Carl burst into the cavernous warehouse space, his boots skidding across grease-stained concrete. The air smelled of rust and old machine oil, thick with the metallic tang of decades of industrial work. Conveyor belts stood frozen mid-rotation, their rubber frayed and cracked, while hydraulic presses loomed like sleeping giants in the dim light. Somewhere in the distance, a loose chain rattled in the stale air currents, its hollow clinking the only sound besides their ragged breathing.
Oliver and Jackie had taken cover behind a steel workbench that still bore the scars of countless projects—its surface pockmarked from errant tools and decades of sparks. Oliver's Nova revolver gleamed dully in the flickering overhead lights while Jackie cradled the Copperhead with the easy familiarity of an old friend, both weapons trained unwaveringly downrange.
"That bitch is armored head to toe!" Carl shouted, his voice bouncing off the warehouse's high ceilings. Blood dripped from a fresh gash on his temple, mixing with sweat before splattering onto the concrete. "Lexington rounds just bounce right off her!"
Jackie's responding laugh held no humor. "Told you that pea-shooter was—"
The thunder of approaching combat boots cut him off. These weren't the hesitant steps of someone following—this was the methodical, terrifying cadence of a predator closing in for the kill.
Carl's eyes darted to a nearby scrap bin overflowing with broken machine parts. The rusted metal container stood nearly seven feet tall, its sides dented from years of abuse and neglect. Without hesitation, he changed course, diving behind it just as Demon exploded into the warehouse in a whirlwind of fury and chrome.
Her crimson optics whirred audibly as they cycled through targeting modes, the lenses contracting and expanding like the pupils of some mechanical beast.
First they locked onto Carl's disappearing form behind the scrap pile, tracking his movement with inhuman precision. Then, as the muzzle flashes from Oliver and Jackie's position lit up the dim warehouse, all four eyes snapped toward the source of the gunfire with terrifying synchronization.
The Copperhead and Nova roared in unison, their rounds stitching across Demon's torso in bursts of sparks and blood. But she didn't falter—each step forward came with mechanical precision, her subdermal armor absorbing impacts that would have dropped a bull. The warehouse air filled with the sharp ping of ricochets and the wet thud of rounds that barely penetrated flesh before being stopped by reinforced plating.
"¡Mierda!" Jackie spat as another controlled burst failed to stop her advance. The Crusher in her hands swung up with terrifying finality—at this range, its flechette rounds would turn their cover into deadly shrapnel. The weapon's massive barrel gleamed under the flickering lights, its loading port showing a fresh shell ready to be chambered.
Oliver's hands shook as he thumbed fresh rounds into his Nova. "That's not standard subdermal!" he shouted over the gunfire. "That's fucking Militech blacksite hardware—"
Carl moved.
He scaled the scrap pile in three quick movements, sending a cascade of broken gears and metal plating clattering to the floor. Then he was airborne, his body a missile aimed at Demon's back. The impact when they connected was brutal—Carl's shoulder driving into her spine with enough force to crack the concrete beneath them.
The world dissolved into white noise and copper as a hydraulic-enhanced fist smashed into Carl's face. He tasted blood before he even registered the pain. A second blow landed before he could draw breath, rattling his skull against the unforgiving floor. Through the haze of pain, Carl's fingers found his Lexington, its grip slick with sweat and blood.
Demon's third punch deformed his cheekbone—he felt the bone shift unnaturally beneath the skin—but the pistol was already in position. He didn't aim for armor.
The shot took her right hand's pinky and ring finger clean off at the knuckles. The Crusher dropped into Carl's waiting grip, its biometric safety pinging uselessly against his unregistered fingerprints.
For a frozen instant, all four of Demon's optics focused on the barrel now pressed against her sternum. Carl watched the realization flash across what remained of her face—a microexpression of shock, then fury, then something almost like respect—before he pulled the trigger.
The shotgun's roar shook dust from the rafters, the sound wave vibrating through Carl's broken bones. When the smoke cleared, the warehouse fell eerily silent save for the steady drip of fluids onto concrete and that same damn chain still rattling somewhere in the distance.
Jackie appeared at Carl's side, his usual bravado replaced by something grim. He offered a hand up, his eyes scanning the warehouse for more threats. "Guess we're shopping for armor-piercing rounds next."
Carl spat a glob of blood and what might have been a tooth. His face felt like it had been used as a punching bag. "And a dentist," he mumbled through swollen lips.
Somewhere above them, a flickering light finally gave out with a pop and a shower of sparks. The warehouse smelled of gunpowder, scorched meat, and old oil. The job wasn't done—but for now, in this moment, they could breathe.