The golden light, and the vivid pinks and oranges of the dawn sky are hidden behind the city’s buildings, just like every other morning. But unlike most mornings, this time I can see it. Even if it is through the optic systems of a spider drone.

They call it a spider, but it only has half of the required number of legs. It also lacks fangs, or any other weapon. And its eyes are in the wrong places and configurations. The little machine is nothing more than a mobile surveillance system. Its current target is the Burabō detainment facility; its current position is on top of a neighboring tower.

On the outside it looks no different than any other skyscraper. On the inside it is a carefully planned network of cell blocks, rehabilitation centers, and support facilities. The building handles runaway indentured servants, delinquent debtors, and those that have stolen from the company. It even houses law violators for the government, for a fee of course.

Other people are watching through the spider’s eyes. One of them uses our ICs’ to highlight a vehicle, which has veered out of a nearby lane of sky traffic. The craft is larger, clearly designed to transport passengers. Smoke trails behind it, but if you look closely, you will notice that it isn’t coming out of the engines. The craft makes a beeline for the prison.

The voice of Mason in my head, an IC induced hallucination from his mind to ours, “This is it, get ready.”

The transport nears the facility, the pilot makes a show out of pulling away at the last instant. The vehicle moves along the side of the building, as if it is on the verge of crashing into it. A keen observer will take note of the fact that one of the craft’s doors is open. Blobs of distortion jump out of the doorway, landing on ledges and outcroppings. The craft clears the skyscraper, starts rapidly descending. It quickly disappears behind other structures, leaving only a trail of smoke.

Someone on street level sends out a live stream from their eyes. A convoy of armored vehicles is approaching the prison. They are painted black, sport golden Fleur-de-lis insignia where the emblems of the military would normally be. Charles Fauré has arrived.

On top of the lead tank there is something very strange. A red skinned demoness, dressed in a jet-black military dress uniform, complete with jack boots and a short skirt is issuing orders. Half of her face is the chrome sheen of a composite alloy skeleton. Baara, that woman from the unfortunate incident at the club. She’s leading a combat unit, looking for revenge. Her remaining eye burns with rage, her mouth frozen in an evil sneer.

The battle group parks in front of the building’s front entrance. APCs disgorge squads of combat drones, which sport limbs made out of synthetic muscle. They move up the gently sloping, tiered staircase, moving to take cover behind concrete planters and vehicle barriers. The machines and their human commanders mean to storm the building. Tanks lay down a hail of fire, covering the elegantly designed robots.

Burabō troops exit the building, ready to meet the threat. The drones are the same model as the ones that chased me in the resort. Instead of a hard-plastic shell this version has full metal armor plating, which is painted OD green. They carry battle rifles, LMGs, and grenade launchers.

I switch back to the view of the roof, windows have been broken out. How long can Burabō survive while fighting on two fronts? Who will get to Jill first? I move my awareness back to the battle at the main entrance. The attackers are already getting an advantage, they will be inside the building soon. How long will Burabō be able to hold the lobby?

“Looks like Délta Corp is going to try to get in on the other side,” another lookout declares. I switch to his view. Sure enough, a group of red and black combat utility vehicles are moving in fast, aiming for an entrance that is meant for supply trucks. The vehicles have gun turrets and room for several troopers. The trucks reach the building, the massive blast door opens, and they race inside.

“What the hell?” the lookout proclaims.

Ashley gives her opinion, “Délta must have made an agreement with Burabō. We need to get down there and intercept those trucks when they exit the building.”

Mason gives his orders, “Take us down. Get into position over the door. Everyone watch your fire, she will be in one of those vehicles.”

I pop my awareness back into my body, taking a few seconds to get reoriented. Now I am seeing through my own eyes. The interior of the flying truck is strange. Its basic setup probably isn’t too different from the inside of the vehicle that the Ascended commandos used to get into the building. There are rows of seats with sturdy restraints, along with racks for equipment and weapons. But instead of the uniformity and efficiency of a purpose-built assault craft, the Untouchables have a jerry-rigged monstrosity. No two seats are identical, and only a few bare any resemblance to the ones that would be found on a military troop transport.

