I've gotten a couple of reviews saying Crysis needs more recognition and fanfics (a statement I 100% agree with). Out of curiosity, I decided to check out the series' fic archive for myself, and all I have to say about it is… Yeesh. No wonder so many people are flocking to my recent addition. The only "story" I found that didn't make me want to gouge my eyes out was a one-shot about a pretty cool CELL trooper named Johnny. At least someone else noticed how the suit gives its wearer the sculpted ass of an Olympian athlete, eh?

I dunno, maybe I just have high standards.

(Sangvis Ferri Research Facility)

Pain. I wake up feeling like pain.

I can barely think straight, I hurt so bad. It feels like I've been stepped on by a Pinger. No, worse – like I've stepped on a Lego. Can't see jack shit, either; wherever I am, it's pitch-black.

Okay, brain. Stop throbbing for a moment and do your job. What the hell just happened?

Several seconds spent in agonized silence pass while my dazed, brain-shaped CPU slowly reboots itself. Let's see… I was climbing up an elevator shaft to escape from… wherever this place is. Then a real charmer of a Tactical Doll with an apparent taste for pre-Industrial Age weaponry showed up before cutting the wire holding me aloft. I remember falling, something about Prophet, and then…

My mind's scrounging for answers and coming up empty. Then again, it's difficult to focus when your body is screaming at you that it's taken a beating and needs to be attended to. Moreso when the pain's so severe you can't even move.

I wish Colonel Barclay was here. He never cared about how much of a monster the suit made me into; he still saw me for what I am at my core, a dedicated marine, and generously gave me productive suicide missions to help keep my mind off of my ghastly physiology. Far and away the best brass I ever served under just for that. The man stared down a Ceph army and lived; he'd know how to handle a few slutty robots.

Hell, I'd take Nathan Gould if he could offer up a theory as to why my body is mysteriously intact again. He worked half his life for Jack Hargreave – a man whose research regularly skirted the lines separating man from machine and life from death – so he must know something about my condition, right? I'd be willing to put my lingering resentment of him aside if it meant I could get an answer.

Note to self: Find Gould after I deal with however many Sangvis scientists might've escaped.

"I gave you the suit… gave you my life. Promise me: FIND GOULD! It's all I can do now; you're all I can do…"

Prophet's mournful visage burns itself into my retinas before vanishing as quickly as it appears. Ugghhh, my aching head…

So I wasn't just imagining things when I heard Barnes' voice before. But if that's the case, if he still exists in my head, why didn't he retake control of the body while I was knocked out? Was I wrong to assume he's still kicking around in there? Or have our circumstances switched, and there's not enough left of him to take an active role? Jesus, this is making me frustrated. At least his AI counterpart is around to-

Wait. Wait wait wait wait waaaaiiiiit just a goddamn second.

I choke out a startled gasp and sit up straight.

I suddenly recall the other voice in my head, as well as the words it'd spoken before I passed out. I also become distinctly aware that the pulsing aches in my body have lessened significantly over the last minute. Then I factor in the earlier displays of inhuman strength, the increased speed, the nano-weave lurking within me… hell, I'd just survived a fall from six stories. A normal person would've been a tenderized mess of red at this point.

Could it be that…? No, that isn't possible. Then again, most of the plights I'd experienced in recent memory were things not normally deemed possible…

Hope and fear gnawing at my racing heart, I raise my left arm to my field of vision and trigger the mental command I so often use when bracing myself for a world of hurt.

"MAXIMUM ARMOR."

And sure enough, it happens.

Dozens of tiny transparent hexagons stir to life in the corners of my vision. Glowing blue tendrils of energy shimmer into existence across the length of my arm and beyond, stretching to encompass my torso, legs, and opposite arm. Like a small child on a sugar rush, the glow refuses to stay in place; it shifts and weaves under my skin, leaving a faint luminescent trail behind when it moves. It's as though someone had injected a volatile mix of blue neon and performance-enhancing drugs into my bloodstream.

Holy. Fucking. Shit. I don't know whether to think this is the absolute coolest thing ever or be worried that it's essencially ripped straight from a sci-fi horror movie.

After a few seconds of awestruck wonder tempered by sheer apprehension, I experimentally rap my knuckles against my forearm and feel no surprise at all when I meet resistance from solid rock instead of normal flesh. Tightening my hand into a fist causes the azure veins to pulse rhythmically with my heartbeat.

Somehow, despite being completely butt naked (I really need to get that fixed sometime soon), I have access to Nanosuit 2.0's integrated Armor Mode again. No doubts about it now: I'm definitely not a normal human anymore, though it's a toss-up on how involved Sangvis Ferri was with this change. Whether they had nothing or everything to do with it, however, one thing's abundantly clear – I won't get any closer to finding answers by sitting around in this elevator shaft.

Still not sure how to feel about this discovery, I will the protective coating away, watching with keen interest as the honeycomb pattern recedes and soon disappears, followed after by the frolicking lights under my skin. I have no idea how or why I'm able to suddenly use armor mode again… although if it gives me a higher chance to survive a direct dustup with my new enemies, I'm not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

I search for my pistol next. My hands fumble in the darkness for a while, looking for any sign of the weapon's silhouette, but my effort is in vain. An unorthodox idea soon pops into my head: I activate armor mode once more, using the strange glow circulating through my body for illumination. Genius, I know. It doesn't take long to find it afterwards.

When I pick it up, I can't stop myself from uttering a small, "Aw, fuck…"

There's a massive crack running along the left side of the Nova's slide, big enough that pulling it back in its current condition posed a high risk of breaking it entirely. Almost as bad is the magazine, or lack thereof. It seemed the mag release had somehow been triggered from the fall; a cursory glance around the top of the elevator reveals several discarded bullets along with the empty magazine itself. Dammit. There goes my only form of offense.

R.I.P. M12 Nova: I barely knew ye.

Sighing in regret over the loss of my handgun, I work the emergency hatch open again and drop back into the elevator proper, allowing my (un)natural body armor to cushion the landing before dispelling it. I wonder if I can keep it on indefinitely, or if it runs on a time limit like the suit's version. I can't tell without a Brain-Up Display.

I've barely taken three steps away from the broken lift to resume my life as a nomad when my ears pick up a distant sound: an avalanche of metal stomping against metal, drawing closer and closer with each passing second.

A high-pitched voice puts any hope of something good arriving to rest. "Executioner said he's near the elevator! Get a move on, you heaps of scrap – we can't let him escape!"

The Sangvis Dolls – they've found me! Although they aren't in my line of sight yet, I reckon that will change very soon.

To make matters worse, the closest hallway I can escape through is ahead to my left, too far away for me to reach without running. There's little doubt in my mind they wouldn't hear my footfalls and chase after me again, and armor or no, I am seriously not in the mood for another game of cat and mouse. I don't even have a weapon this time! How will I fight back?

I grate my teeth together. Come on, Alcatraz, think! There has to be another way out of this!

Cue the light bulb of inspiration.

