The palace shook with another explosion, closer this time. President Rivera steadied himself against his desk as ancient plaster rained from the art deco ceiling. Through the cracked window, he watched his city burn.
"Mr. President." His security chief appeared in the doorway, enhancement ports glowing an urgent red at his temples. "We've lost the north wing. They're inside the compound."
Rivera's fingers found the small enamel pin in his pocket—the Costa del Sol national colors fashioned by Sofia's hands for his inauguration. Three years ago, she'd placed it on his lapel with solemn pride, her fourteen-year-old hands steadier than his own.
"My wife and daughter?" The question scraped his throat raw.
"Still en route to the airport with Delta Team. Last transmission was ten minutes ago." The chief's enhancement ports flickered as he received another update. His face tightened. "Sir, the airport perimeter is still holding, but our window to reach it is closing fast."
Rivera nodded, pocketing the pin. "And Santos?"
The name hung between them, the answer already known. His oldest friend, the man who'd stood beside him through revolution and reform, who'd sneaked whiskey into his hospital room when Sofia was born. Gone.
The acrid scent of burning electronics and cordite stung Rivera's nostrils as they descended toward the garage. Blood smeared the ornate banister. Not all of his security detail had survived the initial assault. The copper-enhanced forces moved with inhuman synchronization, anticipating tactics, operating as extensions of a single consciousness.
"How many of our forces are still responding to command?" Rivera asked as they reached the armored vehicle.
The security chief's voice came tight, personal. "Less than half the military, maybe a quarter of police. The rest are either compromised or dead." He touched Rivera's arm, a breach of protocol that spoke volumes. "Antonio, these aren't just soldiers. They're harvesting our people. Taking anyone with enhancement ports."
Rivera had seen the footage—civilians sorted into processing lines, families torn apart, enhanced citizens forced into containment transports. Not random violence, but methodical collection.
His communications terminal chimed as they prepared to depart—a sender ID that made even his security chief pause.
"SC," Rivera murmured, opening the encrypted file. Señor Cobranza, the shadowy figure whose criminal enterprise rivaled the government's reach. The display unfolded to reveal detailed maps of ATA strongholds and copper enhancement vulnerabilities, along with a simple message:
Some lines should never be crossed. The ATA experiments on women and children are unforgivable. Costa del Sol was merely the rehearsal. -SC
"Even the devil has standards," Rivera said quietly, transferring the data to his secure archive.
Another explosion rocked the compound—closer, final. The sharp tang of melting metal and synthetic fuel filled the garage as emergency systems failed. His last glimpse of the presidential palace framed copper-enhanced operatives flowing over the walls like mercury, catching sunlight in their unnatural movements.
The vehicle jolted as Isabella Rivera yanked her daughter down below window level. Outside, copper-enhanced soldiers processed civilians with mechanical efficiency, their enhancement ports pulsing in unison.
"Type three compatibility," one announced, metallic voice carrying through the armored glass as a middle-aged woman was separated from her family.
Isabella's fingers tightened around Sofia's. She'd insisted on visiting that children's hospital this morning—children with enhancement port deficiencies, their small bodies rejecting the technology most took for granted. Now she wondered how many of those children had made it out before the coordinated attacks began.
"Mama," Sofia whispered, her school uniform smudged with ash but her eyes clear. "They're like the ones in Papa's security briefings."
Captain Mendez cursed as enhancement ports at his throat flashed warning patterns. "Primary route compromised. We need to abandon the vehicle." He pointed toward an apartment block with faded art deco flourishes. "Safe house with tunnel access to the metro. Three blocks, moving fast."
Isabella met her daughter's eyes. They'd practiced this—theoretical scenarios in the presidential bunker, contingency protocols never meant to be used. Sofia nodded once, grim determination settling over her young features. Not just the president's daughter anymore, but a citizen of a country under attack.
As they abandoned the vehicle in a coordinated exit, Isabella gagged on the metallic taste of fear that flooded her mouth. The air throbbed with the whine of enhanced weapon systems and the low-frequency hum of copper port networks communicating.
From their position, Isabella glimpsed what had become of Plaza Libertad. Processing stations had been established with ruthless efficiency—enhanced soldiers scanning citizens, separating those with ports from those without. A young man tried to break from the line, sprinting toward the harbor. A copper-enhanced operative raised his hand almost lazily, his arm extending impossibly far as liquid metal tracery flowed beneath his skin, catching the runner by the throat and dragging him back.
"Move," Mendez urged, guiding them through back alleys toward the safe house.
Inside, Mendez interfaced with hidden security systems, his enhancement ports struggling to connect with systems already compromised by the invading network. The panel finally yielded, revealing a passage into darkness.
