Crysis: Fusion

by Dark Cryo

"Waking up in an abandoned research facility with no memory of how I got there? Spooky. Learning I'm being hunted by murderous androids with some type of sinister plan for me? Nerve-wracking. Finding out the ghost of the man who stole my body is still in my head...? Terrifying." -Alcatraz

4. End of the Beginning

You know what? I'm goddamn proud of myself for making it this far without consulting any source material for guidance. Everything that's happened in this story so far, even if it's still early on, has been the product of my own demented imagination and nothing else. It's a good feeling.

Sorry for the delay, by the way. Between work, school, and this chapter's gargantuan size (over 19k words – this is the longest thing I've ever written), it was a necessary wait. But it's finished now, and I want Alcatraz out of this facility and into the crapsack world of GFL by the end of it, so let's not waste any time!

---

Primary: Escape the Facility: Explore the Security Wing

There exist a handful of places that seem to just suck your soul right out of your body on approach; hostile, unwelcoming locations which you avoid on instinct, that practically scream "Abandon hope all ye who enter here". Like the DMV. Or in my case, the entrance to the defunct Sangvis Ferri research facility's security wing.

I've been standing in front of it collecting my nerves for a full half-minute. I know what any onlookers would be thinking right now – what does a trained soldier in possession of a Nanosuit and a high-tech grenade launcher have to fear from an unassuming area like this? What could give pause to a person like me, who defeated fifteen Tactical Dolls plus a Ringleader all by himself not thirty minutes ago?

The pool of dried blood seeping under the wing's heavily reinforced door is a definite red flag, for beginners. The small mountain of miscellaneous crap blocking it off is another.

I always find myself in the nicest places.

Heaving out a resigned sigh that yes, I need to waste time clearing the blockade to proceed and yes, I really am planning to go through that foreboding door, I set the TX-340 down and get to work.

Chairs, tables, filing cabinets, lab equipment… If it belongs in a secret research facility, then it's in the pile. I even find another of those lava lamp thingamajigs from the room where I first awakened. It would make a fine souvenir, as well as a great reminder of the things I've endured in the facility to achieve my hard-earned freedom… except I hold no love for this place and I'm itching to forget I've ever been here at all, so it ends up getting tossed over my shoulder without a second thought like every other bit of junk.

I move at a fast pace, clearing the clutter away without any regard to how much noise I might be making. The sooner it's all gone, the sooner I can keep moving, and the better chances I have of the bloodthirsty Doll Executioner not catching a whiff of my scent.

I shiver despite myself. That one is enough to convince me that venturing into where the Doll presence is likely to be thickest is worth the risk. I'd beaten Destroyer thanks to the element of surprise and the good graces of Lady Luck, though a gut instinct tells me Executioner is in a different ball park entirely; a whole league of her own. With the high of my earlier victory having worn off some time ago, I decided that evading her will continue to be my best defense unless absolutely necessary.

Off the record, I'm also not keen on the thought of getting intimately familiar with the receiving end of her ultra-compensation sword.

Finally, after way too long, the junk heap is thinned out enough so that I can walk through the rest. I retrieve my stolen grenade launcher and hit the access panel on the doorframe, steeling myself for combat as the heavy door rolls aside and-

And-

And pours forth another pile, this one composed of burnt clothing and bones.

I recoil away from the entrance like it's on fire.

Oh my god…

I'm no paragon of what it means to be a soldier. I'm prone to losing my nerve just like everyone else, and there were instances when I was in the service that made me want to huddle away in the darkest corner I could find, praying that whatever was going on was nothing more than a nasty side effect of mixing military-grade stims with a bottle of cheap alcohol. I've seen what happens when riots turn violent over the course of my deployment to Sri Lanka. I've seen alien fucking lifeforms attempt to colonize a human city. I've seen them use a genetically engineered super-virus to melt people down into sludge while they were still alive, simply for the sake of waste management. In summary, I've seen shit.

It never gets easier to cope with, either, contrary to what some may think. All the waking nightmares I've had the displeasure of witnessing firsthand would stay with me until the day I die for real.

And as I stare in slack-jawed horror at the skeletal remains of Sangvis Ferri's former staff, I conclude the sight is yet another thing that will forever haunt me in my dreams.

These people… they'd been trapped on the other side of the door when the lockdown went into effect, left to the non-existent mercy of their Dolls. They'd come here seeking to escape from their creations but instead found themselves at a dead end. The remains of their lab coats, maybe a pristine white color once upon a time, are riddled with blackened scorch marks indicating superheated plasma.

I do a quick headcount and come up with thirteen bodies. Thirteen scientists, slaughtered like livestock without a second thought.

My eyes flit back to the yawning, dimly lit corridor ahead of me. I now believe beyond a shadow of a doubt that whatever killed off the staff is still in there, and – if I'm especially unlucky – still waiting for the next clueless victim to stumble into their turf. In other words, someone like me.

Hopefully those Dolls won't come equipped with some type of experimental anti-Nanosuit gadgetry.

Best to bite the bullet and get this over with, I reluctantly concede. Time is of the essence, and the sooner I reach the maintenance tunnel, the happier I'll be. I linger just long enough to bless myself with the sign of the cross and ready my AGL before venturing once more into the unknown, reciting Psalm 23:4 under my breath to stave off the echo of bones crunching beneath my boots:

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me…"

---

(Ten Minutes Later)

If the area dedicated to studying my symbiotic relationship with the N2 was dark and spooky, then the facility's security wing is very dark and very spooky. This is coming from the same crazy motherfucker who regularly delved into Ceph hives with little regard to his personal safety. The only form of illumination in these hallways originates from scattered emergency lights that bathe portions of my surroundings in an eerie red glow, made doubly unnerving by the occasional skeleton lying prone on the floor. My tactical visor is kept on, vigilantly scanning for threats. The TX-340 is pointed ahead of me and ready to fire at the first sign of danger.