If I'm able to use the Nanosuit's armor mode again… then what are the odds I can use the other of its two main tactical functions as well?

The footsteps are increasing in volume; it sounds like Jailbait Bitch's unit is fast approaching from further up to the right. Out of time and with no other options, I mentally nudge whichever part of my brain linked to Stealth Mode into activating.

"CLOAK ENGAGED."

False Prophet's gravelly voice finishes the announcement a literal half second before the petite Doll and her crew come into view. She marches in my direction with a deep scowl etched on her childlike face, although she seemingly fails to acknowledge my presence… which can only mean one thing…

I look down and see that my naked body has become almost ghostly in appearance. Each movement is perfectly tuned to blend in with the surrounding environment, leaving only the barest distortions in their wake, like a chameleon or octopus when they camouflage themselves. Anyone looking at me from a distance would probably mistake it as a mere trick of the light.

Gotta admit, I'm beginning to find my abnormalities more convenient than worrisome by this point.

Flattening myself against the left wall, I inch my way forward, never letting my eyes leave the Dolls as Jailbait Bitch signals her squad to halt about six feet away from the open doors. All of them obey with a rigid discipline that only machines are capable of, keeping their SMGs raised while their leader goes to investigate the elevator's interior.

Shuffling past this group of armed and hostile androids has to be one of the most nerve-wracking things I've ever done. My footsteps and my breaths are both kept noiseless. One of the Dolls is only a couple of inches away from me – I could headbutt her if I really want to. However, flight beats fight in the end, and even with the Nanosuit's reactivated powers at my disposal, I don't fancy my chances in a fifteen-against-one, close-quarters melee.

"You there!"

I freeze. My eyes dart back to the elevator, fearing the little white-haired girl has somehow spotted me through my cloak. If she did, then I'm ready to-

"I need you to give me a boost!" the Doll exclaims, pointing a finger at her closest lackey. She looks pretty pissed off for some reason. "I can't reach the emergency hatch!"

The lead Ripper nods once in affirmation and breaks away from the guard formation to assist her height-impaired superior.

Fighting back the urge to snicker is difficult, though I do allow a dopey smile to creep onto my face while I resume my stealthy getaway. I'll take cheap entertainment when I can get it. Heh heh… midget.

…Done. I've successfully slipped behind the Sangvis patrol and am in the clear.

Phew.

Heaving a huge mental sigh of relief, I tiptoe further down the corridor. I almost make it to cover in the next hallway when I pick up some interesting conversation happening behind me:

"Executioner!" I hear the diminutive girl whine, apparently having finished up her search. "Why did you cut the cable?! Now how am I supposed to get out of here?"

"Our target tried to escape by climbing up the elevator shaft, Destroyer. I couldn't risk him making it out," the voice of the Doll I'd seriously considered labeling 'BDSM Bitch' replies smoothly.

I scoff internally as I slide behind the corner. What a crock of horseshit. She and I both know she could've just shot me a few times and been done with it without any of the theatrics. I peek back around, keeping my cloak up, watching as the automaton now identified as Destroyer converses over real-time holographic video feed (Whoa, that's neat) with her partner in crime.

"You're lucky he's not dead, you know. I checked all over and he's not there anymore. What would Scarecrow say if we ended up bringing her his corpse?"

"I wouldn't worry about that. He's far more durable than he looks." Executioner's anticipatory smile doesn't bode well for me. "And if what Master says is true, he's not even 'alive' by typical human standards anyway. I'm taking that as an excuse to use more… extreme methods to subdue him, should he continue to resist. Oh, I'd relish the chance to fight him, oh yes I would…"

"…You're crazy." Destroyer says flatly.

I agree.

"So what am I supposed to do after I capture him, huh?" the white-haired automaton continues. "I get cutting off his escape route – literally – but now you've gone and trapped me in here, too!"

"Look on the bright side. Technically, our quarry is the one trapped in there with you."

"Executioner!"

"Fine, fine." The other Doll lets out a resigned sigh. "I'll contact Scarecrow. Give me a second."

I hide back behind the wall and disengage cloak to let it recharge (like armor mode, I'm not sure how long it'll last – I'm running off the default timer of about thirty seconds). I briefly contemplate what I've learned as my naked form becomes visible to naked eyes again.

I fathom that the elevator must've been the primary way in and out of here, a notion reinforced by the fact that I still haven't seen a wall sign pointing me towards an emergency staircase. What kind of multi-story structure doesn't come with friggin' stairs, anyway? What if a fire broke out? Am I giving Sangvis Ferri too much credit, or were they just that confident in their safety features?

Eh, not my problem. Best to keep eavesdropping and see what else I can uncover.

"Ah, Destroyer, Executioner. You have news, I take it?" a familiar voice suddenly speaks up. Re-engaging cloak, I spy on the Dolls once more, this time seeing Sith Bitch's masked visage on a separate holographic screen.

"You're darn right I have news!" Destroyer huffs. "Your partner broke the elevator! How do we get out after the target is secured?"

Sith Bi- Scarecrow, damn, I've already gotten used to my nickname for her – regards her fellow android with a decidedly chilly expression. "So the human filth is still running free, I presume?" she inquires in a low, dangerous tone.

Destroyer's composure briefly falters. "M-Maybe… Okay, yes! But not for much longer! He couldn't have gone far in the time it took to get here." Although it could be an act, each word of assurance to her superior seems to restore a bit of the Doll's confidence. "Oh, and his sidearm's been damaged, too. He'll be contained within the hour! That nudist pest has no hope of beating me in a fight!"

It's not like I'm choosing not to wear clothes, for chrissake!

The apparent leader of the Doll trio, for her part, remains unmoved. "I'd hope your assessment is correct. My calculations indicate the loss of the target's weapon grants you a 35% higher chance of a successful capture. However, I must warn you this chance will decrease by 1% for every minute he eludes us. We're dealing with the same man who defeated the Ceph – you'd be wise to not forget that."

"That's Scarecrow speak for 'get a move on, you bucket of bolts'," Executioner chips in.

I see Destroyer's small fists clench. "I'll get to it, but only as soon as someone answers my original question! Where do I go once he's back on ice?!"

"Watch your tone, Destroyer. The stakes in this mission are too high for any of us to regress to needless bickering." Scarecrow says evenly. "Though since you're so insistent, and I suppose your inquiry will be relevant later, I'll find you a solution." The rogue machine goes quiet for several seconds; I take the brief lapse in conversation to recharge my cloak again. "…Here we are. There's a maintenance tunnel in the B5 security wing that connects to the facility's sewage system. The wing's under lockdown, however, and it can only be lifted from a terminal in a nearby control room. I'm uploading the coordinates to your locator now."

The look of sheer disgust on Destroyer's face speaks volumes. "Eww, the sewer?! I'll have to drag his containment cell through poo water?!" At Executioner's sudden burst of laughter, she starts shouting, "This is all your fault, you hedge clipper-wielding bimbo! You're the one who thought it would be funny to cut the- Wait, did you know this would happen?!"

Executioner only laughs harder.

