A soldier screams. The sound cuts short. Vael doesn't look back. His suit bleeds, a thin crimson trail slicking the ruined concrete under his armored boot. Anna stumbles behind him, her breath ragged in the comms. Her mournclad suit is dinged, smeared with Rindscale gorebreed tissue. Her face is pale behind the helm, even in the low light.
The air pulses with distant comm chatter. Human voices. Hunters. Vael hears the crunch of debris. Footsteps, heavy and fast, closing from the shattered buildings around them. He pushes a fallen beam aside. The bio-luminescent nodes beneath his suit's bio-plate thrum a low, steady rhythm. The pain enhancement protocols hum a deeper note, a familiar ache that sharpens his senses. This constant throb in his skull is no longer a distraction. It is part of him.
Anna chokes on a gasp. "More coming. Left flank."
Vael pivots. Three human soldiers emerge from a collapsed archway, rifles snapping up. Standard issue SymSuit infantry, probably Ravelin or Goliard types. Their movements are practiced. Their goal is clear. Termination.
No time for talk. Vael's suit systems flare. The blood seeping from his armor seams brightens, pulsing with a faint, internal light. He moves. A blur of black against the grey ruin.
The first soldier, a heavy Ravelin unit, tries to plant its seismic feet. Too slow. Vael's arm sweeps. The blade-like extensions from his forearm, hardened by recent mutations, slice through the Ravelin's kinetic dampener field. The bio-plate armor crumples like wet clay. Not enough. He thrusts. The suit-blood smears the Ravelin's chest as his modified fist tears through the material. A wet, tearing sound. The Ravelin's head snaps back, the body goes limp. It crashes.
The second soldier, a Goliard, swings a massive hammer-fist. Vael sidesteps. The blow cracks the reinforced concrete where he stood a moment before. He hears Anna's frantic warning. He doesn't need it. His enhanced combat clarity is absolute. He perceives the Goliard's weak points, the micro-fractures in its dense plating. He slams his knee into the Goliard's thigh joint. Bone cracks. The Goliard stumbles, roaring a garbled comms report. Vael drives his other fist into the suit's chest. Not a punch. A driven, focused impact. The Goliard's back-vents rupture, spraying internal fluids. The heavy suit folds.
The third soldier fires. A burst of plasma bolts sizzles past Vael's head. Too close. He charges. His body sings with the bleeding, the constant internal flow fueling his speed. The Feral Drift guides him. He ducks under the soldier's guard, his hand closing around the rifle barrel. He twists. The weapon groans, then breaks. The soldier tries to pull back, but Vael's grip is too strong. He pushes forward. The soldier falls, back hitting jagged rebar. Vael's foot slams onto its helmet. A sickening crunch. The soldier's struggle ends. Swift. Clean. Brutal.
A brief, distorted memory flickers. His father's lab. Flickering lights. A metallic smell. Not copper. Something else. Sterilized fear. A cold, predatory focus settles over Vael. He likes it.
Anna's voice is sharp, trembling. "Vael. What was that."
He turns. Her Mournclad suit stands a few meters away. Her helm is retracted. Her face is a mask of horror. Her eyes, wide and bloodshot, stare at the crimson fluid dripping from his armored hands. Her self-harm scars around her wrists and neck, visible against her pale skin, seem to pulse faintly. She looks at him like he is a newly revealed monster. She is right.
He doesn't respond. No need. Her trust in him shatters, visibly. A chasm opens between them, wide and unbridgeable. Her healing obsession, a drive to mend what is broken, wars with the grotesque display of his mutation. He sees the revulsion. He feels nothing but cold, utilitarian efficiency.
"They're still coming. Get up." Vael's voice is clipped, flat. The urgency in his tone is a habit, a protocol, not an emotion.
Another squad. Closer this time. Three more SymSuits. A Reaptor, quick and bladed. A Vitraux, glinting with deceptive bio-shards. And a Lancerred, its shoulder-mounted bio-rifle already tracking.
"Subject Rask.09-V. Cease and desist. You are compromised." The voice crackles over his comms. Command. His new name. Subject Rask.09-V. The designation feels natural. It fits. The human name, Vael Rask, is a distant echo. A whisper that no longer registers.
