Location: Sector 97, Ruins of Vardha Wasteland
Sky was black.
Not night. Just dust. Nuclear fog. Static choked the air like acid. Nothing worked — no drones, no signals, no mercy.
They called this place "Sector 97."
But everyone on the map knew the real name: No Man's Ground.
No supplies. No hope. No backup.
Just eleven men.
And Shoonya.
"Eyes up," he barked. "No heroes. No prayers."
The unit didn't speak. They didn't have names — just numbers stitched into their chest armor.
19. 27. 8. 33. And so on.
Young, mostly. Shaky hands, fast heartbeats, some still smelling of soap and fresh uniforms. No one was ready for this.
But they came anyway.
Orders? Suicide run.
Objective? Unknown hostile base rumored to be developing auto-nuke launchers — machines that didn't wait for commands. Just fire when threatened. One glitch, and it was over.
"Command says it's inactive," 19 whispered.
Shoonya didn't look at him. "Command also said Delhi was safe. Then it got glassed."
Silence.
They marched across the ash. Feet crunching over bones. Dogs long dead. Roads melted into shapes.
Shoonya tapped his wrist chip.
Still nothing.
No signal.
Perfect.
He raised a fist.
The squad froze.
Ahead: broken dome. Concrete, rusted steel, a massive collapsed bunker entrance — like a wound ripped into Earth itself. Half the mountain was melted. But something inside it was humming.
Shoonya crouched.
Pointed to 8 and 33. Flank left.
19 and 22: right.
Rest: with him.
"Wait for the light."
They moved. Quiet. Dust covering armor. Eyes scanning like rats in a snake pit.
Shoonya pulled a flare from his chest rig.
Snapped it.
Red.
The air screamed.
Screams weren't human.
They weren't machines either.
Something in between.
A dozen defense bots burst from the dome's mouth — spider-legged, half-fused metal nightmares. Old American tech, pirated, illegal. Faces like helmets glued to meat.
They didn't hesitate.
Guns lit the air.
Shoonya rolled behind a cracked tank corpse, fired three rounds into one of the bots' chest.
Didn't drop.
These weren't guards.
These were test weapons.
One of the soldiers — 27 — screamed as a bolt carved through his gut. He fell, twitching. Shoonya didn't look.
"Keep moving!" he yelled. "Bleed later!"
They pushed. Hard. Guts in mouths. No backup, no satellite link, just bullets and dirt and heat.
One by one, the team fell.
22 blown apart by a mine.
33 eaten alive by shrapnel.
Shoonya didn't stop. Didn't blink. Slid under a bot, jammed a grenade into its vent, rolled away, counted — boom.
Four left.
Then three.
Then two.
Then…
Just him.
He reached the dome's core.
A glowing console. Rusted. Still pulsing with energy.
Shoonya didn't hesitate. Plugged in a drive. Overwrote the codes. Burned the launcher's brain from the inside. Sparks flew.
The bots outside died instantly.
No command link.
Just silence.
He stood there, chest heaving, blood soaked into one side of his jacket. Six bullets left.
A hand touched his leg.
Still alive. Barely. Coughing red.
"You… knew," he gasped. "You knew we'd all die."
Shoonya looked at him. Cold.
"Did you come here to live?"
19 coughed. Smiled. Then died.
Shoonya stood, alone in a field of blood, smoke, and burning wires.
No salute.
No anthem.
Just him.
No men left.
Mission complete.