"You did, didn't you?! Arrrrggghhhh! I hate you, Executioner! Honestly, how does Scarecrow put up with you? Even Dreamer isn't this tasteless, and she once tricked me into eating a-!"

She says more, but by now I'm too far down the hall to make out the rest of it. I've learned all I need to put my grand escape into motion...

(Ten Minutes Later)

I fucked up.

The funny thing about making an escape plan? It's not enough to simply know what you have to do; you also need some semblance of where to go in order to actually make it happen. Scarecrow said the control room wasn't far, so my plan was to find it first, override the lockdown, navigate to and through the security wing, then disappear into the facility's underbelly where the rogue Dolls have next to no hope of capturing me before I make it outside. Simple, right? As long as I moved quickly and made liberal use of my cloak, it should've been easy.

Except I'd taken a wrong turn at Albuquerque and gotten myself lost. My mind wandered away for two seconds, literally two fucking seconds to wonder why I was able to use the Nanosuit's abilities, and the next thing I know I'm back to being a rat in a maze. I'd wanted to punch the wall in my frustration. Definitely tempting, and the only reason I don't do so is because the resulting echo would give me away to any patrolling Sangvis units.

The worse news? I'd almost forgotten that the security wing was sealed off for a reason. The egghead's journal mentioned how the area was quarantined after the Dolls began their rebellion, and it's not unlikely for them to still be in there. Hell, knowing my luck, they're probably still functioning even after all this time.

I've taken refuge in a small, inconspicuous office to catch a breather and plan my next move. Even by creepy abandoned facility standards, the place is a mess – binders and research folders litter the floor courtesy of an overturned filing cabinet, spilling their contents every which way. I don't have the time or patience to read any of the papers and I severely doubt they would've helped anyway. The desk, keyboard, and even the defunct monitor itself are marred by old coffee stains.

No weapons, though I do find a stick of sugar-free gum hidden in one of the desk drawers. It isn't much, but it's edible, so I scarf it down greedily.

Peppermint. Not bad.

Taking a seat in the rickety office chair (which also has coffee stains, I should add), I give some serious thought to my situation.

A direct confrontation with Sangvis Ferri is looking more and more inevitable by this point. I haven't a clue what type of nasty surprises could be waiting for me in the security wing; whether it's more Dolls or some other type of automated defense system, one thing is for certain – I need a weapon. Something with more punch than my bare hands, pun not intended. A rifle, a submachine gun. A trashy vampire romance novel. Those are lethal, right?

Unfortunately, the odds of me finding something suitable in the research department are next to nil. The Nova was a godsend, but it's gone now. Unless I get lucky and stumble across a weaponized paddleball program, my options are very limited.

My eyes settle on a stapler. Hmm. If I could beat a CELL trooper to death with a teddy bear, then maybe…? Nah. I'm not that desperate. Not yet, anyway.

I groan restlessly, spinning the chair in circles a few times before rising to my feet. Looks like I have no other choice. There's an obvious solution to my dilemma, though it's risky as hell and will make the target on my back that much bigger, not to mention give away my location.

I don't have any weapons on hand… but I know a certain Doll squad that does.

An ambush. That's my best shot. It's a fool's gambit; a dangerous, dumb idea with an extremely narrow chance of success that depends on me setting it up perfectly. One mistake and I would soon find myself back in the cryo-pod. Or worse, dead… inasmuch as a man whose organs were harvested to sustain a hyper-advanced suit of combat armor could be considered 'dead'. Or I thought my organs were harvested. How does my body do that weird regenerative thingy, anyway?

Ugh, not now, soldier. You can have an existential crisis later; start focusing on how you're going to take down fifteen Dolls without getting your ass handed to you on a silver platter.

I stare down at my naked form, frowning in contemplation.

More and more pieces slowly click into place as I dwell on all the mysterious happenings to my body since I first woke up. My increased strength and stamina. The rapid healing from a glancing injury. The nano-weave. Cloak and armor modes working again. False Prophet's voice in my head.

That one's the real kicker. All the other stuff can be handwaved as the byproduct of Sangvis Ferri's mad science; the AI, on the other hand, has absolutely no reason to still be around. It, and SECOND by extension, are an integral component of the Nanosuit's systems. Without the Semiautonomous Enhanced Combat Ops: Neuro-Integration Delivery AI, the suit's not much more than a butt-ugly evolution of Kevlar.

Plus, well, I know for a damn fact that it integrated itself directly into my nervous system. I'm skeptical that even the suit's creators would have the technical know-how to undo the symbiosis – and the online journal made it clear this Sangvis corporation doesn't normally work with Nanosuits. Or if they do, then I'm a particularly unique case.

All the signs point to one conclusion. It's almost too crazy even for me to believe, but I can't come up with any other explanation.

The reason I haven't been able to find the CryNet Nanosuit 2.0, the most powerful piece of combat hardware on the planet, is because I'm still wearing it.

My boring, naked, flesh-and-blood human form? All an illusion created by the parasitic exoskeleton. That or it completely finished absorbing itself into what's left of my corpse, creating a perfect, deadly hybrid of man and machine. Hell, there might not even be a difference at all.

Still standing in the center of an office packed with clutter, I wonder if the illusion can be broken. Giving one last look at the man I thought I was, I mentally prepare myself, take a deep, calming breath, and concentrate with all my effort.

What happens next, I don't think I'll ever know if it marked the beginning of my salvation or damnation.

Gunmetal gray CryFibril almost seems to grow out of me, seeping up to the surface of my skin and spreading to envelop my whole body. The artificial tendons stretch, expand, link with one other until every trace of my normally sun-kissed skin is buried under a layer of protective nano-weave. The muscles' growth is interrupted at various points by a skeleton of gleaming silver encompassing my knuckles and other joints. Even my crotch disappears under the sudden swathe of high-tech coating, something I'm secretly thankful for. I don't need anyone, Doll or otherwise, to see the outline of my- Hold on a sec.

I spin my head around, peeking down at my rear where the nano-weave is still finishing up hiding it from view.

Goddamn suit really DOES make my butt bigger! I shout in my mind.

A small sacrifice to pay, I guess, although one I staunchly refuse to believe is necessary.

It also doesn't escape my notice that the whole outer transformation is eerily similar to how what's-his-face, Eddie Brock morphs into Venom. We're exactly alike, in a way: both our bodies have been fused to an alien parasite with an affection for the color black. Only difference is that my version is even more stingy about the idea of removal.

Also, Venom doesn't have a nozzle shoved up his bumhole.

My vision momentarily goes red, then polarizes, followed shortly after by a suite of tactical data springing to life over the surface of my eyeballs. Everything is exactly how I remember it, from the segmented bar displaying the suit's energy reserves in the bottom right corner to the BUD's seafoam color palette, all the way down to the saccadic icons that light up when my eyes roam over them. A wall of text and technical jargon briefly whizzes by faster than I can process before suddenly vanishing.