He scans the ruined street ahead. Twisted metal, shattered concrete slabs, and a thin, unsettling film of Rindscale gorebreed tissue. The multi-layered creature retreated, leaving behind its shed, pulsing layers of flesh. Now, smaller, twitching remnants of the Rindscale gorebreed writhe in the shadows. Pathetic.
The Reaptor breaks cover first. Blurs towards him, blades extended. Vael meets it head on. He doesn't need to predict, he already knows. His suit bleeds more freely now, a constant, viscous trail, pulsing with a faint, internal light. It coats his armor. A grotesque crimson sheen. This is not a wound. This is power. The pain enhancement protocols are working. The agony fuels his suit's efficiency.
The Reaptor's blades clash against his armored forearm. Sparks fly. Vael ignores them. He shoves. The Reaptor stumbles. The Vitraux unit tries to project a mirage double, a shimmering distortion of light. Vael's vision cuts through the illusion. His senses are sharper, inhuman. He sees the real unit, preparing its lure. He smashes through the mirage, hitting the Vitraux directly. The glass-like shards of its armor crack and shatter. A sickening, crystalline sound. The unit screams. Vael snaps its head.
The Lancerred fires. A bone-laced projectile whistles past his ear. Vael dives, rolling behind a concrete barrier. He hears Anna's frantic breathing, her fear palpable. She provides cover fire, her Mournclad's regeneration abilities already working, trying to mend her suit's damage from the Rindscale fight. Her dedication to healing, even now, is a weakness he no longer understands.
The Lancerred prepares to fire again. Vael moves. He surges out from cover, closing the distance. The Lancerred unit drops its shoulder-mounted bio-rifle, trying to use its elongated helm as a ram. Foolish. Vael catches the attack. He rips the rifle from its shoulder. It tears with a sickening rending sound. The Lancerred unit falls, screeching. Vael raises the bio-rifle, turns it on the downed soldier. He fires. The bone-laced projectile rips through the Lancerred's chest. Instant death.
He looks at the shattered units. Just compromised assets. Nothing more.
A soft scraping sound. A Scarp Maw gorebreed, small and twitching, emerges from a pile of rubble. It tries to mimic a dying soldier's gurgle, a pathetic attempt to lure him. Vael doesn't hesitate. He crushes it underfoot. The slick, low-to-the-ground insect-like body bursts, chattering bone pincers scattering across the ground. Effortless. The threat he poses is greater than these remnants.
Anna whimpers. "Vael. Stop."
He hears the break in her voice. The complete shattering of her composure. He turns to her. Her helm is still retracted. Her face is streaked with tears, dirt, and blood that is not her own. Her eyes lock onto his helmet, into the blank, faceless visor. She sees the monster she knew he was becoming. She sees it in the crimson sheen on his armor, the steady pulsing of the bioluminescent nodes.
Her body trembles. Her self-harm scars seem to pulse with her internal turmoil, a mirroring of the internal torment she faces after witnessing his monstrous shift. She stares, transfixed by his bleeding suit, by the undeniable proof of his transformation. She makes no move to run, trapped by horror and a desperate, fragile curiosity.
"We need to go. More coming," Vael states, his voice flat. He feels nothing for her terror, only the cold, hard logic of escape. His civilian identity, Vael Rask, is gone. A lost cause. The battle is over. Subject Rask.09-V remains.
He turns, scans the perimeter. The sounds of pursuit are fading. He had been efficient.
Anna moves, slowly, pulling her helm back over her face. She doesn't speak. Her silence is a new weight in the comms channel. A chasm. Unbridgeable. The psychological strain is severe. He feels a detached sense of satisfaction. His secret is protected. At the cost of humanity.
He steps over the shattered remains of a Goliard unit, its internal systems still sparking faintly. The air grows cold. The last of the Rindscale gorebreed tissue nearby shrivels, blackening. The stench of burnt flesh lingers.
His suit's internal comms crackle. Not Command. Not Anna. A chilling, fragmented voice. Distorted. Alien. It speaks words that are not words, but concepts. New. Forbidden. Upgrades. Harvest. Rindscale. Biological properties. His unauthorized evolution draws attention. From forces far beyond human comprehension. The suit pulses violently. His internal systems seize. A jolt. A sudden, sharp pain tears through his neural crown. Something snaps. Not bone. Not metal. Something deeper. A protocol. A part of his mind. It shatters. A new, terrifying harmony floods his awareness. Something is wrong.