The alarm blared across the MOA Complex, its mechanical wail cutting through the stillness like a blade. Red strobes pulsed along corridors, stairwells, and open plazas. Overwatch's central defense grid had gone from green to yellow in under three minutes—then snapped into flashing red.
Inside the command center, personnel scrambled into motion. Coffee mugs were left half-full, chairs overturned, datapads slid across the floor. Emergency floodlights clicked on, casting the steel interior in a cold white glow.
"Bring up Reaper feeds!" barked Sergeant Del Rosario.
Screens flickered—then stabilized into multiple infrared views of the advancing mass. Sector L-3 was flooded with heat signatures. The horde was not shambling like scattered infected. This was no random migration. This was organized. Directed.