I can't stress enough how much the place rubs my nerves the wrong way. Doesn't matter if I'm a Nanosuited super-soldier or not; the atmosphere in here is downright malevolent, and it creeps me the fuck out.

Every inch of wall not painted red by the lights is consumed by shadows. Sometimes they're pockmarked by scorch marks, and where those are located, a corpse usually isn't that far away. There are other signs of disrepair, too: the occasional hallway completely smothered in darkness – courtesy of smashed lighting – or loose paneling in dire need of replacement, peeled back to expose layers upon layers of sparking circuitry hidden behind the walls and ceiling.

Instead of labs and offices, most of the wing's side rooms contain an assortment of surveillance and monitoring equipment, all defunct after what I estimate to be years without anyone alive to take proper care of it. I branch away from the main path a couple of times to glance inside some of the rooms – mostly for curiosity's sake, though I don't discover any noteworthy loot. Now that I think more about it, it really feels like I've been thrown into one of those indie survival games, the ones where the protagonist has to scrounge for items and evade enemies while slowly piecing together the bigger picture behind the plot.

Not as much fun in real life as it sounds. Trust me.

After following SECOND's waypoint for who knows how long, I eventually round a corner and find myself staring at a corpse wearing a black and red security uniform slumped against the left side of the wall about twenty feet ahead. There's something clutched in its hands, something about the size and shape of a rifle, so naturally I head over to investigate.

Setting Destroyer's grenade launcher down again, I pry the object free from its owner's grip and take a closer look.

Turns out it's a shotgun. Not just any shotgun, either – it's a Marshall pump-action, the staple shotgun of law enforcement, military police, and any private security firms lucky enough to snag a good deal. While I don't have much intel on Sangvis Ferri pre-Doll rebellion or as a whole, it's pretty easy to imagine them getting their grease mittens on a gun like this, especially if they were as big a company as Dr. White's computer seemed to suggest. Together with how cramped the hallways of this facility are, it makes perfect sense to find one here.

Problem is, it's useless now. The forend is partially melted and fused to the bolt – undoubtedly the handiwork of a plasma weapon – which means it would be impossible for the gun to chamber a new shell after firing. No wonder my visor hadn't bothered pointing it out to me earlier. It would've been a pointless gesture.

Still, it's not all bad news. Most modern militaries and PMCs tend to standardize their equipment for logistical purposes. If I found one Marshall, then odds are good there are more stashed somewhere in this labyrinth. I'll have to keep an eye out for-

"HOSTILE DETECTED."

A red arrow materializes on my minimap, coming from further down the corridor and headed in my direction.

Combat reflex immediately kicks in. I drop the shotgun, grab my AGL, and fade from sight just as my ears pick up the familiar sound of metallic footsteps.

The Doll turns the corner, and my first thought upon seeing it is, That's not a Ripper. My second thought – Why is it wearing a swimsuit holy shit what the fuck were the engineers smoking when they built that thing?!

I shit you not, I am facing a Doll wearing what can loosely be described as a chainmail bikini. The android's left arm and legs are protected by heavy armor plating; rounding out its appearance is something akin to a blast-proof collar fastened around its neck. It's wielding a heavy black shield in one hand and an energy pistol in the other, similar to the type Executioner uses, although this one has a bayonet mounted under the barrel.

My tac visor brings up the unit's designation – 'Guard' – along with other helpful nuggets of information. Interior subdermal plating, redundant survival mechanisms… all fancy words for bullet sponge. The lack of clothing suddenly makes sense, kinda. Maybe. Not really.

Whatever.

That also explains how it's still operating despite the four massive bullet holes in its torso, I note as the machine hobbles closer to me. I don't know if it's the gunshots or the lack of maintenance, but the thing is obviously damaged. The way she's stumbling aimlessly down the hallway, struggling to keep her balance, is very reminiscent of a girl on her way home after a long night at the bar.

Let's see here... Tanky enemy with a shield that poses a very high risk of bumping into me, no matter how stealthy I try to be. She's blocking the fastest way forward, and the threat of Executioner coming doesn't leave me a whole lot of time to hide in a side room and wait for her to pass, or double back and search for an alternate route.

Good thing I'd planned ahead for encounters like this.

I take aim at the Doll with my ill-acquired grenade launcher and let 'em fly.

And sweet son of a bitch does this thing have a crazy high rate of fire! No wonder Destroyer was never able to hit me; even with the Nanosuit augmenting my strength, the recoil pulls my arms up until I'm shooting closer to the ceiling than my target. It feels like I'm trying to wrangle in an angry goose instead of a gun. The kick is just that severe.

Lots of satisfying booms, though.

When I finally tame the beast enough to remember to let go of the trigger, there isn't enough of the Guard left to fit inside a pickle jar. Practically everything in the general area she'd been standing in has been cratered to kingdom come.

Her shield, however, is still intact. Or at least it was, until my foot nudges it aside as I pass by and it splinters apart.

I'm so glad I decided to go through the hassle of getting this thing.

---

The next several minutes of my trek through the security wing are relatively mundane, so much so that it's not worth going into extensive detail over. I see Doll, I shoot Doll. Doll goes kaboom. Rinse and repeat. Not much else to say, really.

