Monarch’s Lab
Crimson emergency lights flooded the lab. Alarms wailed. Every door in the sector slammed shut—locks chaining down like metal teeth.
A voice rolled through the ceiling speakers, too calm to be human.
“WARNING: CONTAINMENT BREACH. LOCKDOWN INITIATED.”
Glass pods fogged—then trembled.
Nera’s pistol cracked twice. Taron’s rifle followed, producing controlled bursts.
The “tank specimen” was no longer a tank, just shards of glass.
It stood in spilled coolant and broken glass, torso plated in slick armor like wet stone.
Tendrils knotted from its ribs. Rounds sparked and skipped off it like they were hitting a wall that breathed.
Dalton (comms), clipped: “What is happening down there? Did the network wake up?”
Nera (comms): “Containment breach. We’re sealed in with Monarch’s pets. Can you open the doors?”
Dalton (comms): “Working. Their security lit up the second you stepped in. Liam’s beacon is pulling me a path. Liam—rip what you can from local cache. There’s a hardcase south. I’ll pop the lock—grab it.”
Taron: “I’ll nab it!”
Nera halted her rifles bullets.
She holstered mid-stride—blade snapping alive in her right hand. Violet plasma hissed, heat warping the air.
One slash opened the specimen hip at its sternum. Black ichor folded out—then the thing collapsed with a wet clang.
“Move.” She hissed
Taron sprinted through the cleared lane, boots skidding as he cut for the south corridor.
Something hit the metal floor—A clank.
Not glass.
Heavy. Deliberate.
From the side room Nera had peeked into earlier, something stepped out.
Tall. Humanoid.
Armor plated in polished ichor that caught the red light and threw it back like oil on water. A smooth headpiece—only a narrow visor slit, dim crimson.
Its arm whirred. Not muscle. Motor.
A compact turret housing rotated into position.
The first burst didn’t roar. It casted a shower of bullets. Controlled lines chewing through consoles and steel benches, forcing Unit 7 to scatter on instinct.
Nera kicked her boot thrusters and slammed behind a support column, heat from her blade kissing the metal at her side.
Aaron (comms), furious: “Why is that tin can tagging us?!”
Dalton (comms): “You don’t have Monarch tags. It is a Warden on purge protocol.” Keys clacked faintly. “They do not leave witnesses. Our suits cannot withstand their calibers of bullets.”
The turret re-centered, scanning like a machine counting targets.
A ceiling speaker clicked—same voice, colder.
“ELIMINATE ALL UMBRA SPECIMENS. ELIMINATE UNAUTHORIZED INFILTRATORS.”
A second pod shattered open. Something latched onto the walls—then launched for the Warden’s visor.
The Warden pivoted and caught it by the throat.
No hesitation.
It drove the turret arm down and fired point-blank.
A tight barrage hammered chest and jaw until tendrils went slack.
Its boot thrusters chirped—one brutal burst—and it drifted sideways, keeping the corpse between itself and Unit 7 like a shield made of meat.
Aaron swung his rifle up—
The Warden flicked the body into him.
Wet weight. A stagger. A split-second of blindness.
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The turret spun again and Unit 7 had to move—scrambling between cover, getting shoved into tighter spaces as the lab turned into a shooting gallery.
Karauro crouched beside Nera, breathing loud inside his helmet.
Is that… what I turned into?
Dread hit like a punch when the mangled corpse skidded near Aaron’s boots.
—
Taron burst from a side room clutching a hardcase, boots sliding in coolant.
The Warden’s visor flared—locked.
“Taron—MOVE!” Nera shouted again.
He froze on instinct.
A round whisked under his boots—clean, precise. Not a miss.
A warning.
The Warden’s voice cut in, flat and automatic.
“RETURN SPECIMEN IMMEDIATELY.”
Then it moved.
No roar. No wind-up.
Just a thruster chirp—
And it covered the distance in seconds.
Nera surged in front of Taron, blade already swinging.
The Warden caught the violet edge mid-strike.
Metal fingers clamped. The blade hissed. Heat warped the air.
The Warden did not budge.
“Ah, shit— I’m gonna blow this whole damn facility up—” Taron snarled, tightening his grip.
“That’s if we make it out,” Nera snapped, boots grinding as she fought to hold her footing.
Karauro didn’t wait.
A wire-snare snapped onto the Warden’s turret arm—yanking it off-line.
He lunged in behind it, pulse claws flaring.
Sparks burst as his blades scraped the Warden’s armor—leaving nothing. Not a scratch.
Karauro hissed, low: “What the hell are you made of?”
He charged a kinetic burst—
The Warden answered with violence.
Its turret arm slammed into Nera’s chest plate and sent her skidding back.
Before Karauro could recoil, cold metal locked around his forearm.
A pivot. A twist.
Then he was airborne.
He hit a table hard enough to jar his teeth. Steel screamed. His HUD glitched.
Nera (comms): “Mutt!”
The Warden’s visor flared brighter, tracking him through the mess like it had been waiting for this part.
A thin overlay flashed across Karauros HUD—too clean to be his system.
