The taste of the sewage runoff was irrelevant. Lucian's internal sensor suite logged it as a Severity 4 Biohazard, but the core processor dismissed the data stream.
It was noise.
The only signal that mattered was the low-frequency thrumming in his spine, the weight of the Hydra Drone Forge data-core strapped securely to his harness.
He moved on three limbs. The remaining part of his left leg was a searing, raw hole in his perception, but the custom med-patch Kael had made for him was holding.
The patch wasn't designed for pain suppression; it was a pure cauterization unit, sealing the vascular system to prevent hemorrhage. The pain was a torrent of white noise that Lucian forced into a narrow, clean channel: Focus.
He dragged himself through the slick, toxic sludge, using his two arms and one remaining leg in a cold, practiced rhythmic shuffle.
Every movement was minimized. Every wasted calorie was a strategic error.
Proximity Alert: Hyperion Scout Drones. 300 meters, closing. Estimated time to sweep coordinates: 90 seconds.
Ninety seconds.
Lucian was 50 meters from the sewage tunnel entrance, a heavy industrial grate that marked the boundary between Sector Gamma's surface kill zone and the subterranean safety net.
He needed to shave two-thirds of a second off every meter.
He increased the power output to his remaining limbs by 15%, temporarily bypassing the power management protocols. The surge sent a visible ripple of energy across his skin, but the increased speed was achieved.
He did not spare a glance for Vance's rapidly dissolving corpse. Vance, and the five other augmented signatures currently broadcasting from the wreckage, were serving their final, most important function: Misdirection.
The Hyperion drones would triangulate the initial ambush site, register the cluster of signatures, and report a "high-probability engagement zone." They would waste precious minutes on the decoys, allowing Lucian to disappear into the noise.
Distance to Target: 20 meters. Time Remaining: 45 seconds.
The sewage tunnel entrance was a sheer wall of scarred ferrocrete, dominated by a circular, heavily rusted maintenance grate. It was designed to withstand a tank shell, secured by a four-point hydraulic lock.
Lucian couldn't afford to use his heavy-duty plasma cutter; the thermal signature would pierce the rain, screaming his location to the drones.
He reached the base of the wall and found the small, almost imperceptible gap between the concrete and the grate.
The perfect weak point.
Lucian pulled out his monofilament wire—the same tool he'd used seconds ago—and began threading it into the gap. He was attacking the microscopic corrosion points within the locking mechanism itself, targeting the fatigue in the metal from decades of exposure to the runoff.
Drone Proximity: 100 meters. Sweeping pattern imminent. 15 seconds.
He pushed the wire harder, ignoring the sparks of feedback shooting up his forearm. The metal groaned, a sound that, to Lucian's enhanced auditory sensors, sounded like an air raid siren.
The wire snapped.
Error: Structural failure due to increased tensile stress. Probability: 12%.
Lucian did not curse. He did not hesitate. He immediately pulled a second wire, thicker, specifically designed for heavy structural tension, and located a new, adjacent weak point.
The time cost was a critical 3.2 seconds.
He initiated the second attempt, pouring controlled kinetic energy into the wire's oscillation. The rusted metal cried out one final, agonizing shriek before the first hydraulic lock failed with a soft tack.
Drone Proximity: 50 meters. Visual sweep imminent. 5 seconds.
He forced the remaining locks, one after the other, not through power, but through a deep, intuitive understanding of structural mechanics.
He was a master craftsman, not a brute.
The grate gave way, sliding open just enough for a man to squeeze through.
Drone Proximity: 20 meters. High-intensity floodlights engaging.
Lucian shoved his torso through the opening, the rough metal grating tearing the fragile med-patch on his hip. He felt the hot rush of renewed internal bleeding, another data stream he logged and ignored.
He was through.
He reached back with his remaining foot and kicked the grate, sending it sliding back into its sealed position with a heavy, final clang. The sound was muffled by the runoff and the ambient noise of the storm.
Above him, the Hyperion drones screamed past, their powerful floodlights illuminating the empty wreckage and the dark, rapidly dissolving pool of blood. They detected the six "deceased" signatures and the shattered APC.
They detected nothing else.
Lucian fell twenty feet into the darkness, landing in a bed of raw, viscous sludge.
The data-core was still secure. The threat had been evaded.
But now, he faced the next problem: surviving the journey through the hostile underbelly of Sector Gamma with a rapidly failing body.