Between the N2's cheap wallhacking ability and the TX-340's ludicrous firepower, I hold the overwhelming edge in every skirmish, somewhat helped by the fact that none of the Doll patrols number more than four units. Rippers and Guards, mostly, though I also come across one or two wearing bizarre fishbowl-shaped helmets and carrying energy rifles that my onboard AI labeled 'Vespids'. Idly I wonder how many different models there are. Not that it will make much difference, me being a superpowered walking tank and all.

Minutes tick by. I almost allow myself to begin relaxing. I'm making some good time, and better yet, I still haven't detected eye nor ear of Executioner.

When will it sink through my thick skull that it's never allowed to be so easy?

I'm busy ambling down another hallway towards where the BUD dropped another waypoint, expecting to reach it with no difficulty and secure in the knowledge that it would automatically update to take me closer to the exit. As much as the armor's prone to crashes, and as much as I bitch about it at times, I would've gotten hopelessly lost in New York if the suit's navigational system didn't work as well as it does.

So I'm honestly taken aback when the waypoint suddenly disappears into thin air. My minimap is affected, too; rendered into noiseless static without any warning.

Uhh… what?

Not liking this new development, I take a step back, blinking in confusion when the waypoint and minimap pop back into existence like nothing ever happened. When I step forward again, they both disappear.

I repeat the movement a few more times to make sure this isn't just some random glitch in the software, frowning as I come to an unsettling conclusion: something beyond this threshold is fucking with my signal. If I went ahead, I'd be deaf dumb and blind in every way besides my own human eyesight. Which, I should add, also means I'd lose my roadmap on how to get out of here.

My mind flashes back to Scarecrow's warning. Is this one of her contingency plans? If so, then she's a crafty bitch. She knows I want to escape this facility, so therefore struck dead center at the part of my suit that would allow me to do so. She'd hinted her knowledge of my true capabilities and how resilient an opponent I am.

This gimmick wasn't put in place to stop me – it's meant to slow me down so Executioner could catch up.

Though I hate to admit it, it's an ingenious plan.

I look behind me. I could take my chances backtracking and searching for a different path, but what would that change? I'd still be wasting time no matter what. No, if I want to keep the lead in this hunt, I'll have to suck it up and press forward, even if that means entering a total dead zone.

I grumble a lot of interesting words under my breath as I move onward. A lot of them start with F.

---

Secondary: Locate and Destroy the Interference

"Where the hell am I?!"

It isn't the first time I've asked myself that question over the past thirty minutes and I doubt it'll be the last. I'd been heading in a roughly linear direction until my nav gear died, so it only made sense to keep going that way, right? The issue stems from me eventually hitting a dead-end hallway, leaving me lost and without any idea of where to go.

I swear that if or when I get my hands on Scarecrow, I'd tear that facemask off, rip out her tongue if she has one, then twist her pretty little head so far around she'd be staring herself in the eye.

On a related note, why would anyone need a facility this big? This place is enormous! I get that Sangvis Ferri wanted to study me and everything, but did they really need to dedicate such a huge structure for the purpose of researching one soldier? I refuse to believe it. There has to be more. What else haven't I found yet?

I put a hand to my head and groan loudly, partly out of frustration, though mostly because I feel another familiar headache coming on. I'm almost used to it by now, sad to say.

Some of my anger evaporates when the memory plays out.

I'm – Prophet is – we're in the same room as last time, along with Psycho, except now we're observing a video playing on a computer monitor. The video's focused on a brown-haired woman wearing a white medical shirt, watched over by a nameless CELLulite. The woman is visibly struggling to keep her composure as she speaks over the noise of someone screaming in agony in the background. I realize a moment later it's Psycho's voice that's screaming.

"Subject 8a – Sergeant Michael Sykes, is still functioning at near optimal levels." The poor British bastard lets out another pained howl. The camera pans down to look at him. He's strapped to an operating table, eyes shut tight and screaming for all he's worth as something happens to him out of view.

Back to the unknown woman. She visibly falters for a moment, swallowing nervously before continuing, "But accelerated degradation is to be expected…"

Psycho, the present-day Psycho, turns around, and… Jesus Christ. I can't tear my gaze away from him. Can't stop staring at the heartbreaking expression of hurt and betrayal in his mossy green eyes. He looks… I don't know. Defeated, I guess. While I never met him personally, snippets of Prophet's subconscious inform me he's never seen the guy act like this before, either.

The flashback abruptly ends.

I'm back in the hallway. Everything is dead quiet. No screams, no cries for help, nothing but the low hum of machinery hidden behind the walls. Almost have a heart attack when an air duct suddenly whirs to life, though.

"Barnes…" I exhale an empty sigh. "I don't know if you're responsible for these, but if you are, then quit it. It's not helping."

Eagerness to not dwell on the disturbing vision aside, if I'm stuck in the middle of a firefight and my mind goes to la-la land, I'd be a sitting duck. It's a big part of the reason I don't want to tango with those Tactical Dolls any more than I need to.

Shaking off the last traces of my headache, I adjust my grip on the TX-340 and resign myself to the thought of more aimless wandering when my ears detect a faint whirring noise coming from somewhere close by. It sounds like it's getting nearer, too. Another Doll? I don't hear footsteps, but that's beside the point. Best to engage stealth mode and get the drop on whatever it is.

I activate my cloak, watching from my peripherals as the suit along with my grenade launcher begins to fade from view… then bite my tongue to keep from cursing out loud when it abruptly fizzles out halfway through the process.

Come on, really? Now what the fuck's wrong with me?!

No choice but to do this head-on, then. I point my heavy weapon in the direction the whirring is coming from, tracing it as best I can, until the source of the noise floats around the corner into full view. Yes, floats.

…Huh.