"The palace?" Isabella asked as they descended, the dank, earthy smell of the tunnels filling her nostrils, overlaid with the ozone tang of active enhancement technology.
"Compromised." Mendez didn't soften the blow. "The President was en route to the airport when communications went dark."
Sofia reached for her mother's hand, a child's gesture from a girl who'd spent the morning watching atrocities. "Papa will make it," she said with quiet certainty. "He always does."
Isabella squeezed back, praying her daughter's faith wasn't misplaced.
Elena pushed her father behind a toppled fish stall as another processing transport hummed into the harbor square. The morning had started normally—selling their catch to restaurant owners, Miguel complaining about his knee that never quite healed right, planning to fix the boat engine before next week's deep water expedition.
Now the world had collapsed into nightmare.
The air reeked of spilled fish guts fermenting in the sun, mingled with the coppery scent of blood and the electrical burn of weapons discharge. Through gaps in the wooden stall, Elena watched copper-enhanced soldiers sort her neighbors into categories with cold precision. Those with visible enhancement ports—even basic civilian models—were scanned, tagged, and herded into containment cells. Those who resisted discovered that copper enhancements granted capabilities beyond anything they'd seen before.
"We need to move," Miguel whispered, his weathered face grim beneath his fisherman's cap. "The chapel?"
Elena nodded. The chapel of Santa Maria overlooked the eastern district—where she'd met with Kasper so many times, sharing intelligence about smuggling routes while lighting candles for her brother Carlos.
They slipped through back alleys, avoiding main streets where processing stations had been established. The rhythmic cadence of enhanced footsteps echoed against stone walls, percussion to the terrified whispers of hidden civilians. Twice they froze as patrols passed, copper-enhanced soldiers moving with unnatural synchronization, their ports pulsing with shared consciousness.
"You think he's still alive?" Miguel asked as they paused to catch their breath. He didn't need to specify who.
"Kasper?" Elena kept her voice steady despite the knot in her stomach. "If anyone could survive this, it's him."
The switchback path to higher ground offered glimpses of the burning city below. Military installations, government buildings, the Association headquarters—all under simultaneous assault. Not random targets but a coordinated campaign to decapitate Costa del Sol's defense infrastructure.
They were halfway up when military transports appeared ahead, nearly silent despite their size, enhancement-modified engines betraying their ATA origins.
"Here," Miguel pulled her toward a drainage culvert barely large enough for them to squeeze into. They held their breath as boots hit the ground, heavier than standard issue, designed for enhanced strength.
"Eastern district evacuation route seven clear," a voice reported, the cadence unnaturally precise. "Operation Crucible entering phase two."
Elena's heart seized. The Exhibition, the water supply crisis—all diversions for this invasion.
When the patrol passed, they continued their journey, witnessing the methodical processing of Costa del Sol's citizens from hidden vantage points. At one intersection, Elena spotted a figure she recognized—Montoya himself, the cartel leader who'd nearly killed Kasper at the Exhibition. His body now covered in copper tracery that flowed beneath his skin like conscious mercury, directing operations with inhuman efficiency.
"The airport," Miguel decided, his voice tight with controlled fear. "If anyone's organizing evacuation, it'll be there."
They'd just turned toward the eastern roads when a copper-enhanced soldier emerged from a side alley, enhancement ports gleaming unnaturally in the mid-morning sun. His weapon oriented on them with mechanical precision.
"Target acquisition. Civilian elements interfering with containment pattern."
Miguel stepped in front of Elena as the weapon charged, his body the only shield he could offer. "Run," he ordered, the word carrying all a father's love and desperation.
The soldier's weapon discharged just as a silver blur struck from behind. The copper-enhanced operative staggered, weapon discharging harmlessly into a nearby wall as Kasper materialized between them, silver tracery visible beneath his skin as he deflected the weapon's aim.
Precision shots came simultaneously from multiple angles. The soldier collapsed, enhancement ports flickering before going dark.
"Elena," Kasper acknowledged, silver tracery momentarily receding as recognition softened his combat focus. "Miguel." He nodded to her father, who still stood protectively before her.
"Kasper," Elena breathed, relief flooding through her. "You're alive."
"For now," came a gruff response as Torres emerged from cover, limping heavily on his right leg. The veteran soldier's face was a canvas of fresh scars, one eye replaced by a tactical enhancement that whirred as it recalibrated. "Patrol returns in three minutes. We need to move."
Behind him, Vega appeared from behind a collapsed wall, her slender frame belying her deadliness. Unlike Torres's brute force approach, Vega's movements were precise, calculated—a sniper's economy of motion. The array of micro-ports along her forearms flickered with targeting data as she scanned rooftops.
"Clear for now," she reported, her accent marking her southern coastal origins. "But their network's adapting to our movement patterns."
