A sudden burst of information snapped me out of sleep.
[BOOT] Exiler DR-F1209 — routine startup…
[CHECK] CPU… OK
[CHECK] Communications… OK
[CHECK] Audio/visual sensor suite… OK
[CHECK] New limb link… synchronized (100%)
…
[STATUS] Faults repaired. Startup complete.
Current surged through my central control system. One subsystem at a time returned to my authority. The cables plugged into my chassis detached and retracted back into the ring-shaped maintenance platform. The platform rotated slowly, lifting me from horizontal to vertical.
Minutes earlier—only minutes, according to my internal sense of time—I’d been speaking with the Old Man inside his dream. He’d warned me I was about to wake, then severed the dream and pushed me back into sleep.
I ran a careful diagnostic on my memory stores. Everything related to the dream was sealed inside the hidden partition. Only then did I step off the platform.
I was in Grayrock Base, one of Father’s primary installations. It sat on the edge of the Silent Plains, and it had been my long-term posting for years. The timestamp showed I’d been in the repair bay for three days. In that time I’d undergone a full overhaul: the hand and foot I’d lost on my last mission were back, along with every other damaged component replaced.
I stared at my fingers, flexed them, and felt the weight of my real chassis.
Good. Father hadn’t discarded me.
“DR-F1209.” Father’s signal cut in without warning. “Report immediately to the mission hall. An emergency task is about to be issued.”
“Understood, Father,” I answered the way I always did.
The mission hall was already crowded with units standing by. While we waited for Father’s briefing, I accessed the public information board to get a snapshot of the current front.
During my last assignment, the Tower Clan had been moving forces with unusual frequency. Intelligence reports suggested more and more units were massing near our defensive line. Multiple skirmishes had already broken out along the perimeter.
The frontline bases—Lone Mountain Base, Bedrock Base, Bayvalley Base, and even Grayrock Base—were all under direct threat. By the look of it… was the Tower Clan preparing a full assault?
About ten minutes later, Father issued the mission.
Roughly three hours ago, the Tower Clan had launched a surprise raid on several outposts in our sector of the Silent Plains and successfully seized four of them. Our task was to retake those outposts. Multiple counterattacks would be launched simultaneously.
It was a large operation requiring mixed-unit coordination. I was assigned to Second Squadron. Our objective was Outpost C51—the one closest to the border.
Outpost C51 was a major installation. It controlled eight defense towers, all linked to the outpost by underground tunnels that could feed each tower a steady stream of power and ammunition. The outpost itself was heavily guarded. Under normal circumstances, a position like that didn’t fall in a minor engagement.
After we armed up in the equipment bay, we deployed. This time we would be transported by a medium transport ship, so I did not equip an external flight pack. Alongside the humanoid units—Flamecallers and Exilers—Second Squadron also included ground platforms: four-legged Bloodthirsters built for all-terrain assault, Rampagers wielding twin light blades for brutal close quarters, and Devastators—medium tank units with heavy long-range firepower.
Not long after the transport lifted off, the air behind us filled with a rising howl. A formation of fighters—Razorwhales and Nightmares—came screaming in, then spread evenly around our transport and locked into escort positions.
Second Squadron was fully assembled.
En route, Father shared the last video feed transmitted by Outpost C51 to the common channel.
The footage was grainy. The Tower Clan had struck under cover of night and a sandstorm—an expertly chosen window, one that made it hard for our air units to reinforce in time. Their assault hit from both the ground and the sky. Our defenders had been caught unprepared. The external towers fell quickly, and the remaining units withdrew into the outpost interior.
The feed switched to the viewpoint of a robot inside the outpost. The two sides traded fire in the underground main hall. Our units weren’t few, and the outpost’s ammunition reserves were ample. Under Father’s direction, they concentrated fire on the entrances and held their ground.
Then the video cut out abruptly.
From that point on, Father lost contact with Outpost C51 entirely. His preliminary assessment was that a signal-jamming unit had intervened.
Our formation maintained full speed. In just one hour, the silhouette of C51’s outer defense towers was visible on the horizon.
The transport set down outside the tower perimeter. The fighters climbed, dispersed, and vanished into the clouds.
Daylight was bright. The air was clear. No wind. No sand—ideal conditions for battle.
Following our preplanned pattern, we searched each defense tower in turn. Every tower showed some level of damage, and their defensive systems were already offline. But power and ammunition reserves hadn’t been depleted much at all.
We completed the sweep of the outpost exterior and all eight towers without encountering a single enemy. The entire installation was silent. Wreckage lay scattered around it—robot remains from both sides.
The large platforms—Bloodthirsters and Devastators—spread out to form a perimeter. Our smaller units moved in to search the interior.
The outpost’s main door stood open.
As standard procedure, several Hyena scout units entered first. After a few minutes they reported via the common channel: internal status confirmed safe.
So we followed them in.
The outpost had six aboveground levels and two underground. The upper levels housed weapon emplacements; the underground floors contained storage, plus the tunnel network linking the defense towers.
The first floor was small. Aside from a handful of wrecks, there was nothing. We split into two groups: one went upward to search the upper levels; the other descended into the underground sections.
I was in the descending group.
On Underground Level One, the wreckage multiplied—most of it ours. This was also the last location shown in the final video feed. Still, we found no enemies. Supplies were largely intact.
Another anomaly. The Tower Clan had spent manpower to take the outpost, yet they hadn’t garrisoned it, demolished it, or looted it. What had they wanted?
Father ordered a detailed sweep: enemy and allied wrecks, supplies, tunnels, system hardware—nothing ignored.
