The window of opportunity for entrance grew thinner as the medusas got closer and the infiltrators got farther. But at this point, all involved individuals had already lost track of time. Houston truly always wanted to do something like this during his rebellion days, but a reputation to hold and lack of authority within the organization prevented him from doing so. The bombs attached to the captured criminals in the decoy tunnels served as his strategy, applied with the boss' compliance, aiming to demoralize and horrify his opponents. But such a tactic was starting to backfire: Akro’s underground defenses were temporarily deactivated, meaning soon they’d be forced to manually detonate every bomb to prevent the creation of parallel ways into the city. One of the decoys ignited, though, as notified to them by the movement detector. Houston and his boss from the Secret Service knew about the carnage involving most fighters on the far left flank of the city’s hypogeal border, so that fact was fairly surprising. With many of their assigned escorting troops out to intercept some of these medusas that by chance headed that way, it fell to Houston, a talented and heavily seasoned warrior, to check out what had happened. Over the opposition of some soldiers that could not trust the former rebel at all, he shrugged. “You useless fuckers are lucky to have me,” he mocked – “I or even one of my old dying friends over there could take on you all. Now shut up and sit here.” Houston’s boss had no remarks about his departure, and over the deafening sound of another grenade exploding in the distance, he rushed forward. Dashing through the tunnels and each turn, he was devoid of the uneasiness affecting nearly all combatants. The truth is that Houston expected to find either Bruce, Myke, Lindsey, or anyone at all from his old life. He couldn't care less about the Federation’s triumph or anything but being an agent of chaos. Being involved in whatever conflict could offer him the possibility of being remembered, something his old acquaintances could always offer back then, was the meaning of his life. But now, for the last time. Myke could be considered half-dead by this point. He used several of his grenades and almost all of his ammunition, but at least he didn’t have to worry about injuries, seeing as the adrenaline combined with all other chemicals in his body completely blasted away any capacity for feeling pain. But that numb body brought its disadvantages, too. The rest of the medusas joined most of the soldiers in the madness of the left flank; a small group got separated, attracted by another cluster of vital signs, definitely enemies, he thought. But there was not much in his mind currently besides finding Franklin and Claire. He thought those two have a good head on their shoulders, and they could very well be away from the madness and already on course to the end goal. Like that, he dragged himself. Step by step. Blood dripping out of his nose, a declining sense of consciousness, and a fading control over his limbs. Myke’s stubbornness allowed him to push forward. At Claire's side, Franklin remained paralyzed. A haunting memory was just created, at the very least. Listening to the last words of total strangers, sent to their deaths due to the whims of a commander, is not something he expected going into this. Activating every trap until they found the true entrance would be the same as murdering all these people. They both knew that. What else remained? What else but push forward? With Bruce and Myke nowhere to be found, it fell to the two of them to face the crisis, and luckily that was not their first time working together. Claire had brought him to this mission viewing Franklin as the one most suitable for the job, and naturally, the first step to getting out of this situation was to have him quickly snap out of it. "Fran, Fran, hey! Look at me!" Claire shouted - "We need to think, okay? You hear me?" He looked at her, shaken off of his initial shock. In his short time working as a spy, he hadn't seen humans used like this. He had heard of suicide bombers, sure, but this was obviously different. "Calm down, let's first move away from here." Claire continued, as she got up and pushed Franklin The activation of those bombs as caused by the drone survey meant the enemy did not rely on their GPS's pinpointing function. Makes sense, considering the amount of concentration they need on their surroundings, but it meant Franklin had something palpable to exploit. And a short window of opportunity to do so; if the battle behind them was to even have any survivors, nobody could know on which side they'd be. “We have time to save one of them,” Franklin mumbled “What do you mean,” Claire replied – “we’re out of ti-” “They’ll have to ignite manually,” he interrupted – “we can rig the sensors on the next tunnel and get them out of there.” Franklin looked