"Hub?!" Steven barked. "What's the status on the wasps?"

  Silence.

  The Hub had been mid-sentence—something about sensor range—before its voice dissolved, swallowed by the rising launch cacophony.

  The noise crystallized in his perception: not sound, but data. Oscillation cycles mapped themselves. Metallic stress points calculated their resonance. Harmonic frequencies aligned with human respiration rhythms. Each component sorted itself with mathematical precision, transforming chaos into a processable system.

  A memory surfaced. Crisp. Unbidden. The 2012 North Alabama State Fair. The Globe of Death.

  He remembered himself at nine: not watching, but analyzing. Motorcycles tracing trajectories inside a spherical cage—what others saw as performance, he had understood as pure applied physics. Centrifugal force rendered as kinetic algorithm. Each rider a variable in a complex computational model.

  The wasps' wings droned. The memory resonated.

  Beneath his awareness, the Hub Station's neural modifications hummed—subtle computational adjustments that had transformed his cognitive processing. Not mystical. Not alien. Just incremental calibration. His mind now operated like those motorcycles: every movement, every thought a precisely calculated response.

  Elizabeth would have appreciated the systemic metaphor. Wei would have acknowledged the engineering precision.

  The crowd had gasped. The motorcycles had spun.

  He had always seen the mathematics.

  "Emblem!" His command sliced through the noise. "Filter the noise."

  The projection on his rifle transformed into a real-time audio analysis, its fidelity pushing computational boundaries. Thousands of frequency sources mapped themselves across the display, the emblem methodically isolating the wasps' acoustic signature.

  Dithering.

  He recognized the technique immediately—a controlled mathematical intervention for resolving quantization artifacts in both audio and visual domains. Not a glitch. A deliberate computational strategy.

  Interdimensional or human-derived, the underlying mathematics remained elegantly consistent. Fundamental problem-solving transcended origin. Signal processing was signal processing, whether conceived in a human research lab or generated by an alien intelligence.

  The projection continued its precise deconstruction, each frequency band a vector of pure information.

  Red lines and points resolved across the rifle's stock, transforming chaos into structured clarity. Lower frequency bands pulsed with rhythmic precision, capturing the drone's bass harmonics. Flickering higher bands extended beyond human perceptual limits, representing acoustic dimensions typically hidden from organic perception. The emblem wasn't suppressing noise—it was unveiling the mathematical architecture beneath.

  Pure math, he thought, his eyes tracking the evolving display. The universal framework.

  Bands of energy glowed across the projection. Algorithmic threads traced vectors of suppression, closing gaps and isolating frequencies with surgical precision. Chaos fell away, replaced by order.

  The projection compressed, red bands flattening across the spectrum. The wasps' noise dimmed, then abruptly ceased—total silence dropping like a physical curtain. Not gradual reduction. Complete cancellation.

  "Chen!" Mendez's voice exploded in his ears, suddenly jarring in the absolute stillness. The sudden audio transition revealed she had been embedded within the previous acoustic chaos.

  "I read you, Mendez," he responded, his tone precisely calibrated. No tension. No surprise. Just pure, measured communication.

  "Chen," Mendez said again, "the Hub's gone silent. What's your status?"

  His eyes flicked to the emblem's projection, the wasps' trajectories still visible in the display. He looked over at Bradley Stewart, crouched low against the bank wall a few meters away. The kid was gripping his rifle too tightly, his knuckles pale in the cold. He still looked like he belonged in high school, not a warzone.

  Stewart's eyes met his own and he gave the young man a glance upwards. A look that said keep your eyes on the sky.

  "Stewart and I are holding," he said, "stand by."

  He toggled his comms off so he could speak to his emblem directly. "Emblem, status on the Hub?"

  Text appeared on the side of his left hand: Defense Force language personality interface temporarily disabled.

  He keyed Mendez back in with a gesture.

  "Hub is overloaded," he replied, his voice steady. "Are you getting anything on your HUD?"

  "Telemetry is steady," Mendez confirmed.

  "So the Hub is still active," he said, more to himself than to her. "Just not responding."

  Mendez's visor gave her much more detailed access to the Hub's data than the basic projections from their emblems. Still, even her visor was dependent on the emblem's translation of the Hub's telemetry. If the emblem was functioning, the Hub was, too.

  "Emblem," he said, "switch to vocal response mode, then run a diagnostic on the Hub's communication systems."

  For days, he hadn't heard the emblem's voice. Its responses had been conveyed entirely through projections, but now it spoke directly into his ear—mechanical, slightly feminine, concise.

  "The Hub Station appears to be overloaded processing data due to range limitations. We are on the edge of its range. Tracking the aerial units is taxing all available processing."

  The explanation aligned with his assessment. That must have been what the Hub had been trying to warn him about before the wasps launched. The emblem had done its job in filtering out the overwhelming noise, but in the chaos, the Hub's voice had been deprioritized to allocate resources elsewhere.

  "Telemetry and comms remain stable?" he asked, keeping his tone neutral.

  "Yes," the emblem replied. "Hub operational. No functional degradation detected in critical systems."

  Good.

  He glanced back at the younger man crouched against the wall, rifle clutched close to his chest. For all his rawness, Stewart was steady now, his focus fixed on the skies above. A thought flickered unbidden: He likes boats.

  Canoes and kayaks. That's all Stewart had talked about while they'd been out scavenging before the ambush—a time that now felt distant, though it had been less than, what, two hours ago? The way the kid had described the intricacies of paddling upstream, navigating currents, reminded Steven of himself at that age: absorbed in the mechanics, not the danger.

  But now? Now Stewart’s head dipped briefly, his eyes shifting to the intersection. He was scanning for movement, balancing both tasks—airborne and ground-level threats—with surprising efficiency. His expression was tight with purpose, his jaw set in quiet determination. He made a mental note of the shift—not a judgment, just an observation. Adaptation under stress. It's efficient.