I remember, back when I was eighteen, I once saw an ad in one of those lifestyle magazines for a 'wearable chair'. It basically consisted of a belt attached to a pair of folding pegs that stick to your ass, and you unfold them anytime and anywhere you wanted to sit. I'd bought one as a joke for a friend's birthday before it was discontinued shortly afterward for being too silly of an idea.

The reason I bring this up is because the little drone hovering in place twenty-five feet away bears a superficial resemblance to the product. The main difference is the red eye-sensor-thing on the main body, the color scheme that instantly gives it away as a Sangvis Ferri unit, and the pair of tiny energy weapons mounted on top of the chassis – weapons that are now fixated on me and emitting a high-pitched whine.

A feminine giggle echoes from the machine.

"Found you, Alcatraz~"

My blood, if I still have any, turns to ice. Executioner.

The drone and I simultaneously exchange fire. Red lasers pepper me everywhere from the waist up; it doesn't hurt much, in fact they feel more like light stings than anything, but they're numerous and they come fast. Meanwhile, the drone rapidly darts around, avoiding my automatic volley of explosives without so much as a scratch. And it just keeps shooting.

Growling deep in my throat, I mentally will the Nanosuit to harden its outer layer to help withstand the barrage. Only, it doesn't. I'm still taking damage.

SECOND finally seems to realize something's amiss here and posts a short message on my interface: "Warning! Unknown interference detected. Suit functions unavailable."

"Are you fucking shitting me right now?!" I yell, the frustration finally boiling over, and I flinch back when a bolt hits me square in the face.

This is getting embarrassing. I'm a fucking Nanosuit warrior. I'm what happens when the thin line separating science and morality is blurred into oblivion. I've cleaved through hordes of mercs and aliens hellbent on my death. The sight of me alone is enough to make small children cry. I should not be losing in a fight against a floating wearable chair, dammit!

I fire another volley at the pest. Like before, it easily zigzags through the gaps between grenades.

My teeth grind together. Shit.

Another long trigger pull produces the same lack of results.

Dammit…

Anger welling up in my veins, I mount the TX-340 on my shoulder and fire it Rambo-style, blanketing everything in my line of sight with 40mm devastation. Although I almost manage to nail it a few times, the drone STILL refuses to die, and it's STILL attempting to kill me with its pea shooter guns.

HOW DO I HIT THIS ZIPPITY LITTLE FUCK?!

The answer is, I can't – not with a low-velocity weapon like a grenade launcher. Not only is this 'battle' (and I use that term very loosely) utterly pathetic, it's also pointless. I'm wasting precious time trying to swat a fly while a much bigger and deadlier predator is closing in on me. I have to move quickly, or else this situation would raise from irritating to ugly.

I break off the engagement and run, barreling past the drone which momentarily stops firing and lifts itself closer to the ceiling to avoid getting trampled under a couple hundred pounds of Nanosuit soldier. It beeps once, then follows after me as I bolt down the nearest corridor, resuming its new favorite pastime of shooting at my retreating form.

I hug the TX-340 closer, shielding it from the laser fire with my body. More and more needle-like stabs of pain impact against my back. It's starting to feel warm.

Gotta think. Gotta come up with a way to shake this thing. As long as this bot continues following me, Executioner will know where I am, and the thought of falling right into her clutches spurs me to run even faster. I try and fail to increase the muscle mass in my legs. Damn, this launcher's heavy.

"You can run, but you can't hide from us!" I hear the Doll giggle in sadistic delight behind me.

Oh yeah? I'll take my chances. There's an open room up ahead to my left; I duck inside, pressing myself against the wall next to the doorframe. I lift my grenade launcher up by the barrel like a baseball bat and wait to see if the pesky drone will come in after me. If it does, then it's in for a nasty Alcatraz-brand surprise.

I'm not kept waiting for long. It stops right outside the room, the buzzing noise it emits giving it away. The noise draws closer… closer…

The moment I see its frontal half poke through the doorway, I swing as hard as I can-

And miss by less than a centimeter when the piece of shit suddenly zooms backwards.

Thrown off-balance when the power behind the blow hits nothing but empty air, I stumble back into the hallway, dropping my weapon in the process, and I think both the drone and myself weren't expecting my leftover momentum to throw me straight into it. At least, if the shriek it lets out before I grab hold of its chassis for support and drag us both to the floor is any indication.

Okay. Not what I'd planned, but I can make do with this.

It's quick and brutal work from there. I grapple with the machine for a few seconds, wrapping an arm around one of its peg-like protrusions to keep it from breaking free. Lasers are shooting all over the place, and several do strike me, but I'm too pissed off to take much notice. The sensor piece turns into a spiderweb of cracks after my first punch and caves in after the second. My fingers brush against cables; I grab a fistful and tug, easily ripping them free. The drone sputters once, gives one last pitiful whine, then dies in my cold embrace.

Phew. Golem Boy: one; aggravating flying robot: zero. Fucking hell, that isn't something I want to go through ever again.

I take a ten second break to let my muscles sag and wonder when my life escalated from Semper Fi in all its gung-ho glory to… whatever this is. I make a mental note and tack it somewhere on the nauseatingly huge (and still growing) corkboard of things I'd have to examine more in-depth at a later date. Right now, my main focus is on survival and escape.

Once I'm rested up and ready to move on, I scoop up Destroyer's grenade launcher. BUD's ammo counter informs me it's beginning to run low – maybe three more prolonged bursts, or four if I keep them under control. Should probably start looking for more weapons soon. Another shotgun would come in handy, especially if I encounter more of those drones.

