February 19, 2030 – 6:27 AM
The sun had just begun to rise, casting an orange hue over the high-rise skyline. The city pulsed with early life—vendors opening stalls, commuters queuing at tram lines, the scent of roasted chestnuts wafting from street carts. Amidst it all, nestled between a corporate lab and a gutted parking structure, stood the target: a fortified containment facility known only through whispered code as 'Vault S-9'. Its brutalist facade gave no hint of what rested inside—only reinforced walls and a watchtower blinking against the pale light.
From a rooftop three blocks away, Agent May chewed on a protein bar and stared through binoculars. Her lips curled into a grin. "Oh come on, Dec! You said this week would be low profile. I painted my nails blood-red for fun, not for actual blood," Agent May quipped over the comms, twirling one of her twin pistols as if she were in the opening act of a circus show. "So much for laying low,"
Agent December's voice buzzed through. "Yes, May. That might've been possible… if February had finished the job."
"Ouch," May said, mock-wincing. "Too soon."
"This is no longer a quiet war," December responded coldly. "It's now or never. Eyes open."
The plan had pivoted sharply after the failed gala operation. The intel Victoria extracted, and the mess it left behind, revealed that Michael was no longer hiding in shadows—he was commanding his own operation. With Captain Graves dead, Michael's team was moving fast to seize the weapon through brute force.
"Two trucks inbound. ETA thirty seconds," Agent November said calmly, perched high above the city on the ledge of a neighboring broadcast tower.
"Teams in position. Execute," December ordered.
The two armored trucks rolled through the city's narrow industrial corridor, drawing little attention among the daily bustle. People turned briefly before going about their business. Then the trucks pulled into the rear of Vault S-9, engines cutting off with practiced synchrony.
3... 2... 1.
The ground shook.
Twin trucks tore through the front gate, flattening the checkpoint like paper. Gunfire erupted as armed guards scrambled to the second floor.
That's when November dove.
From her aerial perch, she became a blur of movement—black cloak flaring behind her like a scythe of shadow. As she plummeted, her arms shifted mid-air: her left morphed into a curved monoblade, her right pulsed and split open into a sleek plasma cannon. July's latest prototype, untested in the field—until now.
Her boots kissed the top of the first truck, leaping through the second floor. One enemy turned. He never had the chance to fire.
FZZZ-THUNK! The plasma shot seared his upper chest, cauterizing flesh and armor in one shriek of blue fire. November spun, blade whistling through the air, cutting down two more.
Windows exploded as her plasma gun opened fire, carving through steel shutters. She leapt inward with inhuman grace, slicing a path through startled guards.
On the ground, January and October surged forward like a hammer and its echo.
Agent January—was all precision and power, his movements economical but unstoppable. He tackled the eastern hallway, each step a silent promise of violence. His silenced pistols were already in motion, headshots and joint-disabling shots fired with surgical discipline.
October moved beside him but not with him. He disappeared into the shadows even the morning sun couldn't touch. One guard raised a weapon—too late. October's dagger slid through his ribs like it belonged there. Without a word, he spun, threw a poisoned dart from his gauntlet into the throat of another, and vanished through the door the man had come from.
Inside, they moved with eerie coordination. January kicked down a steel lab door, fired two quick shots, then pivoted left just as October dropped from a ceiling duct, slashing two necks with perfect symmetry.
"Left flank clear," January confirmed.
"Right clear," October's voice was barely above a whisper.
"Activity spike detected," December said through comms. "Another convoy. From the north. Confirmed—two more trucks, heavily armored."
"Damn," May muttered, watching from her rooftop. "They knew we were coming."
"Michael's here," December added.
May's grin widened. "Finally."
She stood, stretched, and sprinted toward the adjacent rooftop. Her body armor flexed beneath her tight tactical suit, weapons clipped to her back. She leapt across the alleyway, rolled upon landing, and clicked a control on her left glove. Her twin pistols unlocked.
She moved down the fire escape in a blur, landing with a gymnast's bounce just as the new enemy trucks arrived. People nearby screamed and ran as doors opened and Michael's elite unit deployed.
And there he was—Michael. Towering. Armored from neck to boot, visor glinting in the sun, a hybrid of soldier and mech. He stepped out of the lead truck and scanned the scene like a lion assessing his prey.
"May, hold position," December instructed.
"Yeah, about that…"
May opened fire.
Her twin pistols cracked with rhythm, her bullets striking joints and helmets. She danced across the sidewalk, ducking behind benches, flipping over railing as enemies converged. Explosions rocked the street as January joined from the left, tossing a fragmentation charge beneath the second truck.
Boom.
Steel rained like shrapnel.
From the facility's second floor, November burst through a glass panel like a thunderbolt. Her left blade extended, glowing red-hot. Her plasma gun hissed.
She landed on one knee beside May. "Took you long enough," May teased.
"I was working," November deadpanned.
Michael looked at them both. For a second, his gaze lingered. Then his helmet's faceplate slid open, revealing the faint scar running down his cheek.
"Brie sends her regards," November snarled.
Michael didn't flinch.
Instead, he raised his gauntlet—and fired.
A blast of concussive energy erupted, sending November and May tumbling across the concrete. October emerged from behind a pillar, a poisoned dart arcing toward Michael's neck. The shot struck home—but bounced off the reinforced plating.
"Armor's adapted," October reported. "Darts ineffective."
January dove behind a vehicle, rolled, and came up firing. His bullets sparked against Michael's armor but slowed him just enough for November to regain her footing.
"We split him," December barked. "Keep him moving. Contain. Don't engage directly."
"But—" May started.
"Not yet," December insisted.
Michael was here for the weapon. The others were distractions. Behind the chaos, his second unit had entered the facility.
"October," January called out. "We move."
The two assassins ran in tandem, weaving through debris, bullets and bodies, cutting off the facility's east wing.
Inside, alarms blared. November climbed to her feet, nodded to May.
"Let's end this."
They moved toward the entrance. November slashed through steel doors like paper, clearing a path. May followed, laying cover fire.
At the heart of Vault S-9, a biometric vault hissed open.
Inside: the bio-weapon.
A small, coffin-sized cylinder—cold, humming, etched in danger symbols.
And standing before it was a man with no name.
Michael.
He turned slowly, the armored helm split to show his face again.
May aimed her pistol.
November stepped forward.
But Michael didn't attack.
He stared at them.
And smiled.
Then he triggered the failsafe.
The building shook.
"No!" November surged forward.
But Michael was already gone.
Through smoke and crumbling walls, he vanished once again—leaving behind destruction, and something far worse.
The weapon was still there.
But its timer had begun.