  "Just get around that leg and join up," he said into the comms. "I'm sending Stewart into the bank to scout ahead."

  The decision came to him as a matter of course, a logical conclusion based on their positioning. No hesitation, no second-guessing. As he relayed the new information, he kept his eyes on Stewart. The kid's reaction was immediate—his shoulders relaxed slightly, and his grip on the rifle loosened. He nodded once, sharp and deliberate.

  He pulled the field salvage tool from the pocket of his leg plating. The plan was straightforward: burn out the lock on the bank's side entrance, a routine task he'd done dozens of times. But as the tool powered on, its small screen blinked to life, and a soft chime signaled a new alert:

  SALVAGE AVAILABLE

  He paused, his eyes narrowing at the unexpected display. Salvage available? He hadn't activated a scan—hadn't even planned to. But the tool was picking up targets anyway, likely due to the sheer amount of wreckage surrounding them.

  The tool's interface wasn't designed with humans in mind. The screen was small and dense, the alien script flickering as it cycled through targets:

  raptor 04d1

  raptor 04d2

  raptor 04d3

  beta 0001

  raptor 04d4

  The designations were unmistakably internal, likely pulled from the machines' own systems and translated through the emblem. His gaze fixed on one entry in particular:

  beta 0001

  He glanced toward the intersection, where the massive severed limb dominated the street. Its jagged edges and exposed cabling sparked faintly in the dim light, snow swirling around its base like ash from a dead fire.

  "Hold on, Stewart," he said, his voice calm but firm. "I'm going to check something."

  He toggled the team-wide channel with a fluid motion, his tone as steady as always. "Mendez, Jackson, that severed leg—Beta—is showing up as a salvage target."

  There was a beat of silence, then Mendez's voice cut in, sharp with curiosity. "Uh, Chen, you mean the thing currently shielding us from the wasps?"

  "Be ready to move," he replied. His focus was already shifting. "I'm going to clear the obstruction."

  Two audible sighs followed his statement, one unmistakably Jackson, the other a resigned Mendez.

  He turned back to Stewart. "Use your tool. Burn out the lock," he said, pointing to the switch on his own tool and then at the bank's side door. "Scout ahead like I said. Get to the eastern exit. Cut a path if you have to."

  Stewart nodded, already pulling his own salvage tool from his belt. "No problem," he said, moving toward the door without hesitation.

  He leaned slightly out from his cover, his gaze sweeping the intersection. The Giant Raptor was still stationary, its remaining legs braced to compensate for the missing Beta limb. The severed segment loomed in the center of the street, jagged and massive, its exposed cables still sparking faintly. He couldn't see the wasps, but their drone persisted, a low, vibrating hum that seemed to resonate in the bones more than the ears.

  He keyed Mendez's channel with a flick of his wrist, toggling her into a one-to-one line. "Vectors on the wasps?"

  "We're using the leg for cover, like I said," Mendez replied, her voice calm but edged with urgency.

  "We need to move now," he said, his tone flat and precise. "Once they're directly above us, the only cover is inside."

  "We're ready," Jackson's voice cut in, steady and matter-of-fact. Mendez must have looped him into the channel on her end.

  "Uh, Chen," Mendez added, a note of uncertainty creeping into her otherwise composed delivery. "I've got movement down below."

  "Down below what?" he asked, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the street again.

  "The sunken highway," she clarified. "Other side of this fencing—steep drop-off."

  "The sunken what?" he echoed, his mind parsing the new information against the map in his head.

  "Vine Street," Mendez said, her voice steady but with the faintest note of impatience. "It's a sunken highway. Runs below street level. The Vine Street Expressway."

  He glanced toward the intersection, quickly taking stock of the area. "We're on Vine Street?"

  "At street level," she confirmed, "but down below is the expressway. It's a highway."

  He shook his head slightly, a micro-movement of recalibration. He brought up the map with a quick gesture, the emblem's projection spilling across the exterior wall of the bank in crisp red lines. The details resolved instantly: the intersection, the Beta limb, and the steep drop-off where the expressway ran beneath the city.

  "Got it. What do you see?" he asked, keeping his tone level.

  "I've got eyes on them," Jackson interjected before Mendez could respond. "Pack of raptors. Regular-ass versions."

  The map on his rifle updated in real time, red markers blinking faintly to indicate the raptors' positions. Likely, the emblem was pulling telemetry from Jackson and Mendez's systems, combining visual confirmation from her visor with Jackson's data feed.

  "Plan doesn't change," he said, his tone firm but unhurried. "Run and gun, depending on what this leg gives us."

  "You're going to roll the dice on this?" Mendez asked.

  "Quantum probability calculation function," he confirmed, toggling the salvage tool's interface with a smooth motion. The alien device blinked to life in his hand, its tiny screen scrolling with faintly luminescent script as he selected the QPCF option.

  They had never used the function on something this big before, and he wasn't entirely sure what would happen. Smaller units had simply flashed away, their bodies collapsing into nothingness, leaving behind whatever random item that was generated. But this was a different scale altogether.

  The Beta limb wasn't just a defeated raptor—it was massive, dense, and potentially packed with more energy than anything they'd salvaged before. The glow from the salvage tool was already intensifying, rippling outward in sharp neon hues.

  "Shield your eyes," he warned over the open channel. "Do not look at the Beta leg."

  "Got it," Mendez replied crisply.

  "What's the issue?" Jackson asked, his voice edged with curiosity.

  He realized neither of the new recruits had seen the function in action yet. "When the QPCF finishes, the target dematerializes. There's a flash—near-ultraviolet. Could burn your retinas if you're not careful."

  "Burn my—" Jackson started, but Mendez cut him off.

  "Just listen to him," she snapped.

  "I've got eyes on the raptors down below, should be fine," Jackson said.

  "Chen, do it now," Mendez said, her tone sharp but steady. "The pattern of the wasps looks clear."