[FAILED CROWNED UMBRA — PRIORITY ELIMINATION]
It lunged—quick and precise—hand snapping for his throat.
Karauro pulse-burst off the table, then fired a second burst to vault over it.
Metal fingers slammed into the tabletop, denting it like foil.
He landed near Nera and Taron, boots skidding, breath harsh.
Liam (comms): “Cache pulled. Taron has the case. Exit in five!”
Aaron (comms): “Dalton—freeze it. Even two seconds.”
Dalton (comms): “Injecting a virus now. Go—GO!”
The Warden surged—
Then hitched.
Visor dulled. A blink. A stutter.
It slammed shoulder-first into the floor with a bone-rattling clang, turret arm scraping sparks as it forced itself up like it refused to believe it could be stopped.
Nera (comms): “Everyone—NOW! GO!”
The door ahead hissed and started to part.
Karauro fired his wire-snare and yanked himself through as alarms screamed overhead.
Behind him, the Warden whirled its turret back into position—
Karauro didn’t stop. He snapped a kinetic rod into the moving assembly.
Metal screamed. Rotation stuttered. Teeth skipped.
Just long enough.
—
They cleared the threshold.
Behind them, sealed doors cracked open—two Wardens stepping out in sync.
Unit 7 hit cover again. Beams and broken consoles became ribs to hide behind. The corridor tightened into a kill lane.
Dalton’s voice cut through comms—low, sharp.
“Multiple entries. Clean signatures. They masked the approach. Heads up—someone just dropped into your sector.”
Before Nera could answer—
Metal screamed.
Not from a Warden.
From wire.
Five Nexon-suits poured in from the side access in a disciplined wedge, movements too practiced to be Spine. Their lines snapped out—hook, yank, pin—like they’d drilled it a thousand times.
The first Warden tried to bring its turret up.
A wire kissed its arm.
Tension—
Then the turret assembly tore sideways with a shriek of metal.
The second Warden lunged—
—and got caught mid-step as two hunters crossed lines, their Halo wire shearing through joints and plating. Pieces clattered down the corridor like thrown tools.
They didn’t celebrate. They didn’t speak.
Just reset. Advance. Clear.
Only one drifted closer to Unit 7—braided blonde hair swaying, visor angled like she was studying a specimen.
Nera’s heart slammed into her throat.
That braid.
That posture.
Her pistol came up on instinct.
“Noose,” Nera snapped. “What are you doing here?”
Noose didn’t answer. Not at first.
Her head tilted—slow—past Nera…
…and stopped on Karauro.
Like she was confirming a number.
More Onyx suits moved in behind her, rifles already trained—not on the Wardens.
On Unit 7.
Nera’s grip tightened. “Noose. Answer me.”
A voice slid in from behind the wedge—calm, amused, and too familiar.
“Easy, Caldwell.”
A Nexon-suit patterned in gray-white stepped forward. The corridor lights caught the edges like frost over steel.
Nera’s stomach dropped.
“Verran…” Her voice cracked. “What—”
He unlatched his helmet with a smooth, practiced motion. The smirk underneath didn’t belong in a lockdown.
“Don't flatter Yourself. You're not the prize here,” he said, almost kindly.
His gaze slid to Taron’s hardcase first—just long enough to sell the lie—
Then snapped to Karauro like a blade finding its real target.
“We’re here for the case… and the kid.”
Noose finally spoke, quiet as a trigger.
“Tag confirmed.”
Aaron tried to comm Argos. Nothing—just dead air, like the channel had been swallowed.
“Don’t bother,” Verran said. “Signals are jammed. Play nice, and you’ll walk out.”
He brushed a gray strand from his forehead, casual, as if this was a hallway inspection.
Then he turned and signaled his people.
“Take both K-19. And what's inside the hardcase.”
He paused, red-tinted glasses catching the emergency light as he glanced back over his shoulder.
“And if any of you try something,” Verran added, voice mild, “I’ll put your squad down where they stand.”
His gaze sharpened on Karauro, and the smirk shifted—smaller, uglier.
“Karel…” he tried, like he was tasting an old file. “No. Ciro sounds better.”
Nera clenched her teeth.
She took a half step forward.
Karauros eyes dimmed slightly behind the visor slit, but his hands lifted anyway—open, controlled.
“It’s fine, Viper,” he said, low. “Keep your cool.”
He turned toward the Onyx soldiers closing in.
“Cuff me,” he shrugged. “Or whatever Onyx does.”
They seized his armored hand and clamped a magnetic device down. They stripped his helmet—then replaced it with a metallic muzzle, locking over his mouth.
“Good thing we have intel,” Verran said, sliding his helmet back on. “Last thing we need is you snapping at us with Scorn Ichor jaws.”
“Karauro!” Nera shouted.
His head shifted slightly, black hair sweeping across his face. His eyes glowed brighter orange now, though a blindfold tightened against them. Noose grabbed him by the cuffs, moving alongside Verran and the other soldiers.
They disappeared around a bend in the hallway, boots scraping against the floor, their presence fading.
Did he make the correct choice?