The change is nearly complete when another line of text appears near the top of my FOV:

"Nanosuit 2.0 online. Updating local geographic coordinates." A minimap blinks into existence on the opposite corner of the energy readings. To be honest, I totally forgot about it.

I flex an arm, watching the black muscle mass slide and adjust itself in tandem with the movement. I feel good – better than ever, even. But more than that, for the first time in forever, I feel powerful. In that moment, I'm no longer Sergeant James Carlos Rodriguez, the unassuming quasi-human with no course of action. Now I'm Alcatraz; I'm fucking Golem Boy. I am the armored, hyper-lethal, ass-kicking Nanosuit warrior forged in the midst of a desperate struggle to save mankind from utter annihilation. CELL threw everything in their arsenal my way in their efforts to kill me and failed. Even the Ceph, the closest thing akin to gods ever witnessed by humanity, couldn't stop me from cleansing New York of their hives when I put my mind to it.

And if the terrifying might of extragalactic machine gods wasn't enough to keep me down (my insight on the Earth Ceph being mere tools in reality notwithstanding), then a few rogue androids manufactured on this ball of dirt don't stand a hope in hell of doing the same.

While I'm enraptured by my glorious reunion with the suit and the pleasurable feeling of power it gives, SECOND is busy doing… whatever it does to gather information from my surroundings. It soon breaks me from my stupor to helpfully remind me that I'm not exactly in the best of positions.

Primary: Escape the Facility: Disable Security Wing Lockdown

How generous of the AI to organize my objectives for me. Hmm... I wonder if it also overheard the talk between the Sangvis Ferri leaders. No matter the case, it's right – I have unfinished business to attend to.

I entered the office a seemingly normal human and exit a monster. BUD drops a waypoint 58 meters down the hall to the right; not the clearest directions in this labyrinth, but I can make do with it. And if I happen to run into Destroyer and her team again… heh. Regardless of how it plays out, she and her cronies would be in for one hell of a nasty encounter.

No more running. Time to fight back.

The trek to the control room is uneventful. I keep an eye on my minimap for the duration of the walk, prepared to cloak the moment I see red arrows, though none ever come.

I pass the time it takes to get there by contemplating how I feel like a human wearing a suit and not just… well, a walking suit. I can do things like blink and open my mouth, which shouldn't be possible if my skin and the suit's outer layer are one and the same. It almost feels like… I don't know. Like the suit somehow pushed its way to the surface, if that makes any sense.

Is there anything left of the body I was born with in there? Has the suit really merged into me and not the other way around? Ugh, this is why I never researched the details of hardcore sci-fi. Too damn confusing.

…Wait, does this mean Prophet also piloted my human self when he was the dominant host? The thought of him mimicking my appearance makes me more than a little uncomfortable.

Aaaand I overshot my destination. I double back and slip inside the room, unsure whether to feel more embarrassed at myself or glad that no one was around to see my blunder. Yeah, okay, no. I decide then and there to put all further speculation on hold until I'm outside the facility. Outside, as well as a very long distance away from both it and Sangvis Ferri.

Just like Force Recon ops, except not.

If I thought the office I'd transformed in was a mess, the B5 control room looks as though a tornado had swept through. There are so many wires crisscrossing the floor and plugged into haphazardly placed socket strips that I can't help questioning what the safety standards in this place were. Large screens are mounted on all four walls, displaying static that bathes the average-sized space in a dim, unwelcoming light. The rest of the room is crammed with computer monitors, some lit, some not. It would've taken ages to find the right one if the waypoint hadn't settled over a specific terminal to my right.

Luckily for me, it boots up without a fight. One minute of waiting and another quick password crack later ("12345" …I have no comment about that), I've finally found the override frequency for the security wing.

My brow furrows under my visor when I go to input the code. Strange… according to the logs, the lockdown was disabled not too long ago, then somehow reactivated shorty after. Definitely peculiar, though it isn't something I can spare much thought on at the moment. Could've just been a glitch in the system.

Then, as if on cue, I'm nearly floored by another splitting headache.

"Oh come on, are you fucking serious…?" I groan in dismay.

This one isn't as painful as the others before it, but that's like saying a concussion hurts less than a skull fracture. It's still debilitating no matter what. I fall to my knees, clutching my hands over my armored head, and mentally brace myself for whatever whacked hallucination is in store for me.

Except nothing comes.

The pain recedes to a dull ache. I stagger back to my feet, unsure of what just happened. What the hell was that all about? What, did the flashback decide to just give up and fizzle out before I could see it?

"You might as well be a fucking machine, because you sure as hell ain't no human being anymore!"

A male's voice, laced with a British accent suddenly echoes all around me I rapidly dart my eyes around the room in search of the source. My muscles tense. The static on the monitors – it's all gone, replaced by high-def video feeds of a bald, stocky man wearing jungle combat gear.

Even without knowing him personally, I instantly recognize his face somehow. Sergeant Michael Sykes. Psycho.

"I mean, you never were much good at it to begin with, but Jesus Christ, LOOK AT YOU NOW!" Raptor Team's marksman jabs a finger at the camera. With each of the monitors displaying the feed, it comes across as numerous copies of the same man all pointing at me. Accusing me.

Condemning me.

"Whose face are you wearing under that helmet these days, Prophet?" Psycho demands. "Do you even HAVE a face anymore?"

Something in my gut lurches.

"…We all had to make sacrifices."

It was Prophet who spoke that time. His answer was said in a tone that could've ranged anywhere from dismissive to remorseful; it's never easy to tell with the aloof Major.

Psycho, for his part, doesn't seem moved. "You had a choice, mate. EVERYONE has a choice!"

The monitors suddenly freeze, giving me a few brief seconds to stare at the outrage seething in Michael Sykes' expression, before the images revert back to screen static. The ache in the back of my mind gradually fades as well.

Ahem. That was… different.

"At least somebody noticed I was gone," I sigh out loud, leaving the haunted control room behind.

Primary: Escape the Facility: Stage an Ambush

"TACTICAL OPTIONS AVAILABLE."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever…"

I pull up the Nanosuit's integrated tactical locator anyway to see what my AI companion is suggesting. Still no sign of Destroyer's goon squad, and the corridor I'm presently working my way through doesn't appear unique in any way compared to all the others, so I'm a bit curious to know what made False Prophet speak up.

With the lockdown disengaged, all that's left for me to do before my trek to the potentially (scratch that – assuredly) dangerous security wing is get myself a proper weapon. I'd spent the past ten minutes thinking of different ways to ambush the Dolls' hunting party without getting maimed or captured – which, as of now, totals a big fat zero. Suit or no suit, fifteen against one is a steep uphill battle.

Perhaps that's about to change.

The first option directs me to a darkened room a few meters down the hall to the right. Rather amusingly, the suggested course of action above the nav marker is labeled 'Jumpscare'.

As much fun as bursting out of the room yelling "HEEEEERE'S ALKY!" and scaring the artificial daylights out of Destroyer sounds, I have to shelve the idea for now. I'll fall back on it as a Plan B if the other method somehow proves even less viable.