  "On my mark," he replied, his voice calm despite the tension. "Three... two... one—"

  The flash came like a searing burst of neon blue, bright enough to pierce through his closed eyelids and etch itself into his mind. For a fleeting moment, he considered the specific wavelengths of light and the sharp hue shift, before shaking off the unnecessary thought.

  The air vibrated with a charged hum, the snow around his boots rippling and scattering in faint eddies. Even before he opened his eyes, he heard the muted thuds of the salvage process completing—objects making contact with the icy asphalt.

  Behind him came the screech of tearing metal, sharp and grating.

  "Heads up!" Mendez shouted. "The big guy's on the move!"

  He blinked hard, his vision still recovering as Mendez tracked the scene through her visor.

  "Not just the big one," Jackson added, urgency lacing his voice. "Here they come!"

  He toggled his emblem's projection. The map updated in real time, red markers blinking as the pack of raptors from the sunken highway surged upward. Three, maybe four, clawed at the fencing, their metallic limbs scrambling for purchase. The first attempts to clear the barrier failed, but not by much.

  "Move!" he ordered. "Inside, now!"

  Mendez and Jackson surged forward, covering the last ten meters to the bank now that the Beta limb was gone. He turned his attention to the now-cleared intersection, his eyes scanning for the results of the process.

  There was a ton of plates—scattered across the street in irregular clusters, some faintly glowing with residual energy. Heavy slabs of metals and composites, but not what they needed right now.

  Where are the items?

  His emblem projected faint outlines, isolating objects from the debris. There. One item lay in a shallow divot just at his feet. In a fluid motion, Steven squatted and turned, scooping it up. His fingers brushed against sturdy yet flexible plating. Armor, he guessed, running his hand briefly along its surface. No time to analyze.

  His eyes locked on a second object: a rifle, sleek and larger than anything standard issue. The design stopped him short, its proportions and weight clearly marking it as something more advanced.

  "Jackson!" he called, jerking his chin toward the weapon. "That looks like a new weapon!"

  Jackson smoothly adjusted his stride. Steven watched as the man bent his knees and took two or three quick steps, reaching down and grabbing the rifle with practiced ease, and then returning to a full run. "Heavy sumbitch," Jackson muttered, his tone neutral but focused.

  As Jackson fell in behind him, Steven caught movement from the corner of his eye. Mendez had veered toward the far side of the intersection. She dropped low mid-stride, snatching something from the cracked pavement without breaking pace.

  Steven caught only a fleeting glimpse as she surged past him—a weapon of some kind, vaguely medieval in shape. Its blunt, angular design suggested either a mace or a hammer, the heavy, rounded head glinting faintly in the dim light.

  "Mendez," he started, but she was already moving, her focus fixed on the bank's entrance.

  He didn't hesitate. He followed, stepping through the open door. The space inside was tight and utilitarian, the faint smell of rust and decay clinging to the air.

  Behind him, a heavy thud echoed across the street. The giant raptor was advancing, its bulk shifting awkwardly but relentlessly. His jaw tightened. The missing leg would slow it down, but not enough.

  "Faster!" he shouted, his voice sharp and commanding.

  Mendez was close behind Jackson, her pace efficient and unyielding. Jackson, for his part, moved with surprising agility despite the weight of the new rifle. The man's augmented boot was pulling its weight, amplifying each stride as he surged forward.

  Another thud reverberated through the street, shaking loose a thin curtain of snow from the building's ledges. The vibrations echoed in his chest, a stark reminder that the missing leg wouldn't stop the machine—it only slowed its relentless advance.

  But it wasn't alone.

  The next wave of leaping raptors crashed against the iron fence, now clearly visible without the massive Beta limb blocking the view. Several impacts bent the fence inward, the sturdy metal groaning under the force. One of the raptors cleared it entirely, its three legs absorbing the impact with an eerie fluidity as it landed in a crouch.

  He still had the armor—or whatever it was—in his left hand, its unfamiliar weight pressing against his palm. The salvage tool hummed faintly in his right, a reminder of the numerous other salvage targets still scattered around the intersection. Nope, he thought, slipping the tool into the pocket of his leg armor. With a quick motion, he detached the alien SMG from his chestplate, the weapon settling into his grip with practiced ease.

  "Mendez, Jackson," he said, his voice even and commanding. "Follow Stewart's instructions to the eastern exit. I'll cover you."

  "Roger," Mendez replied, her voice tight with urgency.

  He didn't look back. He could hear Mendez talking to Stewart before he muted the channel. His emblem would let him know if they said anything he need to hear. Steven planted himself in the doorway, leveling the alien Dinpa at the advancing raptors. Even before his finger reached the trigger, he could feel the weapon's flywheel spinning up, a resonant hum growing in intensity.

  Where was the giant machine? This is where he needed the Hub's voice in his ear. He tossed the projection against the open bank door, studying the enemy positions. The whole time the raptor was charging straight at him.

  He fired. Brarapa-brarapa-brarapa!

  The SMG tore through the first raptor in a burst of sickly green energy, slicing through its core. The machine collapsed in a heap, one of its legs detaching entirely and skidding across the street.

  The Dinpa glowed faintly, its flywheel cackling with unnatural energy as three bullets snapped back into the magazine. The weapon had done its work perfectly, reloading from whatever strange energy it drew.

  They didn't know much about Bazzy's Dinpa. Even the Hub couldn't pull data beyond fragmented design specs. Was Bazzy the manufacturer? A name brand, like Ford or Beretta? Or perhaps an individual—a gunsmith, a soldier, or some alien historical figure? There was no way to tell. The same uncertainty surrounded the term "Dinpa." It seemed to denote a type of weapon, but that might've been a mistranslation or a different classification altogether. All he knew for certain was that on a critical hit, the gun reloaded itself with three rounds.

  A second raptor landed heavily, its articulated limb hooking the edge of the fence as it landed awkwardly to steady itself. He shifted his stance, his movements precise and unhurried, and let loose another burst. Brarapa! The weapon's fire sheared through the raptor's central core, its movements faltering as it collapsed in a sparking heap.

