom door, Cain burst into the space beyond—and was met not by chaos, but by a disconcerting calm.
"Kasmina! Are you here?" he called.
Silence.
He glanced toward the closed stalls, hesitating. If she were here, surely she would have answered... wouldn't she? If they'd taken her, she would have resisted. There would be signs. But here—nothing. Not even a trace of dust disturbed.
He backed out into the corridor again, glass crunching underfoot. Nearby, someone writhed on the floor, but Cain didn't stop. He shoved open another heavy door, which groaned in protest before giving way and revealing a narrow fire escape. A breath of cold, smoke-tainted air struck Cain full in the face.
***
Sirens wailed. Tires screamed. Voices—shouting, barking orders—echoed in fragments from the street below. Police vehicles. Ambulances. Through the haze, loudspeakers crackled, and high above, imperial drones hovered, scanning the streets and the faces below.
The Colonel pulled off his helmet and hurled it into a blackened trash bin. His face was streaked with soot; a bruise bloomed beneath one eye. He wiped blood from his temple and yanked open the fastenings on his armor, hiding the vest beneath a filthy cloak snatched from a fallen bystander. With a quick sleigh of hand, he trailed his palm inside of the scorched barrel, then smeared soot across Titania's face, pulled her collar up, forced a tremor into her step.
"Quickly. Don't look back," he muttered to Titania, who nodded, smoothing her hair with trembling fingers. She looked nothing like a pilot now—just another dazed civilian who had stumbled from the epicenter of chaos.
"This way," the Colonel gestured toward a nearby alley, where shattered neon buzzed and flickered. "We'll cut through. Get to the metro."
"Are they following?" she asked quietly, glancing sidelong at the patrolling drones.
"Not yet. They're still focused on the pair of serv-machines in the street. We have a few minutes. No more."
The crowd roared. Someone knelt beside a wounded man. Others smashed storefronts in the confusion—looters cloaked by the riot. Rebels melted into the masses—discarding weapons into trash bins, changing their gait, their accent, their very expressions. They walked now like anyone else. No sudden movements. Even steps. The Colonel held Titania's elbow lightly, like a guardian shielding a frightened girl.
A drone hovered within meters. It scanned them, beeped softly, and drifted away. No alarm.
"Don't slow down," the Colonel whispered. They slipped past a checkpoint, where imperial guardsmen dragged suspects from the crowd and forced them toward armored transports. One of the soldiers locked eyes with Titania and squinted—but turned away. She was already gone.
A turn. Then another. The glow of the metro sign loomed ahead—dim, but functioning.
"Almost there," said the Colonel.
"The station—will it be under surveillance?"
"Of course. Let's just hope they haven't started screening civilians yet."
"Or they already have..." Titania murmured. "What's the plan?"
"Damn it," the Colonel hissed, pulling her into a shadowed alcove. He peered around the corner, then swore again. "Just what I didn't want."
"What is it?" she asked, peeking past him—just for a second. But that was enough. Now she understood. A fortified checkpoint. Likely in place before the chaos began, and now transformed into a final blockade.
"Big Fish, cancel 'Imperial Seal.' Requesting Lambda Protocol evacuation. Confirm," the Colonel said quietly.
"Are you certain, Hammer-One?" came the response, voice uneasy.
"Unfortunately, yes."
At that very moment, a nondescript man in a reflective vest stepped away from a railing near the crowd. He pulled a nearly full trash bag from a bin, almost brushing against a nearby police van as he did so.
"Sixty seconds to go, Hammer-One," came the reply in his ear.
"Understood. Sixty seconds. Clock's ticking."
"Kor orrale?" a voice called suddenly—one of the guards had spotted the trash collector. The man turned sharply, facing what at first seemed like a trio of local patrolmen—but were, on closer look, imperial soldiers, their matte helmets concealing their features.
The central figure, likely an officer, stepped forward and waited. But the man simply stared at him, unblinking. A faint smile flickered across his pale face. He didn't move.
The officer struck him in the gut.
"Kor orrale? Okhore hoisa?!" the soldier barked, looming over him. The man rose slowly, his eyes still locked on the officer's mask.
"Go to hell," he snarled—and touched his communicator. "Freedom for Earth."
Farther down the street, a beggar wrapped in filthy rags reached into his coat. A second later, the police truck—still bristling with antennas—erupted in an incandescent fireball. The shockwave hurled the guards through the air, smashing them against asphalt and concrete like discarded dolls.
Screams broke out. The stunned crowd surged.
One man pulled a compact submachine gun from his bag and fired a burst over the heads of the masses, igniting full-blown panic. Others joined in. Gunfire cracked from multiple directions.
"Run! Now!" the Colonel bellowed, grabbing Titania's arm and dragging her toward the inferno that had once been a cordon.
***
Cain stood frozen, his back pressed to the cold wall. His fingers trembled against the edge of the doorway. The shockwave passed through him like a wind from another world.
The street was ablaze. Distorted silhouettes ran. People cried out. Sirens wailed. Chaos had returned.
Through the choking smoke, past the hovering drones, Cain saw them—a pair running not away from the blast, but toward it. Something about the gait of the smaller figure—off balance, but determined—made Cain's breath catch. Then they vanished into the firelight.
"Hurry! Come on!" the Colonel's voice barely pierced the noise of gunfire and the crowd's roar. They ducked and ran, slipping through the shattered line where soldiers had stood moments ago.
Titania stumbled. The Colonel steadied her, guiding her into the fog of war—until both vanished from view.
Cain stepped forward without thinking. Something deep inside urged him to follow, but they were already gone.
A woman ran past, clutching a child. Behind her, three teenagers with rifles vanished into the throng. Friend and foe were now indistinguishable. The city, once more, belonged to chaos.