Option two, located ahead and to my left beyond my field of vision, simply says 'Lure'. I go to check it out, silently praying that it won't involve hiding in a garbage can like Oscar the goddamn Grouch or something equally ludicrous.

The waypoint leads me to a large set of double doors – and by a stroke of divine fortune, a mess hall beyond that.

My reformed stomach gurgles happily.

"Heh. About time…" I smile from ear to ear.

The layout reminds me of the cafeteria from my old high school. Roughly the same size, too. Rows of long stainless-steel tables and benches dominate the center space, surrounded by smaller, round tables also made of metal. I see a few dirty plates sitting here and there, the food on them having long since rotted away. Three serving windows are positioned in the back of the room, flanked by another set of doors to the left – which I presume lead to the kitchen – and a pair of vending machines to the right.

Eyeing the vending machines with a hungry gaze, I mentally will the Nanosuit away. Can't eat with a helmet blocking my face, can I?

The BUD is the first thing to recede, blinking out of existence like I'd thrown a switch. The visor's next, followed by the exoskeleton, joint coverings, and finally the nano-weave. All of it sinks back into my body until I return to the way I started: an imitation of a regular human being, totally uninteresting at a glance if you don't factor in my nudity.

I can toggle it back and forth whenever I want…? Cool beans.

After working my magic on the vending machines to net myself some free goodies (and no, I do not almost panic when my hand gets stuck), I spend a few minutes seated at a table, mulling over the next phase of my plan while sipping on a warm can of ill-gotten soda. Regrettably, I'd failed to foresee in my shortsightedness just how stale the bag of crackers I'd snagged along with it would be, and it almost cost me. I nearly lost a tooth biting into one, they were so damn hard.

I carefully observe the deserted chow hall, crushing the empty can in my grip and tossing it over my shoulder.

This could work. It's a fairly open space with a lot of room to maneuver around, plus the tables could be used as makeshift cover if needed. Even better is my access to the kitchen; if there's one thing I learned from Alice's cooking shows, it's that kitchens always come with fuckloads of sharp, blunt, and sometimes toxic goodies. And there's only one way in and out of here, meaning I know which direction the Dolls will have to come from… which in turn means I can herd them into a trap.

"Hmm…" I nod slowly, the wheels in my brain beginning to turn. If I play my cards right, then yes, this could definitely work.

Letting out a hearty, satisfied belch, I get up and make my way to the kitchen doors, eager to get the stage set up for Operation Smack-a-Bitch.

(Twenty Minutes Later)

This'll have to do, I decide, brushing imaginary dust off my hands as I survey the soon-to-be battlefield.

Everything is set up perfectly: I'd overturned several tables and benches to face the double doors, stockpiling all the useful stuff I could find behind them. The doors themselves are parted just enough to balance a crude trap placed on top; if that doesn't work, then the other surprise I'd slathered around the floor would. I'd also moved one of the vending machines over near the entrance as a little extra insurance.

The second machine is positioned close to the remaining tables I'd lumped together into a teetering pile. I could still use them as throwing weapons if the need arises, damaged or not.

It's in front of the second vending machine that I now stand motionless, back in the Nanosuit and holding a frying pan in each armored hand.

This is it. There will be no turning back once I kickstart this stupid idea. I'd survived up to this point by avoiding the Dolls, but now I'm basically about to scream my location to them, and chances are good I'd be up to my neck in dustups from here on out. Assuming my plan even works, that is.

After taking a moment to savor this last fleeting moment of peace, I exhale a slow, steady breath, put on my big boy pants, and don't look back. Showtime.

"MAXIMUM POWER."

I start by kicking the vending machine into the heap of tables; the red light coursing over the N2's skin signals the vastly increased muscle mass I've suddenly gained that gives me the strength to pull off such a feat. The crash is deafening: Tables fly in all directions, banging off walls and such, while the vending machine simply keeps going and ends up smashing into one of the serving windows.

Whoops. Good thing no employees are around to yell at me.

I run around the cafeteria acting like a toddler throwing a tantrum, kicking away stray tables, smacking cans and breaking glass bottles with my frying pans, bellowing like a rogue elephant at the top of my lungs… anything and everything I can do to make a huge racket. The suit's tracking visor stays active the whole time, scanning for any signs of hostile movement coming my way. Nothing so far, but that could change at any second.

Most of the spare tables are reduced to twisted piles of scrap after a couple of minutes at the receiving end of my boot. When I run out of stuff to break, I resort to banging the pans above my head over and over again, still running laps around the now half-demolished room.

Then, just for the hell of it, I begin singing in rhythm with the noise:

"WOOP-WOOP! THAT'S THE SOUND OF DA POLICE! WOOP-WOOP! THAT'S THE SOUND OF THE BEAST! WOOP-WOOP! THAT'S THE SOUND OF DA POLICE! WOOP-WOOP! THAT'S THE SOUND OF THE BEAST!"

If my dazzling one-cyborg cover of KSR-One's hit single doesn't make the girls come flocking to me, I didn't know what will.

I continue to run in circles a while longer, repeating the verse since I can't remember how the rest of the lyrics go – which, to be fair, I don't think anyone does. My visor vigilantly scans for Sangvis Ferri the whole time. Truth be told, I'm getting antsy. What if they're someplace far enough away that they can't hear me? If they aren't, then how would they react to my obvious attempt to use myself as bait?

Perhaps I haven't thought this through completely. The plan sounded good in my head, but now I'm having doubts. Those androids can't possibly be dumb enough to not see through my transparent-

Oh, look, there are fifteen upside-down triangles headed my way. One of them is significantly lower to the ground than the others. Guess I lucked out… if 'luck' is the right word, which it probably isn't.

Abandoning my performance, I slip into cloak and hide behind the remaining vending machine, peeking around it to watch whatever happens next.

"That idiot streaker went and gave himself away! He's gotta be behind those doors!" shouts an annoyingly familiar voice.

I resist the urge to facepalm. Great, now I've got a reputation as a streaker. At least it's a Sangvis Doll who labeled me that – something I'm about to beat into scrap metal anyway, and whose opinion I honestly couldn't care less about.

"Your days of running away and hiding like a coward are over, streaker!" I hear Destroyer gloat as her and her team's footfalls grow closer. "When I get my hands on you, you're gonna wish you never crossed-!"

She barges through the doors mid-speech.

Several things happen at once after that.

CLANG!

"Ack! Who turned off the lights?!" she wails.

The massive stew pot I'd put up top somehow managed to land directly over her head, creating the hilarious sight of a childlike Doll stumbling around with only her launchers and mechanical legs visible. Even more amusing, and what almost makes me burst out laughing, is when she ends up slipping on the cooking oil coating the floor and crashes down like a ton of bricks.

Her minions don't fare much better. The three Rippers closest behind their leader also hit the ground, stunning them, while the rest halt at the doorway looking like they have no damn clue what to do. They've effectively bottled themselves into a chokepoint – exactly what I wanted.