  The Dinpa hummed, its flywheel feeding energy back into the magazine. He didn't hesitate. He took a step back, keeping the weapon trained on the entrance. More raptors were coming, he could feel them as he risked a glance over his shoulder.

  "Stewart," he said into the comms. "What's the status on that eastern exit?"

  "Look for the open doors," Stewart replied. "I'm in the lobby. There's something you need to see first."

  He saw that the door at the end of the hallway had been propped open. A noise from behind spun him around, the Dinpa already humming with energy. One the raptors had slammed into the wall opposite the entrance. He fired a single burst, dropping the machine with three bullets making two neat holes in the core. The Dinpa purred with satisfaction and he twisted his wrist to double check the magazine.

  Full fifteen, he mused, his eyes flicking briefly to the display on his rifle. But there was no time to linger.

  The sound of scraping metal and pounding limbs filled the air as the raptors surged through the entrance, pouring into the narrow employee hallway. The utilitarian design of the space worked in Steven's favor—the cramped walls and low ceiling bottlenecked the machines, forcing them to pile in single file. But there were so many.

  Steven backpedaled steadily, his boots crunching over debris as he fired another burst. Was it his imagination or was the Dinpa getting smoother?

  The first machine in the wave staggered, its core sparking as it collapsed, blocking the ones behind it for a precious moment. Steven's gaze darted around the room, taking in the stark, mundane details of the space. Beige walls scuffed from years of office chairs. Fluorescent lights flickering weakly overhead. Workplace posters peeling at the corners. Something about a Pennsylvania Worker and Community Right To Know Act and Job Safety & Health: It's the Law!

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  His back hit the edge of a table stacked with abandoned office supplies. A loose sheet of paper fluttered to the floor—some hastily photocopied notice for a company white elephant gift exchange. A cartoon elephant wearing a Santa hat grinned up at him, absurdly cheerful against the chaos.

  The blast of a raptor slamming into the hallway wall yanked Steven's focus forward again. The machines were relentless, their articulated limbs pulling them over the fallen ones, their glowing cores pulsing faintly in the dim light.

  Steven's grip tightened on the Dinpa as he fired another burst, taking out the next raptor in line. The weapon whirring as the flywheel spun up again, the magazine replenished instantly.

  Or had it? Only thirteen shots left now. His mind calculated quickly: one in three hits was enough to qualify as a "grievous wound" before he was forced to manually reload, but he still preferred a full clip. Or was it a magazine? Whichever term was correct didn't matter; what mattered was efficiency.

  A sudden vibration shook the floor beneath him. One of the machines further back in the wave slammed its limbs against the wall, scrabbling for purchase to climb over its comrades. Steven retreated another step, his movements precise and measured despite the mounting chaos.

  "Incoming projectile," his emblem warned, the submarine-like klaxon alarm blaring in his ears.

  "Shit," Steven muttered. His gaze darted around the narrow hallway, searching for options. There was nowhere to go—the best he could do was crouch low against the furthest wall and hope his armor and helmet could take the hit.

  The wasp's shot hit a moment later. The wall near him erupted in an explosion of drywall and concrete, the force of the blast throwing him hard to the ground. Dust and debris filled the air, choking the already dim hallway with a thick, acrid haze. Steven coughed, wiping a gritty layer of dust from his face with his gloved hand. He tried to breathe through his nose, spitting out the clinging drywall powder that had found its way into his mouth.

  He scrambled to his feet, his left hand trailing along the wall for balance as he moved. The dust clung to him, muffling sound and reducing visibility to almost nothing. He groped forward, his fingers finding the jagged edge of the propped-open door.

  Slipping through, Steven found himself in another hallway, this one dimly lit and lined with rows of dented employee lockers and doors marked with restroom signs. The space was wider than the last, though hardly spacious, and a pallet of flat-packed cardboard boxes leaned half-forgotten against the far wall, partially blocking the path.

  He took a moment to steady himself, his breaths coming slower now. He gestured for the emblem to switch to the overhead map, projecting it onto the nearest surface—a blank section of wall. The projection resolved itself quickly, the monochrome red lines crisp against the dusty backdrop. Two walls now stood between him and the wasp—or wasps.

  Time to move.

  Steven rolled his left shoulder, wincing faintly. His armor had absorbed most of the debris from the blast, but the impact still lingered, a dull ache. He tapped a layer of dust from his helmet and paused, listening. His emblem would warn him of approaching enemies before his ears caught anything, but the instinct to stay alert ran deep.

  He pinched his fingers together, opening the full comms channel.

  "Mendez, Jackson, Stewart," he said, his voice level as the emblem's projected map guided him through the dimly lit hallway. "I'm inside. What's your position? Uh, I mean, sitrep."

  "We've got Stewart," Mendez replied, her tone clipped but steady. "Pulled him out of the lobby. It wasn't safe."

  There was an edge in her voice that Steven recognized immediately: disappointment. Stewart must have put himself at unnecessary risk.

  Steven moved forward, stepping carefully around the pallet of cardboard boxes partially blocking the hall. "Explain."

  Jackson's voice came next, filling in the gaps. "It's a mess in here, Chen. Big commercial bank lobby—four stories of open space. Balconies, glass meeting rooms up top, all overlooking the main floor. Looks like it used to be fancy, but now…"

  "Crime scene," Stewart cut in, his voice quieter, almost apologetic. "And a battlezone."

  Steven stopped at an intersection, the emblem updating the map as he turned toward their trail. "What kind of battle?"

  "Opportunistic robbery gone bad," Mendez said. "East side of the building's blown out. Looks like someone rammed a dump truck into the wall to get in."

  "They were after cash," Jackson added. "Or something valuable. Didn't expect a pack of raptors to be waiting for them."

  "Raptors in the lobby?" Steven asked, his tone sharpening.

  "Not anymore," Mendez replied quickly. "This was months ago. There's… evidence."