dead serious; straight in Claire’s eyes, he noted a trace of doubt. Risking their lives like that could end very badly. He was used to abandoning his sense of danger in critical situations. As a spy, every operation involved casually risking his life. On the other hand, Claire was the type to keep a cool head. “We need more people, Clair.” he said, exhaling conviction – “Think about it.” Claire stopped. Hastily calculated their chances, the clock rapidly ticking ‘till midnight. From the get-go, she knew trust was of the essence in this mission. They continued and advanced straight into another trap, a delicate work awaiting. Dragging himself deeper and deeper into the battlefield, Myke could already hear gunshots louder with every passing step. Nobody talked on the radio for a while, and he wasn't looking at the GPS anymore. "Myke-Laine. Myke-Laine. Myke. Hey.” … “You're there, aren't you?” ... "Haha, just tell me you're there." "In hell, just as promised, uh…” Joy. Houston was filled with it: over twenty years he waited to show Myke his special hell, and make it a grave for the old rival. They had tried to kill each other shortly following the fall of Akro when Houston immediately started acting according to his twisted ideas, due to the rebellion tearing. His gear was very similar to Myke's, though still brand new. The abundant joy nearly became Houston’s downfall; excitement developed into haste, his bloodlust blinding a necessary sense of caution. In a dash for his foe, he made a turn to the front of an odd medusa; with an opening in its “face” and crude tapings holding together a homemade bomb, that was Myke’s trap, which reminded the guerrilla tactics and techniques they employed back them. Now, they used some of that against each other. A doped Houston presented the reaction speed to jump back, but if not for his armor, he would surely be dead. Myke, still some dozens of meters away, had to think. With his physical conditions deteriorating by the minute, sitting and hoping that this was enough looked like a good plan. If Houston got up, it would be better to keep away, which was exactly what happened. A constant and loud high-pitched noise pestered him. Even with ear plugs, such a close-range explosion in this enclosed space sure did heavy and permanent damage to his hearing. A new dose of adrenaline made sure he wouldn’t feel any broken bones had he any. The Onyx dose from before was still in effect; he was playing the same games with his body as Myke. A high-stakes game. That’s fun, he thought. Houston was a man that instinctively correlated anger with enjoyment; a wish for revenge for the blow he just had taken became another motivator. He ran again to Myke’s location, now cautiously looking at his tracker. Myke was still. Not moving at all. Soon, they were almost facing each other. “Did you drop dead before facing me, uh, old man?!” he shouted To no response. Was this because his hearing downright died, or was he just ignored? Using some seconds to get his act together, Houston tried listening to his surroundings. Nothing. Not even gunshots in the distance. He couldn't even hear his voice. He was most definitely deaf. But Myke had not responded, anyway; he was on his way deeper into the tunnels. The tracking system both sides of the conflict were relying on was one the world had accepted for quite some time now as inevitable. It worked with magnetic responses detected by electronic devices, a different system than that of the medusas, which attracted them to signs of life and possibly heat, but still an efficient one. Except it allowed Myke to pull such an old-fashioned trick. Exhausted, he left the damaged heavy armor behind, also parting ways with any devices that could give away his position, now running with only an assault rifle, poison mask, and the clothes on his body. Eventually, Houston threw a grenade into the decoy, figuring out the trick when looking for the bits and pieces of what should have been Myke's body. A pursuit began. Finally, at the center of chaos, Bruce dragged himself with a certain youngster. The smoke from the explosions, shots fired, and acid corrosion accumulated to the point of completely blocking sight in much of the tunnel system. The eerie scenario formed by bodies, bones, the terrible smell, intense heat, and loud echoes of war noises was complete with this. A true source of nightmares, and hell that accidentally matched what was idealized. Heavily injured, Bruce could only point the way to the other one he wanted to free from this madness. “That’s enough, boy. Run.” Drenched in blood that wasn't his, he practically carried the veteran. Now, it was unclear who was trying to save who. The old man insisted on him fleeing ahead, a tough request. After some time, Bruce stopped responding. The sound of enemies getting closer, smoke, and noises from all sides confused his senses. Alone, he escaped.