"SURPRISE, MOTHERFUCKERS!" I bellow in greeting. Nanosuit 2 glowing crimson as raw strength floods to my legs, I effortlessly kick the vending machine across the space separating me from the Dolls, grinning in satisfaction when they scatter like bowling pins from the stellar impact.

One is still standing, though a brief redirection of power to my arms followed by the smack of a frying pan hitting her face at seventy miles per hour fixes that problem.

Noticing how the three who'd slipped are steadily getting back to their feet, I chuck my remaining pan at one of them, knocking her back on her synthetic ass, before cloaking and making a mad dash behind an adjacent bench for cover. I pick up a large kitchen knife from the small pile stashed behind it, holding it in between my thumb and index finger to get a feel for its weight while SECOND pumps targeting algorithms into my skull. Once I'm confident I won't miss, I decloak to save energy, rise up, and throw it at the nearest Doll. The knife buries itself to the hilt between her eyes.

Three more quickly fall under a hail of improvised throwing knives. Finally catching on that they're legitimately under attack, the Dolls who've recovered enough to stand strike back, their SMGs firing sprays of energy bolts at the metal shielding me.

"Dammit!" I swear, ducking back into cover. I can feel my makeshift barrier melting away in the heat even through the Nanosuit's insulated outer layer. Grabbing two more knives to bring with me, I cloak again and dart to the nearest table, then renew my assault with a fresh batch of cutlery.

It's worth mentioning that Destroyer is still struggling with the stew pot, rolling around on the floor and screeching obscenities at me.

"What's going on?! I can't see! Someone help me out of this thing! Grrr… You're going to die, you nudist sack of trash! Do you hear me?! DIE! When I get out of here, I'm bringing you back to Scarecrow in pieces, consequences be damned! I don't care what my orders are anymore! AAAARRRGGGHH! WOULD SOMEBODY KILL HIM AND HELP ME ALREADY?!"

Jeez, for such a small Doll, she has a real set of pipes on her. She and I should sing a duet sometime.

Sangvis and I continue trading shots at one another. I cloak and move each time I run low on knives or feel my cover is compromised. For all their so-called superiority, the androids can't seem to predict where I'll strike from next, and by the time I reach the last intact table, their numbers have been reduced from fifteen down to seven. Puzzlingly, the Rippers never make an effort to find cover of their own, or even move away from the kill zone. I wager they only accept orders from Destroyer; with their leader currently incapacitated, they're essentially boxing themselves in with their lack of free will. Not that I'm complaining, mind you.

One apparently has a flash of genius and tries to dodge the knife spinning toward her throat. She succeeds… mostly. The sharp projectile grazes her arm as she flings herself aside, spilling… Oh my god, is that blood?

Now that I notice it, there is a fairly sizable amount of crimson liquid pooling around the slain Dolls. It's leaking from their injuries exactly like it would from a human. The hell? How can androids bleed? Are Tactical Dolls not as mechanical as I'd thought?

Feeling a bit queasy all of a sudden, I have SECOND run a quick analysis of the blood.

…Oh. It's literally just coolant with red food coloring mixed in. I have to hand it to Sangvis Ferri's manufacturers – when it comes to lifelike detail, they sure didn't cut any corners.

When my last impromptu projectile lodges itself right where a human's heart would be, I cloak one last time and rush toward the second fallen vending machine. Easily mantling over it, I switch out invisibility for strength; a moment later, two of the remaining Dolls are crushed between the wall and a quarter ton of steel and expired snack foods. The four that are left douse me in a shower of violet gunfire, forcing me to swap to armor mode and tank the damage while I search around for more cover.

Even with the extra protection, it fucking stings. I've taken innumerable hits from plenty of weapons before, both Ceph and human made, but that doesn't mean I like getting shot. Hit something hard enough and it'll eventually break.

My eardrums rattle with each heavy footfall. It sounds like a small earthquake is triggered with every step I take. My eyes sweep over the trashed mess hall as I lumber over to a half-melted table, darting back to check on my energy reserves every half second. No solid cover left, but the table is only ten feet away, and it should hold long enough for the suit to recharge. Or so I hope. Swapping from cloak to power and now armor mode in rapid succession without rest, not to mention all the running around and the damage I'm soaking up, is putting a serious strain on the Nanosuit's supply.

Two bars of energy left. One bar. I can make it-!

Nope.

"Ow, shit!" I hiss when the pain in my body suddenly multiplies tenfold. I'm all out of juice.

I don't so much slide into cover as clumsily fall behind it. Already the table is beginning to glow hot, Sangvis Ferri's sustained firepower eating through it at a rate that will leave me exposed in less than ten seconds. The Nanosuit is already recharging – thank goodness it's a speedy process – though I estimate I'll only get half my reserves back by the time my barrier against the Dolls is melted into slag.

No other choice, then. Time to initiate Phase II of my battle plan.

I unclip the ingredients to my secret weapon from where a pistol would usually rest on the suit's thigh. A bomb; one I'd cobbled together using an empty plastic bottle and some wrapping foil from the kitchen.

The Dolls' barrage isn't slowing down. There are gaps in the table big enough for me to stick my head through. Swearing again when a bolt hits my shoulder, I summon my armor once more to shield me from their assault (and partially in case the bomb prematurely detonates in my face) using what little energy I've recovered. Pouring in the final ingredient – drain cleaner – I screw the cap on, give it a good shake, then toss it in my attackers' direction, ducking back behind the scraps of table left over before I can bear witness to the explosion.

A short boom echoes through the mess hall, followed by a moment of blissful silence.

Did I stun them? Kill them? Are Dolls even affected by toxic chemicals? Why the hell should I care? They aren't shooting at me anymore, and that's all that matters.

"What was that explosion just now?! That sounded too close for comfort!" Destroyer's tinny voice shatters the peace. "Almost out of here… Just gotta wiggle around a little bit more, then I'll show you useless scrap heaps how a real Doll fights!"

Dammit, I was really hoping the blast would shut her up. I need to finish this before she frees herself, otherwise the scales could tip back in her favor. Stupid Plan Phase II is now clear to proceed.

Phase II is a lot like Phase I, except it involves less throwing stuff and more punching things. I kick the ruined table aside, channeling all the suit's energy into pure, raw muscle, briefly surveying the damage my third grade science fair project caused. Two of the Dolls are laying belly-up on the floor; whether they're dead or simply knocked out, I can't tell. Another took the brunt of the blast to her left leg, which is barely holding together. She needs both hands to support it, leaving her weapons discarded and forgotten. The last one seems a bit dizzy yet otherwise unharmed. All of them are coated with a fine layer of white powder that stubbornly clings to their organic-looking parts.

Savoring the fresh surge of power rushing through my body, I take off in a dead sprint, zeroing in on the uninjured Ripper. She barely gets her senses together enough to see my fist before it collides with her jaw in an uppercut.

Crack!

The momentum behind the impact jerks her head backward. Far backward. Too far back for any normal person to survive – and if the way she stopped moving after bouncing a dozen feet back down the hall is any sign, too much for Dolls to endure, either.

