The blast doors closed behind Assault Squad Three.
Artificial smog rolled through Sector Four's kill house. Caleb kept the surplus rifle against his chest and watched the broken street ahead. The armor still felt wrong on him. Five years of disposal work had taught him how to move around dead weight, not how to clear a live-fire block.
A ceiling vent blew hot air against his visor. Yellow safety lamps marked the corners of the artificial street, but the smog hid the gaps between buildings. He picked out a concrete pillar he could reach if the center of the street turned bad.
A priority camera drone passed over his head and swung toward Brock. The two other veterans spread out beside the barrier, leaving the open approach to Caleb.
Brock crouched near a concrete barrier. His veteran armor carried bright corporate panels, and a personal camera drone followed his helmet.
"Fifty thousand engagement points," Brock told the drone in his broadcast voice. He checked the feed light, then switched to local comms. "Take the middle, rookie. Keep the first targets in the open. I want a clean shot."
Caleb walked forward.
Heat tightened under his ribs. His stomach cramped. The parasite had repaired the bone, but the cost had not gone anywhere.
His right arm had enough strength to hold the rifle, not enough to trust it in a scramble. He moved his thumb over the knife sheath at his belt. Brock wanted a target that would stay in frame. Caleb wanted room to step away from it.
A mechanical Yoju sprang from the rubble.
Brock's thrusters flashed. He vaulted over the barrier, following the drone's angle as he fired. The plasma round struck the thick shoulder plate and skidded off. The machine kept coming at Caleb.
Caleb dropped the rifle and drew his knife.
The machine opened its jaws. Caleb saw the thin seam beneath them and the loose joint in its left leg. He stepped inside the lunge. The suit's weak fibers gave him just enough speed to drive the knife into the knee before the jaws closed. The joint broke. He twisted the blade through the wiring and kicked the carcass aside.
Brock landed beside him.
"You just ruined my shot. The feed needed that kill."
"Your shot missed."
The military display inside Caleb's visor flickered.
The range marks and his ammunition count broke into purple blocks. He blinked, trying to clear them, but the code stayed in front of his eyes.
[THEY SEE A ONE-PERCENT BODY. I SEE THE PART THEY MISSED.]
The message vanished before he could answer it.
The yellow safety strobes changed to red.
The kill house doors locked.
The motors in the rubble wound higher. Caleb looked back toward the entrance. No proctor appeared behind the glass above it.
Brock's camera drone dropped out of the air. "My feed is gone."
One of the other veterans tried the emergency channel. Static answered.
"Call the proctors again," Brock said. He slapped the side of his helmet. The practiced broadcast smile had left his face. "They can stop this."
[I CLOSED THE DOORS. NOW SHOW ME WHAT YOU DO WHEN THE SAFETY NET IS GONE.]
Six crawlers spilled from the rubble. Their optical sensors glowed purple.
Brock raised his rifle and fired too quickly. The rounds struck the crawlers' armor and scattered sparks. One crawler hit him in the chest and drove him into a transport shell.
Caleb ran.
Brock's rifle lay within reach of his hand, but he had both arms up against the crawler's descending foreleg. Caleb closed the distance before the limb could fall.
He slid beneath the crawler's next strike and kicked its undercarriage. The machine rolled. Caleb cut through the thin joint behind its foreleg, then drove the blade into the exposed wiring until it stopped moving.
"Stop shooting the plates," he shouted. "Aim for the seams."
The third veteran backed toward the sealed doors. "They are too fast."
Caleb pivoted as another crawler came from his right. His elbow buckled its foreleg. He drove the knife through its sensor cluster and pinned it to the asphalt.
The blade stuck. He put one boot on the machine's shell and pulled until it came free. The crawler's legs scraped at the asphalt once, then stopped. Across the street, the veteran by the doors was still trying the dead emergency channel.
Brock crawled out from under the transport shell.
"I can still fight," he said.
"Then cover the left."
Brock looked at the bodies around Caleb, then at the seams Caleb had called out. He braced his rifle against the shell instead of lifting off for another camera shot.