I've taken five steps forward when a sudden thought occurs to me. Uhh… which way am I going, again?

The way I see it, I'm very likely to sooner or later run into one of three things: Executioner, the maintenance area, or whatever Scarecrow is using to jam the suit's signal. If I can somehow destroy that and clear it up, it would make the latter two outcomes beneficial. A 66% chance of finding something good if I just keep searching around long enough.

Hell, I'm perfectly willing to cross blades with Executioner as long as it means avoiding the fourth, my-luck-is-atrocious scenario (i.e. go in a complete circle and find myself back in the research wing).

---

(Five Minutes Later)

Ask and you shall receive.

I'm still not exactly sure how it happened. I'd been minding my own business, trudging down another creepy corridor and testing the suit's functions to see which bells and whistles the jamming field affected. Turns out the answer is nearly all of them – I can't even open my tac visor, let alone access any combat features. It gives new meaning to the term 'dead zone'. At the very least I can still swap back to my human form, useless as it might be.

I'd been giving serious consideration to finding a cardboard box to use as portable concealment when I round the next corner and almost jump out of my second skin.

"There you are!" Executioner exclaims, resting her massive sword over her shoulder and wearing a decidedly predatory grin. The dim emergency lighting only adds to my mental image of her as some kind of robotic sex demon.

"Aren't we lucky, girls?" She motions with her head to indicate the two Rippers and three Vespids accompanying her. "We were tasked to hunt him down, and he stumbled right into us instead! Oh, isn't this perfect…"

I'm only paying half-attention. My focus is torn between not freaking out and staring in disbelief at the trio of buzzing hoverdrones lazily circling the air above the Ringleader and her lackeys.

One was bad enough, but three? That's just fucking unfair…

The sole advantage I have in this standoff is that Executioner's too far back to make use of her weapon. The rank-and-file Dolls and drones, on the other hand, are a different story. This… could get complicated.

"You must be wondering how I found my way down here, especially after our last meeting was… cut short," she continues, giggling at her own joke.

My fingers drum restlessly against the TX-340's side. Now that she brought it up, I am a tad curious. "I'd like to know, yeah."

The Doll points with her clawed hand to the drones buzzing overhead. "These little beauties gave us a lift down the shaft. Smart, wouldn't you agree?"

"Uh… sure."

So they are wearable chairs.

"I've been waiting for this opportunity, you know… Hoping you would disobey Scarecrow's orders and make this more fun." She takes a single step closer, and my instinctive reaction is to move back. Her polished black blade gleams ominously in the hall's crimson glow. "And you didn't disappoint me on that front. Here we are, you and I, about to square off against one another… a Sangvis Ferri Ringleader and a soldier from a bygone era dueling to the death. Sounds exciting, doesn't it? Tell me the mere thought of the potential violence fills you with-" She pauses all of a sudden, red eyes finally taking notice of the heavy object in my grip. "Wait, isn't that one of Destroyer's grenade launchers?"

I back up another step. "…Maybe."

She's fond of pre-battle banter; I could tell right away. My hope now is that she'll run her mouth long enough for me to pull a half-decent plan out of my ass and run with it. While Tactical Dolls pale against the Ceph in terms of… well, pretty much everything except physical allure, my disabled suit still puts me in a tight spot. I have to think of something before she gets bored and decides to let her sword do the talking instead.

The mad android throws her head back and lets out a hearty laugh. "You mean you actually stole it from her?! Oh, that's marvelous! Fantastic!" Her laughter soon lowers to a mirthful chuckle. She locks gazes with me again, eyes shining. "Adding lasting insult to injury… You're exactly the type of adversary I've been craving. An opponent who isn't afraid to fight dirty. Don't get me wrong – Griffin Dolls are fun, but they break too easily, like the cheap toys they are."

What the hell's a Griffin Doll?... Eh, not important right now. Something resembling the barest threads of a plan are slowly crawling to the surface of my mind. I might suck at long-term planning – my life before I joined the Marine Corps is solid proof of that – but when push comes to shove, I'm damn good at improvising.

If she wants me to fight dirty, then I'll happily oblige.

Executioner, with one hand, lifts her blade perpendicular to her chest, scraping a clawed finger along its sharpened length. "Now, Alcatraz, be a good little abomination and-"

I abruptly cut her off by unloading all of my remaining ammo into her posse.

Executioner's eyes widen in alarm; I barely see her begin to jump backward before she and the others are consumed by hellfire.

Vibrations from the resounding explosions rock the ground under my feet. My visor polarizes so the bright flashes won't blind me. The noise, though, threatens to leave me deaf. The TX-340 kicks like a mule, spitting out grenade after lethal grenade, swallowing everything in its path with pure, raw destruction.

After five full seconds of nonstop spraying and praying, the launcher finally clicks dry. I promptly throw it aside and sprint as fast as I can back the way I'd come from, not bothering to look back to see if the Dolls are dead or not.

I shouldn't have to. Nothing could survive a barrage as thorough as that in such close quarters, right?

Executioner is down for the count… isn't she?

I soon hear a familiar buzz over my rapid breaths and the pounding of my footsteps. One of the drones must've gotten lucky and avoided the blasts. Not all that surprising, really, though I'm questioning why it's not shooting me and why it's so insistent on chasing-

"Hmph. That was rude." You-Know-Who huffs through the drone's speaker.

Son of a bitchnugget.

"Are we really going to keep playing this game, Alcatraz?" Executioner's words, while they remain teasing, now hold an undertone of annoyance. "You're only delaying the inevitable by running. Why not indulge me and get it over with, hmm?"

