The world had shrunk to the space between heartbeats, each one measured by the percussive roar of the Talons' futile assault.
Mags didn't join the crossfire.
From behind the scant cover of a shattered barricade, she was a statue of coiled patience, her shotgun a cold, familiar weight in her hands.
Her eyes, sharp and unblinking, were fixed on the two figures standing untouched in the storm of lead.
She was waiting.
Watching for the slightest twitch, the first hint of what they would do when they grew bored of this demonstration.
But beneath her frozen exterior, a ghost played on repeat behind her eyes.
It had happened too fast for a proper memory to form—just a flash of light, a sound that felt more like a physical blow than a noise, and then the empty space where Pen had been standing.
Now, the image was seared into her mind: Echo dragging Pen's limp, shuddering form from the crater.
The relief that had surged through her at the sight of Pen's chest rising and falling was immediately choked by a cold, sickening hitch in her own.
Both arms, gone from the elbow down, leaving behind only blackened, smoking stumps.
Mags's grip tightened on her shotgun, the worn metal of the stock pressing hard into her palm.
She had seen death before, dealt it more times than she cared to count.
But this was different.
This was a casual, almost artistic act of dismantling.
It wasn't a kill shot; it was a message, delivered with the effortless cruelty of someone swatting a fly.
Around her, the air itself seemed to vibrate with the panic of the civilians who had called this sector home.
The relentless gunfire and the unnatural, shimmering shield were a beacon of chaos.
From the corners of her vision, she saw them—shadows darting through alleyways, figures hurriedly shuttering windows, the distant slam of reinforced doors.
They were fleeing, melting away into the labyrinth of the Junkyard, desperate to put distance between themselves and the storm that had broken on their doorstep.
The world was pulling back, leaving the Talons alone in a clearing of their own making, facing down something they could not understand.
And Mags waited, her silence a deeper, more dangerous thing than all the noise around her.
A subtle shift occurred in the ruined yard.
The armored figure glided forward, and Blaze, with a theatrical half-step to the side, made way for her.
The move was a deliberate passing of the baton.
Until that moment, a low, thrumming fear had gripped every Talon present—the fear that the two of them would unleash their chaos in a simultaneous, unstoppable storm.
Blaze's decision to hang back, to become a spectator to his partner's advance, was a complex poison.
It was a relief, a temporary stay of execution from the most unpredictable element on the field.
But it was also a maddening, arrogant underestimation of their capabilities, as if he found their desperate defense so pitiful it only deserved one of them at a time.
Mags, however, saw the world through a different lens.
Where others saw arrogance, she saw an opening.
His focus was now split, his attention on the armored figure's performance.
This was a chance.
A slim, desperate one.
If she could use the chaos, the noise, and the shifting positions of the other Talons as cover, she might be able to flank him.
To find a blind spot and put a shell into that grinning face before his invisible shield could react.
As she began to move, a low, slinking retreat from her initial cover, her eyes remained locked on the advancing suit of armor.
It moved with an unnerving, placid grace into the center of the yard, a polished god ignoring the prayers of its supplicants.
The air around it shimmered and sparked with a continuous, futile rain of bullets.
It was a moving wall, yes, but one that radiated a profound, insulting belief: that nothing here could even scratch its paint.
Its slow, deliberate march was a performance, designed to crush their spirit before a single body fell.
Mags's boot had just found purchase on a new piece of rubble when she saw it.
A glyph, intricate and coldly beautiful, flared to life on the armor's chest.
It glowed with a bright, unnatural blue that had no business in the dusty, sun-scorched yard.
It wasn't a thought that followed, but a primal, animal scream from her very bones.
A deadly premonition.
She threw herself sideways, not a dive but a frantic, graceless scramble over the next barricade.
She barely got her body behind the solid metal crate when the world dissolved.
There was no fire, no shrapnel.
It was a shockwave of pure, condensed force, a silent expansion of air that became a physical wall.
It hit the yard with a deep, stomach-churning THUMP that was felt more than heard.