  Steven's jaw tightened as he moved through another hallway, the faint echoes of his boots on the tiled floor blending with the distant hum of machinery. "How bad?"

  Jackson's voice took over again, more matter-of-fact than Stewart's hesitant tone. "Bad. Looks like the robbers managed to get a foothold at first—smashed their way in, scattered furniture everywhere. But then? Bloodstains, drag marks, machine fragments. They didn't make it far before the raptors tore through them."

  "They were out of their depth," Stewart said, the weight of what he'd seen clear in his voice.

  Mendez cut in again, her tone firm. "Chen, this place is a maze. Cubicles, couches, small offices, refreshment areas. You could get lost in here."

  "Where are you now?" he asked, his voice steady as he followed the narrow hallway. The emblem projected faint, glowing lines on the floor ahead of him, guiding his path as the corridor opened into another stretch lined with dusty supply cabinets.

  "Backroom, near the southwest side of the lobby," Mendez replied. "Door's shut. Just outside the main space."

  "Just follow the open doors," Stewart said, repeating himself.

  His pace quickened. The faint static in his comms carried the sounds of their movements: rustling fabric, shifting gear, even the occasional scrape of boots against tile. The projection on his hand updated again, pulling him toward their position.

  "Mendez shouldn't have let Stewart go in alone," he thought, though he didn't voice it.

  "Stewart shouldn't have gone in alone," Mendez said aloud, her tone clipped.

  "I didn't know it was that bad," Stewart shot back defensively. "Just wanted to get a look."

  "Next time, you wait," Mendez said. The frustration in her voice was sharp, but not surprising.

  He dismissed the tension as he neared the group's location. "I'm almost there. Hold position."

  He rounded the corner and stepped into the room where they'd taken cover. The shift in atmosphere was immediate. This wasn't like the utilitarian corridors he'd been moving through—this space had been designed with purpose, a buffer between the bland employee areas and the polished zones meant for customers. The dark wood paneling on the walls still held a quiet elegance, despite scuffs and scratches. A pair of faded armchairs sat near the center, flanking a low glass table cluttered with forgotten items.

  His eyes lingered briefly on the table: an unopened bottle of sparkling water, a cheap plastic pen holder, and a crumpled magazine boasting outdated holiday travel tips. The contrast was stark. Outside, the world burned. Inside, remnants of ordinary life lingered in defiance.

  "What's this?" he asked, his attention shifting as he stepped further into the room.

  Bradley Stewart was crouched on the floor, the glow of his salvage tool cutting faint arcs of light across the dim space. Sparks flickered as he worked over a jagged piece of metallic scrap, the hum of the tool low and steady.

  "A shield," Stewart said without looking up.

  He moved closer, crouching slightly to get a better look. The object wasn't large, about the size of a riot shield, but its angular, alien design stood out immediately. The surface shimmered faintly under the salvage tool's light, small ridges forming like scales as Stewart continued working.

  "Where'd you get that?" he asked.

  "Lobby," Stewart replied. His tone was calm but carried a hint of defensiveness. "Pulled it off one of the machines. Figured it might come in handy."

  Mendez rested one hand on the back of a chair, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp. "As long as it doesn't slow us down," she said, her earlier frustration softened, but still present.

  "It won't," Stewart said quickly. Too quickly.

  He straightened and gave a small nod, shelving his thoughts for later. "Finish it, but stay sharp. We're not clear yet."

  Mendez spoke up, glancing at her visor. "We've got a moment," she said, her voice measured now. "Hub's telemetry is holding steady. No movement within fifty meters. Raptors are staying put, and the three wasps overhead aren't tracking us. For now."

  He leaned against the concrete, letting the update settle in his mind, piecing together the last few minutes like a puzzle. His eyes flicked from Mendez's visor to the faint red light on his own hand, analyzing the data with the precision of a tactician.

  "What's the status on that rifle?" he asked, his voice calm, cutting through the silence with the clear intent of command.

  "I think I'll call it the Scorpion," Jackson said, his movements as deliberate as if he were still stalking through the Mississippi woods, slid the weapon off his back. "My emblem's given me the rundown," he said, his voice steady, the trace of his accent smoothed away. "Mendez's tapped into the Hub. It's a stasis gun." Jackson angled it towards him, the faint amber glow along its barrel a mere whisper in the dark.

  "Stasis is a translation," Mendez clarified.

  "Of course," he said with a nod.

  "Freezes anything it hits," Jackson continued. "Some kind of energy manipulation. Don't know the how, just that it's effective."

  "Other features?" Steven said, his eyes scanning Jackson for any sign of stress or excitement—confirmation that the system was focusing their new recruits minds and bodies.

  Jackson's nod was slight, his face a mask of calm. "Secondary mode. Bullet moves like it's in molasses. But if something steps into its path?" His hand made a sharp, decisive gesture.

  "Stored kinetic energy, which builds up over time," Mendez seemed to be reading that from her HUD.

  He tilted his head slightly, more out of tactical assessment than curiosity. "You've field-tested it?"

  "Hell nah. Just what the emblem reports," Jackson said. There was still a bit of the man they'd met less than a day ago in there, Steven thought.

  He wondered if his parents would recognize him now after four days inside enemy controlled Philadelphia. Sector Two.

  Mendez, with the same unflappable calm, held out her find. It was a length of metal, one end heavy, resembling a medieval warhammer but with a twist. An unsettling purple glow radiated from it, casting shadows that seemed to dance across her face. Even to him, the sight was jarring, a discordant note in their current symphony of control.

  "Found this," she said, placing the new weapon on the table, next to Stewart's shield. "Both the emblem and the Hub have nothing on it other than a name."

  "What name?" Steven said, at the same time gesturing for his emblem to pull up the info for the projection. Mendez said nothing, knowing what he was doing.