Maybe a good old sucker punch will do the trick…

Grinding to a sudden stop, I whirl around and throw a blind haymaker at the drone – which, to my ire, evades the attack with ease. Man, I am seriously beginning to hate those things.

"Aw, what's the matter? Is the big bad Nanosuit soldier getting aggravated? Have you finally realized how hopelessly outmatched you are?" the Ringleader mocks me.

My eye twitches under my helmet but I don't take the bait. I know instantly what her angle is. She wants to get me angry enough that I'd pull something reckless and make a mistake. Too bad for her I possess the discipline that only Marine Corps boot camp could drill into me, along with a younger sister who constantly goaded me the same way back when she was going through a bratty phase.

Rather than dignify her with a response, I turn my back to the drone and resume my marathon through the security wing. It follows me closely, tracking my every move, relaying my location to the Doll in pursuit.

"You're crazy if you think you can run away from your fate!"

She's totally right; I am crazy – crazy enough to know that running is my only chance.

I'm reluctant to admit it, but the Dolls' strategy up to this point was genius: disable my suit's higher functions so I couldn't properly track or fight them, then send a Ringleader who could track me and existed to fight. It's not a stretch to imagine that Executioner's drones have some sort of immunity to the interference, either, otherwise they would probably have issues with their camera feeds. Sangvis Ferri is effectively using my best tactics against me.

It's terrifying, being on the receiving end for a change. I almost feel bad for the legions of half-trained goons CELL churned out to neutralize me.

The hallway I'm currently speeding through looks a bit different than the others. No because it was any cleaner – I still see a few skeletons in uniform sprinkled amidst signs of an earlier battle – but because it steadily curves to the right for reasons I can't discern. My hopes are suddenly renewed, if only because this is something new than anything else. Am I finally getting close to the signal interference? Or better yet, the maintenance tunnel?

I soon reach the end of the corridor, emerging into what looks like a hub area. The overhead lights are a normal, pale yellow color instead of ominous blood red, and the ceiling in general is higher up, too. Two more hallways connect with the space: the first is directly across from the one I'd came from and still curves rightward, while the other, situated between the two, is a typical straightaway. None of that is what really piques my interest, however.

Sitting to my left is a malfunctioning set of sliding double doors. They appear to be trying to close automatically, though they fail each time before they could fully snap shut, and each time it elicits a few angry sparks from a damaged keypad. A pathetic sight to behold, but it's something above the doors that earns my full attention.

Proudly displayed in blue lettering on one of those scroll feeds is a single word: ARMORY.

My spirits soar.

Then crash back down to Earth when my unwanted companion decides to comment.

"My, what have we here? A possible game changer? How exciting…"

"Shut the fuck up and let me have this moment," I snap at the drone.

I theorize this hub must be a strategic location designed for rapid reaction. The three hallways connecting here must be the fastest paths to other sections of the wing, meaning the security staff could swiftly make it here and arm themselves in case of an emergency before deploying just as fast. I approach the broken doors and give them a once-over. Solid, but I won't need more strength than the Nanosuit's default mode provides to force them open.

I roll my shoulders, then bury my fingers into metal, gradually prying the doors apart until there's enough open space for me to slip inside.

Executioner's spy drone, noticing that I'm occupied, seizes the opportunity and darts above my head into the armory before I can swat it away.

"Hey!" I throw myself inside after it, only paying minimal thought to how the doors finally snap shut behind me.

Unlike everywhere else in the security wing, the armory is absolutely pristine. Weapon racks and ammo crates sit in neat rows along the far perimeter, stocked with an assortment of guns I have trouble identifying from this far away without the N2's tac visor. A small flight of stairs (which is intriguing – I'd thought SF didn't know what stairs even are) leads to a raised platform on the left overlooking the stockpile, though I can't make out much else from where I'm standing.

And I guess the universe decided to throw me a bone, because the drone is right there in front of me, examining a half-empty rack of what I recognize as more shotguns as I calmly step closer.

It turns to look at me when I grab one and give it an experimental pump. "You really lucked out here, Alcatraz. I'm surprised Scarecrow didn't think to check for an armory when we came here." It floats closer until its sensor is a foot away from my head. "I guess even us Sangvis Dolls aren't perfect… but that's why Master sent us to look for you in the first place, did you know? To hopefully remedy that."

"This isn't the first time I've heard about you junk heaps having a 'Master'," I inform her, turning to go check out an ammo stash. As always, the drone follows like the world's most dedicated puppy. Or maybe the most annoying. One of the two. "You ever gonna spill who they are and what they want with me?"

"Hmm… no, I don't think so." Executioner replies cheerfully. "I'm the one you should be worried about right now. In fact, I've just arrived at the armory myself."

Just to confirm she isn't bullshitting, I hear a couple of loud knocks on the sealed door.

"Oh, don't get your suit in a twist," she snarks when I doubled the speed of my ammo scrounging. "There's only one way in and out of here, and I have all the time in the world. What's that old human saying? 'A cornered rat fights the hardest'?" She pauses to giggle again. "Go ahead, work at your own pace. I'm curious to see what you'll do next."

I force down a sudden well of panic.

Shit. Okay. She isn't trying to cut her way inside – she doesn't need to, with me being trapped in here and everything. She also doesn't seem to care that I've snagged some weapons. Hell, knowing her, it's likely making her even more fired up. As long as she actually gets to fight me head-on, she doesn't give a damn about what I do to prepare. It speaks volumes about how much faith she has in her ability to defeat me. Now that is the textbook definition of cockiness.

I spend another minute inspecting the available arsenal. Despite the good number of weapons, variety is painfully limited, consisting only of Marshall shotguns, Feline SMGs, and M12 Nova pistols. My guess about standardization and easier logistics was correct, it seems. Engagements in this facility have all been close-quarters so far, so why bother requisitioning a sniper rifle?