For those caught in the open, it was like being hit by a truck made of wind.
They were lifted and thrown, their cries cut short as the air was driven from their lungs.
For those further back, like Mags, the effect was subtler but no less violent.
The pressure slammed against her cover, making the heavy metal crate groan and skid back an inch.
The sound wasn't a roar, but a high, piercing ring that drilled directly into the inner ear, turning the world into a muffled, disoriented hum.
The aftermath was not of smoke and fire, but of stunned silence and the ragged, confused gasps of people who had just been physically assaulted by the air itself.
A low, appreciative whistle cut through the ringing silence.
Blaze tilted his head, surveying the scene of stunned and winded Talons as if critiquing a piece of performance art.
"Now that," he began, his voice a mix of genuine admiration and mocking critique, "was quite the flashy display. I'll give you that. Very dramatic."
He paused, letting his gaze sweep over the struggling forms, his grin taking on a sharper, more knowing edge.
"But," he sighed, the sound dripping with a performer's disappointment. "It lacks the final touch. The punchline."
He tapped a finger against his temple. "All that noise, all that light... and yet, everyone's still breathing. Where's the artistry in that? It's all show, no soul. You've stunned the sheep, but you've forgotten to slaughter a single one."
A flicker of irritation, hot and sharp, sparked within Ember at Blaze's commentary.
It was the same old song—his need to turn everything into a spectacle, to critique the flame for not burning with enough style.
She bit back a retort, the words turning to ash in her throat.
Because, infuriatingly, he was right.
The Talons were shaken, disoriented, but the damage was superficial.
A few bruises, some ringing ears. It was a slap, when the Red Dogs had received a decapitation.
To make these stubborn soldiers understand their new reality, she needed to be more brutal.
Yet, as her gaze swept the yard again, a cold pragmatism reasserted itself.
Her opening move wasn't entirely wasted.
It had served its purpose: it had demonstrated the armor's crowd-control capabilities and, more importantly, had perfectly stunned a prey.
Now, it was time for the main test.
All the shield's invincibility and the glyph-casting were impressive corporate toys, but they weren't her.
Her philosophy, carved into her soul long before this alloy shell, was simple and absolute: true power resided in physical strength.
A weapon could jam.
A shield could fail.
But the force she could unleash with her own two hands?
That was the most reliable thing in the world.
This armor was meant to enhance that, not replace it.
The hum of the suit deepened. Repulsors along her calves, thighs, and back glowed with contained energy.
"Get ready."
The words, filtered through the vocal emitter, were flat and synthetic.
They were a command to the dazed Talons, a final warning.
And they were a promise to herself.
The repulsors fired.
There was no running start, no coiling of muscles—just a violent, upward lunge that defied gravity.
She became a crimson projectile, clearing the height of a two-story building in a heartbeat, her shadow a fleeting blot over the stunned soldiers below.
She landed not with a crash, but with a precise, terrifying silence directly in front of a Talon who was still struggling to his knees, his head swimming from the shockwave.
His training kicked in through the disorientation.
His rifle came up, muzzle flashing, a desperate, final act of defiance.
The bullets sparked and died against her chest plate, a harmless, metallic spatter.
He was still pulling the trigger when her armored fist closed around his head.
There was no dramatic wind-up, no shouted threat.
It was a simple, clinical motion, like a person crushing an egg.
The sound was not a bang, but a wet, sickening pop, horrifically loud in the sudden quiet that had followed her leap.
For a split second, her crimson gauntlet was painted a darker, glistening red.
Then she opened her hand.
What fell to the ground was not a head, but a pulpy, unrecognizable mass.
Blood and matter hit the dusty concrete with a soft, terrible slap, spraying in a wide, grisly arc across the legs and boots of the nearest Talons.
The gunfire in the yard stuttered, then ceased entirely.
The only sound was the hum of her armor and someone, further back, beginning to retch.
She had not just killed a man.
She had erased him, using the most fundamental force there was.