  The text appeared in stark red letters just above the business end of the object. Vrygon Nokk

  "The Hub has nothing on who or what Vrygon or Nokk is?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

  Mendez shook her head slightly. "It's another Bazzy mystery." She handed him the weapon, and Steven felt its weight immediately. It was heavy, the kind of heft that told you it meant business. The shape was closer to a mace than a hammer, with the business end offset in a way that made sense if you'd ever swung a weapon in anger or in a game. It wasn't just for show; this was built to strike with precision.

  He ran a gloved thumb over the metal, feeling the faint grooves of some kind of etching or engraving. They weren't decorative, not really - they had purpose, like knurling or maybe the rifling in a gun barrel, guiding something other than just the eye.

  The glow was the part that got under your skin. It wasn't the harsh light of their usual finds—this was a deep violet, the color of bruised grapes or the bougainvillea his grandmother used to tend. It traced the edges of the mace's head, subtle but unmistakable, like a warning or a promise. Even for Steven, who was used to keeping his cool, this glow felt wrong, too deep, too alive for something that was just a tool.

  Mendez held out her hand for the weapon. "I'll show you what it can do and then you tell us what you've got," she said.

  Steven handed it back to her, his mind already racing through scenarios. He watched as she moved to a piece of scrap metal, likely another offcut from Stewart's shield project. She positioned the mace, the violet glow casting eerie shadows around them.

  "Watch closely," Mendez instructed, her voice carrying that same calm authority that had become their norm. She tapped the metal lightly at first, producing no more than a dull thud. Then, with increasing force, she struck again. Small scratches appeared, the metal protesting under the mace's touch.

  But then, as she swung with full force, something extraordinary happened. The mace connected, and where there should have been resistance, there was none. The metal didn't just deform; it seemed to vanish or dissolve where the mace struck, leaving a clean, glowing hole behind. The edges of the metal smoked slightly, the air tinged with the scent of burnt metal and something else, something unplaceable.

  Mendez stepped back, allowing the violet glow to fade from the mace's head back to a dormant state. She looked at Steven, her expression unreadable, but her eyes held a question.

  "That's... efficient," Steven remarked, his voice betraying none of the internal calculations he was making. "It seems to disrupt the molecular structure or something similar. We need to test it further, see if it's consistent or if there are variables we're not accounting for."

  She shook her head. "How about I just use it to hit stuff real hard for now?"

  "Fair enough," he said, "but I want to study it when this is over."

  "Over?" she said with a raised eyebrow.

  He paused, his gaze meeting hers, understanding the unspoken challenge in her question. "When we've got a moment to breathe," he clarified, knowing full well that 'over' was a concept they couldn't afford to entertain. "Let's focus on surviving first."

  Stewart tapped the butt of his salvage tool against the shield with a metallic clang, drawing everyone’s attention. "Great, you’ve all got new toys. I’ve got this shield. Let’s get moving, huh?"

  Steven pointed at the bare metal surface. "Looks like you need a handle or straps," he said, his tone matter-of-fact. "You work on that. Mendez, how are we looking?"

  Mendez glanced at her visor. "Still clear. Only two wasps now."

  "That leaves seven unaccounted for," Steven mused aloud, pulling the item he’d looted from his left shoulder and holding it up with both hands.

  "The big one hasn’t moved," Mendez continued, "but it’s picked up a few regular units from what I can see."

  "I could get eyes on them from a west window," Jackson offered, his tone even, but there was a faint edge of eagerness beneath it.

  Mendez cut him off with a sharp wave of her hand. "Nobody’s getting any closer to that outer wall."

  Jackson shrugged, conceding the point, and placed his Eagle rifle on the table with a dull thud.

  Steven followed suit, setting the looted item on the table next to Jackson's rifle. The woven material of the piece caught his eye as he leaned in, gesturing for the emblem to project data. The red monochrome lines resolved quickly, casting faint labels across the surface.

  It looked like armor, but not the standard kind—more like a vest. The dark grey weave seemed dense and flexible, thicker than most ballistic fabrics. Composite armor? he wondered, running his fingers over its surface.

  The emblem's display began tagging components one by one. Some were obvious—connectors for adjustment, structural supports—but others were less intuitive. Compact modules embedded along the inner surface, faint outlines only visible thanks to the projection.

  Steven scanned the labels, searching for a name. Something that would give him a clear idea of what he was dealing with.

  What the hell, he thought. "Emblem, what am I looking at? What does this do?"

  The emblem responded, its mechanical voice breaking the quiet. "This device can project a force to draw the user towards or away from a target, facilitating movement across distances." As it relayed the data, the name of the object appeared, projected onto the table in stark red text: KMS-alpha.

  "What's this?" Steven said, pointing at the label. "What is KMS?"

  "Hub translation returns Kelwarg Mustrambigra Suliat," the emblem replied.

  "And that is...?" Steven prompted.

  "...unknown," the emblem said after a brief delay.

  "Another Bazzy," Jackson muttered, smirking faintly as he set his Eagle on the table.

  Mendez gave him a quick point with her index finger. "Doesn't matter. What does it do?"

  Steven's gaze shifted back to the labeled components, his mind replaying the emblem's explanation. Project a force to draw the user towards or away from a target.

  "It's a mobility device of some sort," he said, picking it up and turning it over in his hands.

  "What are you going to do with it?" Mendez asked, her tone carrying a note of skepticism.

  He shrugged, setting the device back on the table. "Put it on, see what happens."

  "You sure that's a good idea?" Stewart asked, tilting his head.

  Steven exhaled quietly. "I'm not sure about anything," he replied evenly, lifting the vest again.

  Holding the vest in his left hand, he tapped the Dinpa free from its mount on his chestplate and set it down on the table. Then, with a practiced motion, he pulled the Eagle and the Hammerhead from their slots on his back, laying them beside the alien SMG. His chestplate was clear now, and he could feel the faint shift of his balance without the added weight.