The shotgun is staying with me, no question about it, though I flip-flop on whether to take a Nova or a Feline before settling on the former. Sorry, kitty. Maybe next time.

I work my way upstairs next. End up tripping halfway up and banging my shin when I see a big, majestic, and very much needed map of the security wing displayed on a 60-inch screen mounted on the far wall.

God is great, God is good, God just gave me my escape from the 'hood.

No words can accurately describe the crushing feeling of relief coursing through me. I have half a mind to prostrate myself before the map, and I might've done so had the circumstances at the time not been so dire.

Recovering from my slight blunder, I take the stairs three at a time until I'm standing right in front of the screen. I trace a gloved finger along the smooth surface. Let's see here… The armory is marked by a red dot, so that helps pinpoint my location. A circular space, much larger than anywhere I'd been, is positioned directly at the heart of the wing, and beyond that, a short dead-end hallway. I'd bet a year's worth of shore leave that's where the maintenance tunnel's entrance is. Between here and there is what I presume is the security chief's office, along with… something else. Another circular space, but smaller. Hmm.

Why do I suddenly feel the inexplicable urge to find out what that is?

Damn my need for thoroughness.

Sighing, I step away from the map to check out more crates and a row of equipment lockers to the right. Rummaging through them yields several empty bandoliers, some utility belts, a porno mag dated all the way back to 2016, and various other bits of tactical gear.

As I diligently prepare myself for whatever our often-cruel universe has in store for me, it dawns on me for the first time since awakening just how alone I am. No chain of command, even if they behave rashly at the best of times and downright unhinged at the worst. No squadmates to back me up. No friendly faces to keep me company other than False Prophet, and he's little more than a preconfigured imprint stored within the N2's memory banks.

For the first time since I joined the Marines, I have-

"Are you almost done? I know I said to take your time, but I'm getting bored sitting around waiting for you to-"

BOOM!

I stare nonchalantly at the ruined drone blown across the room, pumping the Marshall and ejecting the spent shell casing.

Ahem… As I was saying, for the first time since I joined the Marines, I have nobody to give me instructions or watch my back. Even when I was forced to fend for myself in New York after most of Omega-One was slaughtered, Nathan Gould or Jack Hargreave were always there to fill me in on what needed to be done.

Omega-One… my old squad…

I miss them. Lord above, do I miss them. Heh… I guess I got that part of my brain back.

Still, due to the mission taking utmost priority, I never had a chance to properly mourn their deaths… until now, anyway. And the grief, the pain of losing the men I saw as my surrogate family? It hits me just then. It hits me hard.

The Warden was our squad leader. Although he wasn't that much older than the rest of us, it didn't mean he deserved any less of our respect as a consequence. He was tough, but fair. The kind of jarhead who pushed you to the breaking point only because he wanted to toughen you up enough to see you make it out alive. He left behind a fiancé and a one-year-old son, if I'm remembering correctly.

Folsom's hobby was learning new languages and studying different cultures. He was fluent in a whopping eight tongues, making him an invaluable asset when we were deployed to non-English-speaking countries and had to diffuse civil unrest before it descended into anarchy. Yeah, he was also a raging Japanophile, but he knew better than to let his personal interests get in the way of an assignment. A good guy all around. Probably would've had a weird boner for Scarecrow, though.

Leavenworth, on the flipside, was convinced it was all one giant conspiracy. In his viewpoint, cell phones were mind control devices used by governments to subtly brainwash their populations, an organization in Alaska caused a tornado in Missouri, the JFK assassination was a cover-up, and aliens were responsible for the destabilization of our planet. Funny thing is, he was right about that last one. I like to think he would've brought a tinfoil hat to NYC with him if he'd known we'd bump into the Ceph ahead of time.

Sing Sing. A ray of sunshine in an otherwise bleak world. He always somehow managed to find the bright side in the darkest situations, like when he pointed out how the Statue of Liberty was still intact not even two minutes after our sub, the USS Nautilus, went six fathoms under. Seriously, the dude was the most jovial fucker I've ever met, which was strange when you factored in his obsession with heavy metal. Great person, wonderful friend. He died screaming.

And finally, Chino. My only other squadmate to make it to the end. He's as tough as Force Recon Marines come, so I was rightfully horrified when we mistakenly thought he'd been the first casualty. Should've known better than to doubt him. When we reunited in Madison Square Park, he not only defied all expectations by surviving, he'd also been able to keep up with me in firefights despite not having a Nanosuit of his own. A true Marine, a real brother in arms, and I hope he'd done good for himself after my 'death' in Central Park.

They were my team. My family away from family. All but one of them is dead now.

So I'll have to be the one to hold onto their memories and carry on their legacy, I conclude as I move to open up another supply box. I'll live on for them, making damn sure they won't be forgotten by the passage of time. It's the least I can do to thank them for being the best bunch of misfits a borderline alcoholic could ask for.

And I suppose God approved of my newfound conviction and decided to reward me, because I hit the goddamn motherload with that crate: M17 frag grenades and enough C4 to level a building.

Oh yeah, now we're cookin'.

Not even going to question why a research facility's security department felt the need to carry plastic explosives. It would put a foul dampener on my good mood.

I snatch three packs of C4 and twice as many frags, fastening them securely on my looted belt and bandolier. I'd taken those items in case I needed to revert to human form, or else my weapons and ammo would have nothing to hold them in place. Once I'm topped off, I pause to take one last look at the map, committing it to memory, then make my way back downstairs.