And she had made sure everyone saw it.
With a swift, almost casual flick of her wrist, Ember sent the gore splattering from her armored hand.
The crimson alloy gleamed anew, sterile and untouchable, as if the violence had never occurred.
A low, private hum of satisfaction vibrated through her.
The raw, unimpeded power was a drug, coursing through the suit and into her veins.
"I could be addicted to this," she murmured, the audio emitter rendering the words a soft, synthetic confession.
It was a fortunate thing the helmet hid her face, for a wide, truly sadistic smile was stretching her lips, a stark contrast to the horror she was enacting.
It was the smile of someone who had found the perfect, most visceral tool for their craft.
There was no more pause for theatrics, no more testing.
This was the harvest.
She moved again.
Not a leap this time, but a blur of controlled, repulsor-assisted motion.
She appeared beside the next closest Talon, a woman still fumbling to reload her rifle.
A backhanded swipe, so fast it was barely a flicker.
The woman's head snapped sideways with a sound like a branch breaking, her body collapsing like a discarded puppet.
Ember was already turning.
Another Talon, a man backing away, raised his hands in a futile, instinctive plea.
Her gauntleted fingers closed around his face and squeezed.
The wet, crushing report was swallowed by the panicked shouts that were finally beginning to rise.
She wasn't just killing them.
She was dismantling their line, their morale, and their very bodies with a brutal, assembly-line efficiency.
Each life extinguished was another data point, confirming the sublime power now welded to her will.
A low, appreciative sound escaped Blaze's lips, a murmur meant only for himself as he watched the crimson armor move through the Talons.
It wasn't horror in his eyes, but a spark of nostalgic recognition. "...There she is," he breathed.
"That's the Ember I know." The raw, unadorned brutality was a familiar song after all the corporate polish.
From behind her barricade, Mags saw the same thing and came to the opposite conclusion.
The plan to flank Blaze evaporated from her mind.
It was a luxury they could no longer afford, a strategist's fancy while a butcher worked in their midst.
If she did nothing, this armored specter would systematically grind everyone she knew into paste.
She made her choice.
Mags burst from cover not with a stealthy crouch, but in a full, desperate sprint directly towards the epicenter of the violence.
She didn't try to hide her approach; she wanted the monster's attention.
She planted her feet, the shotgun a familiar, solid weight in her hands.
BOOM. BOOM.
Two deafening reports echoed, the buckshot slamming into the armor's chest plate with twin bursts of harmless sparks.
It was a declaration, not an attack.
A challenge thrown at a god.
The helmet of the Aegis-frame turned.
The featureless visor fixed on Mags, a silent, weightless acknowledgment.
The suit didn't flinch, didn't stagger.
It simply absorbed the insult, the ultimate expression of how futile her defiance truly was.
Across the yard, the act landed on the terrified Talons in different ways.
Some felt their hearts sink, seeing a respected veteran like Mags reduced to such a hopeless, symbolic gesture.
It was the final confirmation of their powerlessness.
But for others, like Nail, who was still frozen by the sight of Pen's maiming, it was a spark in the suffocating dark.
He watched Mags, standing alone in the open, shouting her defiance into the face of certain death.
It wasn't stupidity.
It was courage, raw and desperate, and it burned away the paralyzing fear that had gripped him.
His own hands, which had felt so useless, tightened around his weapon.
She wasn't just shooting at the armor; she was fighting for their very will to resist.
The metallic clatter of a rifle being dropped to the ground was a small, sharp sound against the backdrop of groans and Ember's methodical work.
Nail had seen enough.
The bullets were just noise, a distraction.
If they were to die here, he would do it his way.
He slipped his hands into the worn, familiar grip of his brass knuckles.
The cold, heavy metal was a comfort, an extension of his own bones.
Then, with a grunt of effort, he focused his will.
A faint, orange glyph—the Rank 2 Mass Driver—flared to life over each fist, humming with stored kinetic energy.
