Bravo had finally reached the maintenance crawl space,a cramped, four-foot-high corridor where cable runs snaked along one side and steam hissed from pipes on the other.
Holt led the way, his rifle snug against his back, elbows rhythmically propelling him forward as he crawled.
Lyra followed closely behind, dragging a heavy bag of charges by its straps.
Suddenly, midway through their journey, motion sensors flickered to life, tiny red eyes blinking ominously along the pipe brackets.
Lyra did not flinch for a second! With a swift motion, she bit off the cap of a micro-jamr patch and slapped it onto a junction box like an impromptu band-aid.
The sensor eyes blinked out in a brilliant flash before going dark.
Holt glanced back at her; she wiggled her fingers playfully like a magician revealing her tricks.
He rolled his eyes but couldn’t help but smirk as he continued crawling.
Alpha hit Junction Delta’s observation glass without hesitation or subtlety. Mireille cracked it open with the butt of her X5 rifle while Rask expertly drove a charge into the split and pald the detonator.
The window held for just a mont before shattering spectacularly,safety lattice splintering into harmless shards that danced in the air like confetti at a party.
They stepped through the jagged fra and bounded down the staircase two steps at a ti.
Suddenly, two floors down, chaos erupted as three guards burst through the staircase door trying to force entry.
Rask took aim and put one down with pinpoint precision,a shot straight through the throat from ten feet away.
Mireille faced off against another in the doorway; rifles were too cumberso for such close quarters now that bodies were jamming up against each other at that hinge point.
Her knife flashed like lightning under his jaw before she struck hard,a heel to his knee followed by an elbow to his visor until it spider-webbed.
The third guard lunged forward, grabbing for her rifle sling and yanking hard enough to throw her off balance into the stairwell wall.
He drove a knee toward her ribs with malicious intent,but she let his montum carry her halfway around before spinning into him shoulder-first,using his own force to shove him over the railing instead! tal bent and snapped as he began to fall.
She caught his wrist with one hand and gripped tightly at the back of his visor with the other, pulling sharply until there was an efficient pop from his neck.
She released him just in ti for him to plumt into oblivion.
"Stairs clear," she said calmly between breaths.
"Copy," Gunner replied curtly,no praise needed here.
Charlie pressed deeper into what felt like an industrial spine,past slick white doors stenciled with numbers and Greek letters that whispered secrets of their own pasts.
The gentle hum of filtered air filled their ears again,a deceptive lullaby promising safety in this sterile environnt: This place is safe; this place is civilized.
Vance raised a hand, his voice barely more than a whisper.
"Laser grid."
As he spoke, the invisible barrier shimred to life on their HUD, faint blue lines tracing from floor to ceiling, forming a tight box around them.
"Low-rise crawl won’t cut it," Stone observed, scrutinizing the grid. "They’ve laced it tight."
Ethan retrieved a sleek disk from his thigh pouch and rolled it across the floor with steady precision.
It kissed the baseboard and settled in place, pulsing softly like a heartbeat.
For just an instant, every line of the grid dimd as if eyelids were drooping.
In that fleeting mont, Gunner and Stone slipped through the gap effortlessly, rising on the other side just as the lines brightened again.
Ethan leaned back against safety’s embrace with a triumphant grin. "Told you I’m useful."
Gunner extended his hand expectantly. "Disk."
"What? No ’please’?" Ethan teased playfully.
"Disk," Gunner repeated firmly.
With a smirk, Ethan placed it into Gunner’s glove.
"Silas," Gunner commanded, "kill the grid for one second on my mark. Then lock it at max brightness."
"Ready," Silas replied without hesitation.
Without counting down, Gunner simply said, "Mark."
The lines vanished instantly. Vance and Ethan dashed across together as Silas ordered sharply,
"Up!"
The hallway filled with a faint electrical hiss as the grid doubled its intensity.
"They’ll think it’s a glitch," Stone remarked dryly.
"They’ll think wrong," Gunner countered resolutely as he moved forward with purpose.
"Commander," Silas interjected sharply. "They just sealed Lab Wing B and rerouted internal doors. They’re funneling you toward Biohazard Alpha whether you want to or not."
"We want it," Gunner declared decisively. "All teams converge on Alpha!"
And converge they did.
The approach to Biohazard Alpha resembled the last vertebrae of a spine,two parallel corridors leading to a junction where thick doors adorned with round windows awaited them.
Through those glass panes lay glimpses of an eerie space: stainless steel tables glead under sterile lights; glass cylinders held secrets suspended in liquid,a kitchen fit for gods themselves.
The floor thrumd beneath their boots; sowhere deep within the facility, massive machines began ramping up like an ominous sigh before chaos erupted around them.
"Suit teletry green?" Gunner asked urgently.
Green lights flashed around their HUD circles,each wrist port bore injectors ready to save lives when needed most.
"Inject!" Gunner ordered without hesitation.
In unison, they triggered their injectors; cold lines slid along veins beneath their wrist plates.
Lyra hissed between her teeth while Rask grunted in annoyance rather than pain. Vance rolled his wrist once and let the sensation wash over him like water under a bridge.
"Fever spike in five," Silas warned, his voice steady and calm. "Let it wash over you. It’s the cure burning into your marrow."
"Poetry," Ethan muttered, watching a fine tremor dance across the back of his hand before fading away. "Alright, anti-death juice on board. Knock, knock."
"Charges on the outer seam," Stone replied, already positioning thin strips designed to pry steel apart without heat. "Three, two...."
Instead of an explosion, the door parted like a blooming flower and then went still.
A rush of cold air slapped their faces through mask filters, carrying with it the sharp scent of antiseptic mingled with sothing faintly sweet.
They stepped into Biohazard Alpha.
Everything was white,walls, floors, ceiling,bathed in light so pristine that even shadows seed dirty by comparison.
Cylinders rose in a perfect ring around them, cables braided back to a control island that looked like it had been stolen from a starship.
Screens displayed diagrams of spiked spheres and intricate chain-like lattices while a faint mist hung over one table like breath on a frosty morning.
"Welco to the center," Silas said quietly over comms. "Keep it tight."
Mireille pivoted left, rifle aid at an imaginary target; Rask drifted right, poised for a shot that could break a spine at fifty tersif there was one to break.
Holt took up position on a catwalk railing, kneeling for cover as Lyra glided toward the control island.
Stone and Vance cut angles that overlapped Gunner’s line of sight while Ethan slid toward the nearest cylinder, peering inside and imdiately regretting it.
"Movent!" Silas announced sharply. "North door and east! They’re not running this ti."
And they weren’t.
The north door opened diagonally like an ominous grin as four figures stepped through, not fast or slow but with chilling precision.
Their armor wasn’t standard matte charcoal with inset plates flexing at joints hinted at reactive fields beneath the surface.
Visors reflected nothing but black glass,each carried compact rifles with squared barrel mouths while two more shapes flowed in behind them,high and catlike,with weapons slung casually at their hips.
"VULTURE elites," Stone remarked flatly as if he were comnting on today’s weather.
The east door swung open in response,four more erged for a total of eight and they spread out effortlessly: two flanking left and right, two holding center ground.
Two elevated above them on platforms,all moving forward with rifles steady and feet light,the kind of movent honed by experience in rooms where exit wounds were all too common.
"Hands!" Mireille murmured urgently.
Gunner noticed it too,their trigger discipline was flawless; no nerves twitched at their knuckles or wasted pressure on their triggers, their muzzles tracked like they were guided by gyroscopes.
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