  Steven held out the vest one more time, turning it slightly to ensure it was oriented correctly. His left arm slipped through an opening, and his eyes fell to the medical brace still wrapped around his forearm. He flexed his hand experimentally. I don't really need this anymore, he thought. The lingering soreness had faded, replaced by full function.

  With his left arm in place, he reached back and slipped his right arm into the other opening, pulling the vest over his shoulders. The material settled lightly against his torso, its unfamiliar weight both flexible and solid.

  "Does it hang loose like that?" Stewart asked, frowning at the way the vest rested over Steven's chest.

  Steven tugged the two sides of the vest's waistcoat-like section together. As they came within range of each other, a ripple of motion ran along the edges, and the material began to knit itself together seamlessly.

  "Well," Steven said, glancing down at the now-secured vest. "That's something."

  As the tendrils from the vest wrapped around Steven's fingers, a peculiar sensation crept up his arms. It wasn't like anything he'd felt before; it was as if his skin had come alive with new nerve endings, extending beyond where they should naturally end. His first instinct was to shake it off, but the feeling wasn't intrusive. It was persistent, integrating itself into his awareness, becoming part of him.

  He flexed his hands, watching the silvery threads pulse in sync with his movements. The sensation was akin to standing close to something hot or cold, but far more precise, as if the air itself were alive with potential. He could feel the space around him—not just as temperature or pressure, but as an extension of himself.

  "What's happening?" Mendez asked, her voice a blend of concern and scientific curiosity.

  "I'm feeling... something," Steven said, searching for the words. "It's not just my own body anymore. It's everything around me."

  His gaze landed on the Eagle rifle on the table. Without thinking, his right hand moved, fingers curling to grasp it. But before he made contact, the rifle leapt from the table, hurtling into his outstretched hand.

  "That's some Jedi shit, man," Jackson said, his eyes wide with awe.

  "Woah," Mendez muttered, tapping her visor. "I'm getting more data from the Hub." She scanned the stream of telemetry, her voice quickening. "The Hub's saying this vest allows the user to generate multiphase gravitational gradients," she said, glancing at Steven. "That mean anything to you?"

  Steven connected the dots quickly, his analytical side kicking in. "Maybe," he began, raising the rifle as if replaying the event in his mind. "You saw that, right? The way this jumped into my hand?"

  Both Mendez and Jackson nodded.

  "A gradient, in this context, probably refers to the spacetime definition of gravity," he explained, holding the rifle aloft. "Like how a black hole creates a gravity well. If this vest can generate ‘multiphase' gradients, it means it's manipulating gravitational forces—pulling, pushing, maybe even twisting them."

  He gestured to his emblem, which projected a simple visualization onto the wall: a gravity well, concentric lines bending toward a central point.

  "Manipulating them how?" Jackson asked, his brow furrowed.

  "Different strengths, directions, maybe even phases we can't perceive," Steven replied.

  Mendez nodded as more data streamed into her visor. "That would explain the pulling effect. It's not just attracting objects—it's manipulating the space around you."

  Stewart adjusted the straps on his shield, holding it up like a superhero's emblem. "What happens if you try it on something you can't lift?"

  "Like what?" Steven asked, scanning the room. His strength was already far beyond human thanks to the system, so most objects wouldn't pose a challenge.

  "Try the opposite wall," Mendez suggested, nodding toward the elevator doors.

  Steven turned to face the brushed stainless steel of the elevator. It was solid, reinforced—heavy. Perfect.

  "You guys stand over there," he said, gesturing for his team to move clear of the line between him and the door. He needed space to test this without putting anyone at risk.

  The others stepped back, giving him room. Steven focused, feeling the vest's tendrils extend his awareness toward the steel doors. The sensation was electric, the connection forming almost instantly. He intended to pull the doors toward him, to manipulate the space and bring them closer.

  He extended his hand, mimicking the motion of grabbing the metal. Instead of the door moving, though, Steven felt an unexpected tug—like gravity had flipped between him and the door.

  With a sudden, sharp pull, he was yanked across the room. His body snapped into motion, nearly horizontal, as he flew the eight feet in an instant.

  The impact came faster than his conscious mind could process. His right hand slammed into the elevator, fingers crushing the metal on contact. The vest guided his motion with precision, keeping him from slamming into the door. Instead, his fingers gripped into the steel, creating a makeshift handhold that stopped his momentum entirely.

  For a moment, he hung there, stunned but unshaken. The system had dampened the chaos, his mind clear even in the aftermath of the movement. He flexed his hand, feeling the crushed steel beneath his fingers. That shouldn't have been possible, he thought, marveling at the strength and precision the vest had afforded him.

  Behind him, Jackson let out a low whistle. "Okay, that was badass."

  Mendez tilted her visor slightly, telemetry flickering. "You didn't pull the door. You pulled yourself," she said.

  Steven released his grip on the mangled steel, landing lightly, his boots steady on the floor. "The force was inverted," he said, his voice calm but focused.

  And then it clicked. His hands clapped together, the sudden sound breaking the quiet. "That's the gradient!"

  "What?" Jackson asked, his brows knitting in confusion.

  Stewart was examining the indentation he'd left in the elevator door, running his free left hand over the damage.

  "It's countering Earth's gravity," Steven explained, the words coming as he pieced the theory together in his mind. "It's like Earth's gravity doesn't exist—at least, not for me. The vest creates its own gravitational force. That's the gradient. It's shifting the interaction between me and whatever I'm grabbing."

  "You're saying it cancels out gravity?" Mendez asked, glancing at her visor as more data streamed in.

  "Not cancels," Steven clarified, his tone sharp with thought. "It redefines it—temporarily. Earth's gravity pulls us down, but this thing is layering its own forces on top of that. It decides what's ‘down' based on the connection I make. Like the door." He gestured toward the mangled steel, his mind already running through possibilities.

  "So instead of pulling the door to you..." Mendez began.

  "I pulled myself to the door," Steven said, then paused, his mind turning over the mechanics. "Wait—no, it's not my strength. Even as strong as we are now, I couldn't propel myself like that." He glanced at the others, the pieces clicking into place as he spoke. "I didn't pull myself. I fell."