Brock fired at the next crawler's knee. The round struck the joint. The machine stumbled, and Caleb finished it with one cut beneath the jaw.
Three crawlers were still moving. One leapt for the veteran at the doors. The veteran fired into its open jaws and knocked it back against the wall. It fell and stayed down.
The next came low at the other veteran, who dropped to one knee and put a burst through its undercarriage. Black smoke blew from the torn housing. The veteran scrambled clear before the machine's weight pinned a boot.
Brock swung toward the last crawler. He waited until it turned, then fired through the seam behind its foreleg. The machine skidded into the barrier and went still.
Two more dropped from the roofline.
The heat in Caleb's chest climbed. His arm shook. He could feel the fuel leaving him with each movement.
One landed between him and the rifle he had dropped. The other cut off the route to the pillar. Caleb tightened his grip on the knife. Its edge had chipped against the wiring under the transport shell.
Brock hit one crawler with a burst that cracked its leg plate. Caleb used the opening to pull the machine down. The knife went up through the soft underbelly.
The last crawler lunged at Caleb's blind side. He dropped his weight. Its momentum carried it over his shoulder. He turned with it and cut through the underside before it reached the ground.
The street went still.
Caleb leaned against a concrete pillar and tried to breathe. The sponsor's chip clicked against his ear.
The veteran at the doors kept a rifle trained on the roof. Brock looked from the wrecked crawlers to his dark camera drone. He made no move to retrieve it.
The containment doors at the far end opened.
A Class-5 brute stepped into the smog. It stood twelve feet tall, with overlapping steel plates and a hydraulic mace fixed to one arm.
Brock stared at it. "That is not part of this drill." He backed into the sealed doors. "A Class-5 doesn't belong in here. Tell them to cut the power."
Caleb wiped sweat from his chin guard.
[BEG ME AND I'LL SHUT IT DOWN.]
The chip went quiet. Caleb left the offer unanswered. The doors behind Brock were locked, and the mace could reach the pillar. He checked the brute's feet, then stepped into the street with his damaged knife in front of him.
The brute charged.
Its mace swept across the street. Caleb dove. The weapon shattered the pillar behind him.
He rolled through the dust. A hot exhaust vent glowed at the base of the machine's spine. The plates above it overlapped too tightly for his knife; the vent was the only opening he could see from the ground.
The brute raised the mace for a downward strike.
Caleb ran toward it.
The mace came down. Caleb pushed off his left foot before it struck. Grit hit his visor as the mace head jammed in the asphalt beside him. His right boot caught its upper rim. He drove off the metal while the brute tried to wrench its arm free, reached the cabling around its neck, and swung toward its back.
His hand closed around the cable.
The hunger hit.
His vision went black. The suit's weak assistance stuttered. His grip slipped, and his body dropped toward the gears at the brute's shoulder.
The gears turned below his boot. He tried to hook a foot around the cable, but his leg cramped and missed. The brute's free hand swept toward its neck.
Heat surged from his sternum.
Caleb saw the exhaust vent pass beneath him. He drove the chipped knife into it. His fall forced the blade through the grate.
He tore downward and released the cable. The knife handle twisted against his palm. He let it go before it could drag him back into the gears.
The brute screamed in metal. White light burst from its ruined spine. It staggered twice and fell face-first into the street.
Caleb hit the asphalt and could not lift his arms.
The red lights shut off. The yellow safety lamps returned.
Brock stood near the doors, staring at the wreckage.
The other veterans lowered their rifles one at a time. Brock's camera drone lay dark at his feet. Caleb had no idea whether any of them had seen how close his grip had come to failing.
The purple display returned over Caleb's visor.
[THE SCANS CAN'T SEE IT. I CAN.]
Caleb's right hand twitched inside the armor.
[IT REBUILT YOUR RIBS. THE BRUISE STILL RUNS FROM YOUR RIGHT SHOULDER TO YOUR WRIST.]
The text vanished.
The military HUD rebooted.
Caleb lay in the ash, too weak to lift his right arm. The bruise she had named throbbed beneath a sealed sleeve.