The last Doll, the wounded one, reaches down to pick up her weapon. I get to it first, flattening it into a pancake beneath my boot before diving into a sweep kick that knocks her on her back. The automaton's career as a rogue killing machine ends when my heel stomps her pretty porcelain face once, twice, thrice, leaving it an unrecognizable mess of circuitry and God-knows-what-else.

Panting as the adrenaline wears off, I grab a spare gun off the floor to inspect it closer. Bullpup design, though I don't see anywhere to slot in a magazine. Not surprising given that it shoots plasma bolts rather than any type of ballistic ammo. Man, that scientist wasn't kidding when he said Sangvis Ferri was having luck turning Ceph tech into something humanity could use.

A visual scan of the weapon yields its name: X10 Lightweight Plasma Submachine Gun.

It sinks in after a moment what just happened: I defeated fifteen armed and hostile Tactical Dolls with nothing but the suit on my back and some kitchen supplies (though the vending machines get an honorable mention). I have a highly advanced gun in my grip now. Against all odds, my plan somehow worked.

I would blow a party favor if I had one.

A muffled curse reminds me that my job's not quite done yet. I bring my gaze down to the androids' commander. She's on the verge of freedom; between the pot, the slippery oil, and the firefight, she's had a hard time finding stable ground to work with. I estimate I have roughly a minute before she escapes and focuses all her wrath on little ol' me.

Come to think of it, I don't believe she managed to get a good look at the Nanosuit…

Eh, screw it. It's not like I'm the defenseless streaker she thinks I am anymore. I'm weaponized, armored, and very, very ticked off at how she made my already difficult situation harder. I think I've more than earned my right to blow off some steam by making her squirm.

I pull over one of the remaining chairs, sit down a fair distance away from her, and patiently wait.

"AT LAST!" Destroyer gasps in exaggerated delight when she finally weasels her way out of her prison, emerging with a wet 'pop'. Her yellow eyes quickly morphing into daggers, she hefts up her dual grenade launchers, sweeping them over the quiet room in search of her prey. "You naked scumbag! How dare you humiliate me like that! You may have defeated my backup, but that's all they were! BACKUP! Leaving me, the true threat, alive was a huge mistake!"

This bitch needs to take a fucking chill pill, I absently think to myself.

She isn't done ranting. "I didn't hear you run away for your life, streaker! I know you're still in here! Where are you hiding?" A haughty smirk tarnishes her features. "Are you scared, perhaps? Did you realize too late that I'm more powerful than all my underlings combined? Ha! I swear, when I find where you're holed up like the rat you are, I'll make you regret ever trifling with-!"

"Holy Christ Almighty, would you just shut the fuck up already?" I interrupt, fed up with her sheer narcissism.

Destroyer's eyes threaten to pop out of their sockets as I decloak, one leg crossed over the other with my new SMG in hand. "Seriously, get over yourself. I'm tempted to hold off from shooting you and just clobber your midget ass instead."

The rogue Doll's mouth opens and closes like a fish on land. She tries to speak, though her words degrade from confident boasts to broken stuttering.

"I… but… you… that's a… no way…"

"Yes way," I correct her. I gesture with my free hand to my suited form. "Nifty, isn't it? And here I was thinking you and your lot might've stolen it from me. Definitely helps out in a pinch, that's for sure." I lean closer to her, grinning like a shit-eating monkey under my visor. "Guess 'streaker' isn't such an appropriate name for me anymore, huh?"

"It- It makes no difference!" Destroyer collects herself enough to point a small finger at me. "I will defeat you, fancy Nanosuit or no! It doesn't make you invincible!"

"You're right, it doesn't. Which is why I want to cut the chatter and wrap this up as quickly as possible. Say hello to Robo-Satan for me." Faster than she can react, I whip the X10 in her direction and pull the trigger.

Of course, Fate chooses that exact moment to rear its ugly head and rain on my parade.

Instead of shooting a plasma bolt that would hopefully seal her mouth shut, a wall of glitchy text suddenly invades the BUD, effectively blinding me. A message pops up in the top left corner of my vision: "ATTENTION! UNSUPPORTED HARDWARE DETECTED. UNABLE TO BYPASS ID LOCK."

Seriously? SERIOUSLY?! NOW you choose to tell me I can't shoot the fucking gun?!

The hell kind of bullshit is this?

"I bet you weren't expecting that, were you, Mr. Fancypants?" I hear Destroyer mocking me. "Sangvis Ferri energy weapons are coded to only work when used by their respective Doll class. You might as well be a caveman with a glass club!"

Unsure of what else to do, I get to my feet and chuck the SMG in the direction of her voice. The malfunctioning interface returns to normal almost as soon as the gun leaves my hand, granting me just enough time to see Destroyer yelp and sidestep away from it. The weapon hits the wall behind her hard enough to leave a dent and shatters to pieces.

Growling dangerously under her breath, the diminutive android shoots me a fierce glare that promises nothing but pain. She raises her launchers to retaliate-

I don't think, I move.

I engage armor mode and hit the floor a microsecond before explosions erupt all around me. The sheer volume of noise threatens to rupture my eardrums; I shut my eyes tight, gritting my teeth, acutely aware of the shrapnel and debris peppering my body from all sides. No wonder they call her Destroyer – she alone packs more destructive power than all of her entourage put together.

This is my fault, I berate myself. A smart man would've offed her earlier when he had the chance. By that logic, I am not a smart man. I should've shoved her back inside that stew pot; threatened her; interrogated the Doll for her allies' locations and where to find supplies. But no: instead I ended up inadvertently waking a dragon.

The bombardment feels like it goes on for an eternity. In truth, only eight seconds pass before it dies down.

I crack an eye open. Energy readings at 45%... that's weird. While armor mode lets me absorb a colossal amount of damage, a carpet bombing like that should've at least depleted the N2's reserves, if not kill me outright.

Standing up, I take a quick look at the aftermath. The cafeteria is utterly pulverized – there's not a single table or chair still in one piece. Broken glass and explosive residue scar every inch of the floor around me. Human or otherwise, there is no chance anything caught in ground zero of the blasts could've lived.

Except that, by some miracle, she missed me completely.

My head swivels to face Destroyer. She's rooted in place, her grenade launchers smoking, wearing an expression that clearly says she's just as surprised about the outcome as I am.

"Oh, give me a break…" she groans.

"Word of advice," I snarl, bringing my fists together. "Invest in airburst grenades."

The sound of my knuckles cracking snaps her out of whatever stupor she's in. Howling in outraged defiance, the Sangvis Doll reaches for her weapons' triggers again in preparation for an explosive encore.

Not on my watch.

Lowering myself into a runner's stance, I shoot forward a split second later, rearing my right fist back and flooding it with all the power I can muster.

Everything after that is a blur. I strike Destroyer in the upper torso with the potency of a speeding truck; the kinetic force blows her off her mechanized feet, angling her horizontally in midair. Before the laws of motion can kick in and send her flying backwards, my other hand clamps around one of her legs, holding her in place long enough to piledrive my fist into her stupid-

Smug-

Face.