I am pushed against my seat, which is fashioned from an old lawn chair, as the craft descends. After a few tense minutes of dodging billboards and other obstructions we reach the doorway. And just in time too, as it is opening back up again; they must have had her ready to go.

Untouchables get to their feet, shuffle nervously to our flying cargo hauler’s doorway. A few jump out, landing on the first Délta vehicle as it exits the building. A few more leap onto the next truck. Then our makeshift assault craft shakes violently, veers wildly away from the building.

“It’s him,” I announce, readying my weapon.

There is the sound of a twin laser blast, one of the engines explodes. The vehicle is now completely out of control, locked into a tailspin. Ashley is thrown into me, I do my best to stay standing, but I lose my footing.

He comes in through the open door. There is a whirlwind of metallic claws, blood splashes against the walls and roof of the compartment. I try to get a bead on him, but he is moving too fast, there are too many friendlies in my line of fire, the craft is rocking around too much. Before I know it, the tail lashes out and I am back on the floor.

The vehicle straightens out, gains a little bit of altitude. Ashley regains her footing. Her left arm opens, there is a bright muzzle flash and a deafening sound. The flechette shotgun’s bladed spikes rip open the flesh, before pinging off of the armored casing. I shove my gun into the gaping hole, putting the tip of the barrel against the metal shell. I fan the revolver directly into it.

There is a long, horrific shriek, which passes through several different pitches as it plays out. Red blood leaks out of the shell, mixing with the green of the artificial frame. Mason, myself, and several others heft the limp, snakelike body. We hurl it out the door, it plummets to the ground; landing hard on the street below, green blood, shattered bone, and broken cybernetics explode out of it.

“Is he dead?” Ashley shouts.

“He fucking better be,” I reply.

Mason asks for a report on where the target is. “This is Toni. I got a quad rotor following them. Our guys took out the turrets, but they have all been shaken off!” the wounded soldier is back at base, helping us the only way that she can.

Mason sounds determined, “Pilot, get us to that convoy.”

The pilot acknowledges the order. Toni has more to say, “Wait, there’s a problem.”

“What?”

“Looks like Charles Fauré wasn’t completely focused on that side of the prison. One of their combat vehicles is closing in on the Délta Corp trucks.”

There is a small traffic jam at a light. The Délta Corp trucks are forced to stop. The APC runs up onto the sidewalk. Pedestrians dive out of the way, as the vehicle bashes its way through benches and trash bins. It makes a sharp turn, blocking the path of the convoy. Délta corp agents, decked out in tactical gear, have already started exiting their vehicles. Drone troopers bolt out of the APC’s rear hatch way. The two sides start exchanging fire.

Our craft passes over the battlefield. We see her, she is being man handled by a Délta goon. He is forced to maneuver her behind one of the trucks, as enemy drones drop several of his comrades. A wounded Délta trooper hurls a grenade, taking out several of the infantry drones, before collapsing.

We land behind the jet-black APC, everyone piles out, rushing toward the convoy. Mason gives his people some encouragement, “They have almost wiped each other out. Move in and get her.”

A long muzzle flash lights up the interior of the APC, Baara is grinning like a maniac as she opens fire on us. Several of our soldiers fall, the rest dive behind anything that looks like it could provide protection from the hail of gunfire. A round hits me in the stomach, knocking me down.

I lie there, consumed by agony, helpless as Baara walks forward, spraying at anything that moves. She is firing a light machinegun, the kind that military units use to lay down covering fire for advancing soldiers. The weapon hangs from the sling on her shoulder, spend casings are ejected in long streams of gold with every burst. Someone takes a shot, scores a hit on her side. The lady demon stumbles, quickly recovers; she ignores the damage, puts a burst into the offending target.

Ashley readies her hidden weapon, Baara sees the mechanism unfolding. The she-devil walks a trail of bullets up one of her legs, into her torso, and all the way to her neck.