Diaz followed, his enormous frame hunched to minimize his profile. Despite his size, the demolitions expert moved with surprising grace. His dark eyes constantly swept their surroundings as his enhancement ports hummed a low, steady rhythm—the only sign of his normally cheerful nature subdued by their circumstances.
Last came Moreno, bloodied bandages visible beneath his tactical gear. The tech specialist's enhancement ports stuttered irregularly, damage to his systems evident. Still, his fingers never stopped moving across his portable interface, intercepting enemy communications.
"They know we're here," he murmured, the smell of burnt circuitry emanating from his damaged enhancements. "Northeast quadrant command is redirecting containment teams."
Elena studied Kasper's face—something had changed since she'd last seen him. The silver tracery beneath his skin wasn't just technology anymore. It moved differently, adapting, evolving in ways enhancement ports shouldn't. When he turned his head, she caught the distinct chime of crystalline structures forming and dissolving beneath his skin.
"The airport," Kasper said, noticing her scrutiny and subtly shifting to obscure the silver patterns. "Rivera's established an emergency command center. Our best chance."
"Can we make it?" Elena asked, ears already catching the distant rhythm of synchronized patrols returning.
"We'll make it," Kasper replied, the silver beneath his skin pulsing with quiet certainty. "But we move now."
Montoya felt the network's expansion through his copper enhancements—thousands of minds joining the collective consciousness, their individual traits enriching the whole. The Director's satisfaction flowed through the connection like warm current.
Still, there was resistance in the integration process. Some test subjects rejected the copper enhancement, their neural pathways fighting the intrusion. Inefficient. Wasteful.
Montoya inhaled deeply, sampling the air through enhanced receptors. The distinctive blend of fear pheromones, adrenaline signatures, and enhancement port emissions provided tactical data his operatives used to track resistance. Every screaming civilian, every panicked breath, every racing heartbeat fed information into the network.
"Sorting efficiency is suboptimal," he informed the chief medical officer, a woman whose own copper enhancements still settled uneasily against her flesh. "The Director requires higher throughput."
"Quality control remains essential," she countered, gesturing to where citizens were being evaluated. "Rushed integration creates network instabilities."
A twinge of discomfort rippled through Montoya's copper tracery—an integration imperfection the Director hadn't fully resolved. The sensation tasted like burned metal in his consciousness. He suppressed it, focusing instead on the processing station where a military officer awaited extraction.
"Enhancement extraction optimization required," Montoya declared, approaching the station. The copper tracery beneath his skin flowed down his arm, interfacing with the equipment and overriding safety protocols.
The technicians stepped back—they recognized his authority but also feared his methods. The air filled with their anxious sweat and the subtle electrical discharge of stress-activated enhancement ports. The military officer struggled against restraints, enhancement ports flickering with desperate signals.
"Please," the man whispered, suddenly human rather than enemy. "I have children."
"Your sacrifice advances our evolution," Montoya replied mechanically, though somewhere deep beneath the copper network, something in him flinched at the words.
His fingers extended toward the officer's enhancement ports, copper tracery flowing like liquid metal. The connection formed with an audible crystalline chime, and the officer's scream cut off as copper overtook his neural pathways. His eyes glazed, enhancement ports pulsing briefly in resistance before synchronizing to the network's rhythm.
"Integration complete," Montoya announced, satisfaction flowing through the collective consciousness.
Yet as he turned away, a momentary glitch disrupted his connection—a fragment of the military officer's memories breaking through. A child's birthday. A sunset. Individual consciousness fighting assimilation. The taste of cake. The sensation of a small hand in his. Laughter.
Montoya's copper ports cycled recalibration patterns, the process producing a high-pitched whine only enhanced individuals could hear. He suppressed the anomaly before it could reach the Director's awareness. A minor imperfection in the system. Nothing significant.
He focused instead on the tactical display showing their methodical conquest of Costa del Sol. Multiple districts secured, enhanced population harvested. Only isolated pockets of resistance remained—the airport perimeter most significantly, where government forces maintained a defensive position.
His attention fixed on a particular signature moving through the eastern district—unique, organic, evolving in ways that fascinated even the Director.
"Kasper de la Fuente still evades capture," the tactical officer reported, noting Montoya's focus.
"Let him run," Montoya replied, copper tracery flowing with anticipation despite another momentary disruption in his connection—a brief, illogical flash of what might have been admiration for the silver-traced hunter. "The Director has special plans for his integration."
As the network expanded through Costa del Sol, Montoya ignored the increasing frequency of these connection glitches and the bitter, almost sulfuric aftertaste they left in his consciousness. Minor imperfections, nothing more. The evolution of humanity wouldn't be stopped by such trivial anomalies.