She crashes hard into the floor, stunned and sporting a fresh black eye. Such a devastating blow would normally be lethal – the Ripper whose neck I'd broken earlier was solid proof that a Nanosuit user can easily out-muscle a standard Tactical Doll. Destroyer must be a very special model to withstand a hit like that.

Pressing my assault so she wouldn't have time to recover, I grab her by the throat and lift her into the air, launchers and all, then slam her back down on her stomach. A pained cry escapes her lips, but I'm far too angry for mercy. This bitch thinks she's superior to humans? That she and her gang of wind-up toys can harass me? Threaten me? Order me around and expect me to obey like a trained animal? Hell fucking no. I've just gotten my life back and I'll be damned if I don't get out of this place and make up for lost time. She'd dug her own grave by picking a fight with me, and now she's about to lay in it.

My gaze briefly flickers to her grenade launchers. Inaccurate as they appear, they're still deadly. Now that I reflect on it, the volley of explosives functioned exactly like a typical AGL… and she did seem to insinuate that Sangvis energy weapons the only ones affected by the ID lock.

A new idea sparks to life. I've found my replacement weapon.

I dig my boot into the small of her back. Ignoring the way she starts flailing her limbs around like that fucking Nannerpus abomination from the old Denny's commercial, I grab hold of one of her launchers, pump strength into both arms, and heave.

Destroyer renews her thrashing with double the vigor, apparently catching on to what I'm doing. "Hey! What do you think you're doing?! Let go, you stupid ape, let go! Those are MINE!" She keeps trying to fight back, but her efforts are for naught. I'm simply too strong of an opponent for her to handle when it comes to raw musculature.

Her shouts evolve into an anguished shriek when I finally tear the weapon free from its mount on her hip. As always, SECOND is there to give me its official designation: TX-340 Automatic Grenade Launcher.

Ooh, it has a fire selector that lets it cycle between different grenade types? That sounds promising. No glitches, either, which is even better.

"You bastard!" Destroyer wails. She slams her tiny fists on the ground, bawling her eyes out as I sling my new weapon to rest over my back. "You damn bastard! I can't lose; not like this! How am I gonna face Scarecrow now…?"

I don't bother gifting her a snide response. It would've been a waste of breath, and I need to save it for the future. I do, however, drag one of the mostly intact vending machines over and drop it on top of one of her legs, eliciting a scream of agony from the beaten Doll. She can feel pain…? Good.

Destroyer's screams cease when I stomp her head into the floor, sending her to android dreamland.

I can finish her off here and now, I muse, staring down at her unconscious form. No doubt it would be the best course of action. She is a dangerous sociopath bent on humanity's destruction, after all. At the very least, I don't want to make the same mistake as before.

I don't know what causes me to change my mind. Perhaps I spare her out of a twisted sense of respect. For all her boasting, she certainly proved herself a worthy adversary with her tenacity and firepower. More likely is that I just can't bring myself to kill something that looks so much like a human child. I've seen kids die before. It's universally viewed as worse than when an adult keels over, and it's a sentiment I personally agree with. Kinda sticks with you, actually.

She's harmless now no matter what, in the end, although that doesn't stop me from looting some extra ammo from her remaining launcher just in case. Never hurts to be prepared.

With the ambush out of the way, SECOND updates my objectives, informing me that my next step is to infiltrate the security wing. Simple business now that I have a grenade launcher, I think with a smile as I unlatch the heavy weapon and bring it to bear.

I turn my back to Destroyer and her dead minions and I'm about to leave the cafeteria when the crackling hiss of radio static stops me in my tracks.

"Hello, filth."

The cold greeting gives me pause. I turn around; hovering over Destroyer's limp form is the same holographic video screen the three Sangvis leaders use to communicate with one another. And speak of the devils…

"Sith Bitch." I greet her neutrally.

The coordinator of the hunt huffs, "My name is Pioneer Reconnaissance Doll, Model SP65 'Scarecrow'."

"And I'm Alcatraz, but if you want to call each other by insults, that's fine with me."

"I see you've rediscovered your greatest asset," she continues, ignoring me. "And you've also managed to eliminate an entire search force of Tactical Dolls led by a Sangvis Ferri Ringleader. Quite impressive, I must admit… Even though Destroyer is a pushover by Ringleader standards, it's evident to me now why Master has taken such an interest in you."

Destroyer was the tutorial boss? Great. That's just great.

I wonder how much more of a fight Executioner would put up if I run into her; unless her sword has a built-in EMP emitter, I honestly doubt she'd hold up against me as long as I have ammo to spare. "You sound confident," I casually note. "Think you still have a shot at putting me back to sleep? In case you haven't noticed, I'm no longer defenseless."

"While I will admit that Destroyer's failure has reduced our chances of success by 19%, you'd do well to remember our efficiency, human. I set up contingency plans in case this sort of scenario happened."

"Throw as many of your cheap battle droid knockoffs at me as you want. It won't change anything," I tell her matter-of-factly, shrugging. "You claim you're my better? Please. The Ceph put up more of a challenge than you, and the ones on Earth are just mindless drones. I'm practically a wolf among sheep in here."

A tense silence passes between us. Nanosuited marine and Sangvis Ringleader stare each other down, neither of us willing to budge so much as a millimeter on our threats. I wonder what thoughts are going through her artificial mind.

"It seems I'm not the only one who's confident," she eventually says.

"Damn right I am. One way or another, I'm getting out of this place."

"On that we can agree. Once we have you secured and put to sleep, we'll have you transported to HQ for immediate study." Her gaze suddenly turns more serious than I'd ever seen it. It's honestly kind of creepy. "I'll give you one last chance to surrender peacefully, filth. If you accept, stay where you are and I'll have Executioner come and restrain you. If you refuse… then I'm afraid I can't promise your survival. And none of us want you to die now, do we?"

My grip on the grenade launcher tightens. I take a step closer to the screen, giving the self-assured Doll a clear picture of my menacing, brutish appearance. "I am not going back in that pod," I grind out through clenched teeth.

Scarecrow gives no visible reaction. "Then we have nothing left to discuss."

The hologram disappears into thin air. With a grunt of annoyance, I leave the cafeteria behind, following the waypoint that'll lead me to the security wing's entrance.

Looks like things are about to get interesting.

"Hit something hard enough and it'll eventually break."

That's my motto in life, and it'll be a central theme in this story. The last thing I want is for Alcatraz to curb stomp every opponent he faces. He might have a few easy fights here and there, but against challenging foes like Sangvis Ringleaders, he'll struggle. Heck, he might even lose a few fights depending on the circumstances.

Next chapter will be the end of the Awakening Arc. My plan was for it to only be two chapters long, but then I kept writing and writing and coming up with new ideas… ah well. Four is better than two, I suppose. After that, we might finally see some friendly faces, eh?

Also, please let me know what you thought of the fight scene in this chapter! I'm not very experienced with them, although I like to think I did a good job making it semi-believable. Until next time!