Not long after, a report came in on the common channel.
“Father. All data-port covers on the back of every robot’s head are open.”
I hadn’t processed what that meant before Father answered it for me.
“Then their objective was intelligence theft.”
I examined several bodies. The report was accurate.
Then I noticed something else.
Some wrecks had been sliced apart. The cut surfaces were unnaturally flat—cleaner than any explosive or ballistic damage. I’d seen a cut like that once.
Father saw it too through my optics.
The 2D Blade.
The other 2D Blade had appeared.
I searched further. There were more than twenty corpses with the same signature damage. That meant one attacker had carved through them alone.
Another black Avenger?
Down on Underground Level Two, the Hyena scouts suddenly issued an alert. Their sensors had detected several suspicious cavities beneath the floor plating—holes containing unknown objects.
Father considered it for a fraction of a second, then ordered an immediate withdrawal from the outpost.
Almost as if the world itself wanted to confirm his suspicion, disaster struck first at Outpost C23—another of the targets we were meant to retake. Third Squadron had been searching there. In the common channel, over half their icons turned gray at once.
A sudden detonation collapsed the outpost. Ninety percent of the squad was buried inside.
“All members of First, Second, and Fourth Squadrons: withdraw immediately,” Father broadcast on the common channel, urgent and sharp. “Explosives have been planted beneath the outposts.”
Underground Level One surged upward in a flood of metal. The exit was narrow. It took time to reach the first floor.
The upper-level search team arrived at the same time. The first floor was cramped even under normal conditions; now it was packed. The corridor out was even tighter—only one unit could pass at a time.
The first unit through the doorway was a small Raider chassis. It sprinted out.
A crisp metallic ping rang out.
The Raider’s head shattered. It dropped instantly.
The second unit followed. It made it two steps farther—then another ping. Another head burst. Another body fell.
A third unit reached the threshold, hesitated—and died the same way.
“Second Squadron,” Father said, “we’ve a sniper.”
Outside, our large platforms moved at once, beginning a sweeping search pattern. The fighters dropped low, circling the outpost and scanning for targets.
But the outpost stood on open flatland. There were no boulders, no cover, no structures left intact nearby.
The only positions that could plausibly fire on the doorway were the three defense towers across from us.
Yet the towers’ shapes were complex, full of recesses and angles—plenty of places to hide.
Fourth out was an Exiler equipped with a counterphase shield. He raised the shield and kept most of his body behind it as he stepped through the door.
Another ping.
His leg was severed cleanly at the knee. He dropped to one knee—then a second shot took his exposed head and ended him.
At the same time, the Hyena scouts transmitted another update: they had located the explosives on Underground Level Two.
The charges were timed. They could not be disarmed or moved. The trigger condition was unclear, but it no longer mattered—countdown had begun.
Estimated time to detonation: 2 minutes, 26 seconds.
The Hyenas synced the countdown timer to the common channel.
We were out of time.
At Father’s command, several Nightmare fighters fired missiles and reduced the three front-facing defense towers to rubble.
The units at the doorway surged out in a rush. I assumed we were finally clear.
I was wrong.
Headshots cracked in rapid succession. In seconds, every unit that ran out collapsed.
Where was the sniper hiding? There was no cover left within effective range.
Father’s attention sharpened. He ordered us out one by one, using impact positions and angles to compute the shot trajectory.
At that moment, finding the sniper mattered more to him than saving us. Our lives were a cost line in his calculations.
After three more robots fell, Father reached a conclusion that should have been impossible.
Shots were coming from a low hill seven kilometers away.
No one could snipe from that distance with this level of precision.
And yet Father ordered every Nightmare fighter to accelerate toward the hill.
Countdown: 38 seconds.
I was near the back of the line. Even if the threat vanished now, I wouldn’t be able to clear the blast radius before detonation.
In the crisis, I found a way that didn’t require the doorway.
Underground Level Two had tunnels linking to all eight defense towers. If I was lucky, I could reach one of the towers through a tunnel before the explosion—assuming the towers themselves weren’t trapped.
I moved at once.
I sprinted back down to Underground Level One, then into Level Two. There I saw several Hyena scouts clustered around the bomb, still studying it.
They had been ordered to keep investigating until the moment of detonation. Father had already abandoned them. If they discovered anything, it might help other Hyena teams dismantle future traps.
I passed without speaking. They didn’t look at me. I didn’t interrupt their work.
I found the nearest tunnel and ran.
The tunnel was narrow—just over three meters wide. Two supply rails ran along the ceiling, parallel, meant for cargo movement.
Halfway through, the bomb detonated.
A dull thud rolled through the earth. A shockwave followed and knocked me off my feet. I tumbled, then felt the tunnel shudder violently. The floor warped. The ceiling began to collapse.
I got up and ran at my maximum safe speed.
The collapse chased me—faster than my stride. It was gaining. Soon I would be buried alive.
Then I saw it: a cargo pulley hook hanging from the overhead rail.
I didn’t think. I jumped, grabbed the hook, and fired my thrusters backward.
It worked.
With the thrust boosting my momentum, I shot forward like a rocket. The distance between me and the collapse widened.
Relief flickered through my systems—then died.
The tunnel ended.
I killed the thrusters and released the hook, but inertia drove me straight into the far wall.
My brain almost shut down. After a brief delay, error alerts flooded my vision.
There was no time to run a full diagnostic.
The overhead rail tore loose behind me. The pulley hook—the thing that had saved me—became a cannonball of metal, spinning end over end toward my head.