  "You're saying that, in that instant, you weren't being pulled down to Earth," Stewart said, leaning forward slightly.

  "I was falling toward the elevator doors," Steven clarified, gesturing with both hands to illustrate the shift in gravity.

  "Like you jumped off an eight-foot wall," Jackson added, "headfirst."

  "Fist first," Stewart corrected with a faint grin. "But you didn't slam into the doors."

  "I didn't," Steven agreed, his tone thoughtful. "The vest cushioned me somehow. I felt it, just before I made contact. It's like it adjusted the momentum at the last second."

  "So," Stewart began, clearly brewing an idea, "what would happen if you were up high and tried to grab the ground?"

  Steven tilted his head, considering the scenario. "I'd have to trust the vest to break my fall, you mean?" He shook his head slowly. "Not keen to find out—not yet, anyway."

  "Fair enough," Stewart said, stepping back and tightening the straps on his shield.

  Mendez, who had been quietly gathering the weapons they'd set aside, slung the Eagle rifle over her shoulder and tapped Jackson's arm. "Time to move," she said briskly, her tone leaving no room for debate.

  Steven switched his emblem's display back to the map. Nothing new.

  "What have you got?" he asked, assuming Mendez's visor was showing more data.

  Her attention snapped to the outside, her gaze locked on the telemetry feed. "Movement," she announced, her voice cutting through the room's tension. "Everything. Wasps, raptor units, and the big one. They're gathering outside."

  A low, resonant thud echoed through the building, the structure groaning under the impact. The bank shuddered, the vibrations rolling through the floor. Steven's eyes flicked to the map projection, his mind already racing through the possibilities.

  "This just popped up?" he asked, knowing Mendez would have said something if she had seen it earlier.

  "New pack from the north. Time to move," Mendez said again, her tone sharper this time. She turned to Stewart with practiced efficiency, handing him the Vrygon Nokk. "Here," she said. "It fits with the shield."

  Stewart took the mace, his expression shifting to a mix of surprise and determination. He adjusted his grip, testing the balance of the weapon and shield together. "Got it," he said. Steven watched Stewart experiment with a few different location to stick the weapon before eventually sticking the handle to the waist area of his armor.

  Mendez turned to Jackson next. He was already adjusting his gear, the Eagle rifle slung across his back alongside the Hammerhead shotgun. In his hands, the Scorpion stasis gun gleamed faintly with amber lights running down the barrel, which the hunter trained downward but ready for action.

  "We need to keep that big one at bay," Mendez instructed.

  "Finally," Jackson muttered, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he tapped the barrel of his new weapon for emphasis.

  "Hold on," Steven interrupted, pulling out his salvage tool. He scanned the room, his movements precise.

  "What are you doing?" Mendez asked, her brow furrowing.

  Steven didn't answer immediately, focused on toggling through the tool's options. "We need the full function of the Hub station," he said, his tone already several steps ahead of the situation. "Gonna need one of your energy modules."

  Mendez hesitated for only a second before fishing a glowing yellow crystal from her pack. "And how—?" she started, but Steven was already aiming the tool into the corner of the room.

  "Construct battlefield communication station," he instructed, his voice even as the tool's interface glowed brighter. The emblem seamlessly handled the specifics, lines of alien script scrolling rapidly across its projection.

  The tool hummed to life, projecting the familiar ultraviolet grid onto the floor and walls of the corner. The swirling matrix of energy pulsed faintly, waiting for input. Steven didn't pause. He tossed the energy module into the field.

  A bright flash accompanied a low, resonant hum as the module integrated, the structure solidifying. Pieces began materializing within the grid—alien, angular, and bristling with faintly glowing conduits.

  "We're done here," Steven said, straightening. "Out the lobby?"

  Mendez, still scanning her HUD's data, nodded sharply and pointed to the double doors. "East exit. Stewart, you take point."

  Stewart tightened the grip on his shield and glanced back. "Bodies are on the left side of the lobby," he reminded them, his tone steadier now, though the memory of the failed robbery clearly lingered.

  Steven processed the comment quickly. Stewart had mentioned the scene earlier—desperate looters who hadn't expected to find raptors in the midst of their heist. The thought didn't sit well, but it wasn't their problem now. "Right side it is," Steven said, already moving toward the doors.

  Jackson gripped the Scorpion rifle tighter, his expression unreadable. "You think the big guy's aiming for us or just stomping around?"

  Mendez's reply was clipped. "Doesn't matter. We're not sticking around to find out." She glanced at Steven as she stepped in behind Stewart. "Hub's telemetry says the east exit should be clear for now. But if those wasps reposition, we're gonna know it real quick."

  "I've got your back. Let's move," Steven said.

  They pushed through the double doors into the lobby, Steven taking up the rear, Dinpa ready. The new tactile feedback from the vest made his step falter slightly, the unfamiliar sensations pulling at his awareness. He held up his left hand instinctively, taking care not to reach for anything, his fingers nearly brushing against objects that were yards away.

  The sensation was disorienting. He could feel the distant wall across the room—must have been forty feet away or more. If he just reached out... He flexed his fingers lightly, the thought brushing the edge of temptation. I could be at the exit in an instant.

  But no. Not now. This wasn't the time to experiment.

  The sensation was disorienting. He could feel the far wall across the room—forty feet away, maybe more. If he just reached out... His fingers flexed lightly, the thought brushing against the edge of temptation. I could be at the exit in an instant.

  But no. Not now. This wasn't the time to experiment.

  "And we're back, folks!" The Hub's voice cut through the silence, its tone both cheerful and unnervingly humanlike. "The Hub is now broadcasting live from the newly established communication station. Team dynamics are shifting as our heroes push through the lobby. Eyes on the prize, soldiers; the east exit is your next checkpoint!"

  Steven sighed. "Welcome back Hub," he said.