It wouldn't pierce that armor, he knew.
But maybe, just maybe, it could make the thing inside feel something.
He let out a raw, wordless shout and charged, not with Mags's defiant precision, but with a brawler's furious, headlong sprint.
Ember's helmet tilted a fraction, her sensors registering the new, foolishly close threat.
She saw the enhanced knuckles, the glyphs, the sheer, desperate anger on his face.
Her assessment was instantaneous and dismissive.
He was not a soldier.
He was a nuisance.
A pebble to be kicked aside, not a stone to be stepped around.
She continued her advance toward Mags, giving him no more thought.
From his position, Rook saw Nail's charge and Mags's stand not as insubordination, but as the only move left on a burned board.
His own massive rifle felt like a child's toy.
He couldn't punch, but he could still draw fire.
With a deep, grounding breath, he made his large frame seem to shrink, melting lower behind his cover, becoming just another shadow.
He leveled his rifle, not at the impenetrable armor, but at the seams of the helmet, a futile target, but one that might make her turn.
He was a mountain making himself a pebble, all to buy the real fighters a single, crucial second.
A cold focus settled over Ember.
This was a rematch.
The memory of the previous night was a fresh sting—the three of them, Karen, Lucent, and this very woman, had cornered her.
It had been a loss, plain and simple, only salvaged by Blaze's grand, distracting fireworks.
Mags was the only one of that trio here now, but that changed nothing.
Ember would not make the same mistake twice.
She would not underestimate the woman with the shotgun.
Karen and Lucent could be dealt with later; they were probably already on their way.
Her repulsors whined, building power.
The intent was simple, brutal.
Use the armor's raw speed to overwhelm Mags, to close the distance before she could set her feet for another precise shot.
Ember shot forward, a crimson blur.
But Mags had already seen the flaw in a direct confrontation.
As Ember accelerated, Mags didn't retreat, she launched herself up.
It was a desperate, soaring leap.
A faint, cruel smile touched Ember's lips behind her mask.
A mistake.
Now the hunter was trapped in the air, with nowhere to run.
Ember kicked off the ground, repulsors flaring, following her prey skyward.
That's when the glyphs ignited beneath Mags's boots.
Rank 2—Invisible Steps.
She didn't fall.
She ran.
Her feet pounding on solid air, climbing higher as she twisted her body and fired the shotgun down towards her pursuer.
The pellets sparked and ricocheted off the barrier.
A flicker of annoyance.
So she had more tricks.
Fine.
Ember's own repulsors flared again, not just for lift but for thrust.
She changed trajectory in mid-air, a sharp, impossible turn, and shot upwards after Mags, a predator chasing a bird.
It was the opening Echo had been waiting for.
From the shadows of a ruined barricade, her hand shot out.
A complex, orange glyph—Rank 2—Kinetic Surge—flared to life.
She wasn't aiming at Ember herself, but at the massive, shredded piece of the main gate lying nearby.
The air itself seemed to heave.
The multi-ton chunk of twisted metal and concrete was hurled upward like a child's toy, slamming into the ascending armor with the force of a freight train.
The hexagonal barrier flashed violently, holding firm against the impact, dispersing the energy that would have flattened a building.
But physics could not be entirely denied.
The sheer mass, the momentum—it was like swatting a fly with a sledgehammer.
The barrier held, but the body inside was thrown.
Ember was blasted sideways out of her climb, a crimson comet crashing through the air and smashing into the side of the mess hall with a deafening crunch of buckling metal and shattered concrete.
A stunned silence fell, heavier than any explosion.
The relentless, unstoppable advance had been halted.
The invincible wall had been moved.
Rook, who had been tracking the fight with a sinking heart, felt a jolt of cold, sharp clarity.
The shield stopped energy, but it couldn't negate momentum.
They couldn't pierce it, but they could… push it.
It wasn't a weakness.
It was a lever.
And for the first time since the gate had blown in, he saw a sliver of a chance, a terrifying, brutal way to fight back.