It's a straight shot down the middle hallway to what I believe is my final destination. The main problem is that Executioner is right outside the armory's exit, itching for our long-awaited showdown.

There would be no avoiding her this time. At least, that's what her artificial mind believes.

When is she going to learn that I refuse to play by her rules?

---

"Conquering all obstacles, both large and small, I shall never quit."

I check the quality of the wiring once more. Thankfully, it hasn't degraded over time.

"To quit, to surrender, to give up is to fail."

The detonator seems to be in working order…

"To be a Recon Marine is to surpass failure; to overcome, to adapt and to do whatever it takes to complete the mission."

I step a safe distance away from the door, pistol in my right hand and detonator in my left, going over a mental checklist to see if I'd missed anything. Weapons? Check. Explosives? Check. Nanosuit? Check. Total disregard for my personal well-being, and healthy knowledge that my latest idea is not only a huge violation of every basic safety rule in the book, but common sense in general?

I tilt my head and pretend to think about it.

Check and check. Looks like I'm all good.

I'd needed to recite the third verse of the Force Recon Marines' creed to remind myself that what I'm about to do is still my best and only option. The armory's exit looks a bit different now, courtesy of the extra C4 I'd planted on it. Basically, my half-baked mess of a plan goes as follows:

Step 1: Bum rush the door.

Step 2: Detonate the C4 mid-sprint and hope I'm not close enough for the blast to kill me.

Step 3: Pray that Executioner is dumb enough to be standing right outside and gets caught in the explosion radius.

Step 4: Fucking leg it to freedom regardless of Step 3's success.

And that's all there is to it. Simple and efficient, and if I do it right, I'll be long gone before that mad swordswoman knows what happened.

…I'm going to die, aren't I?

I mean, this isn't the most unbelievable stunt I've ever pulled, but… it's definitely up there. Somewhere in the top five, I'd say.

Exhaling, resigned to what needs to be done, I metaphorically put on my bigger boy pants, curse Scarecrow for robbing me of Armor Mode, and charge the door at full speed.

Here goes nothing…!

BOOM!

The explosion is magnificent to behold. It's glorious. It's loud as fuck. It's also stronger than I'd first anticipated, because the concussive force knocks me flat on my back, flinging the spent detonator out of my hand. I grunt from the impact, though surprisingly, that's about the extent of my injuries. Guess I'd made a pretty fine estimate on the danger zone.

Thick black smoke billows from the charred remains of the doorway. I can hear Executioner coughing up a storm nearby; with my tac visor not working, I can't see through the smoke and tell how much of an effect the blast had on her, or if she'd been near it at all. I'm not about to stop and lend her a helping hand, however – I have places to be.

Shaking my head to dispel a slight feeling of dizziness, I bolt forward out of the armory's destroyed entrance. My eyes are kept focused on the hallway ahead, my main objective.

Then I trip a second time when something hard and metallic catches my leg.

My breath hitches when I looked behind me and lay eyes on Executioner. She'd been danger close, that was for certain – her hair and parts of her outfit are singed, filling my nose with the unpleasant aroma of burnt cloth. Worse off is her synthetic skin, with entire portions of it having melted, exposing circuitry running along the length of artificial black muscle disturbingly similar to my own nano-weave.

"NO!" Ditching her unwieldy sword, she rears her clawed hand back and plunges it straight into my tendons. Astonishingly, her sharp digits break through the Nanosuit's protective gunmetal skin like it's not even there, sinking themselves into the vulnerable flesh hiding beneath.

I let out a cry of shock and pain, wrestling to escape her grasp, kicking her in the face with my good leg until I manage to dislodge the bloodthirsty Doll. The suit's already regenerating; unfortunately, while the outer layer sealed itself almost immediately, I know from experience that it'll take longer for the nanites circulating through my body to repair the damaged tissue.

But I can't afford to wait. I have to keep moving or I'll lose my advantage.

Scrambling forward to reach the Nova I'd dropped, I take a few potshots at the android, sending her reeling back, then climb to my feet on unsteady legs. My left leg's throbbing like a motherfucker, but I can stand, so I'll have to grin and bear the pain for now.

I hobble down the corridor as fast as I can, occasionally turning back to fire more shots at Executioner's prone form. Not willing to give up that easily, she retaliates with her own energy pistol, landing a few shots that scorch the N2's surface. Me being a symbiotic fusion with the suit and all… Ouch.

Keep running. Keep running. Keep running.

Those two words are chanted in my head over and over again like a madness mantra.

My injury is already starting to feel better. I look back again, and when I notice Executioner using her sword as a support to help herself stand back up, urge my legs to move even faster.

"Grrrr… Why won't you just submit to us, Alcatraz?!" she hollers after me.

"Because fuck you, that's why!" is my well-thought-out response, punctuated further by a fresh flurry of haphazardly fired gunshots.

An energy bolt grazing against my skull informs me she doesn't appreciate said well-thought-out response.

The longer the chase goes on, the more adrenaline and fear flood through my nerves. This isn't how I thought my plan would go. Okay, technically it is, but the version I'd envisioned included the minor change of me having a bigger window of time to make it farther away before things went to hell. As it stands, Executioner is still too close for comfort. The N2's audio receptors are broadcasting her thundering footsteps falling in symphony with my own, nipping at my heels like a rabid dog.

I need a way to gain more distance…

My train of thought leads me to take a hard look at the loose bandolier housing a half dozen frag grenades bouncing against my chest. Ah, screw it. Why the hell not?

Snapping the Nova into its magnetic holster, I pry the bandolier free, only mildly upset that I'll have to give up all six grenades so shortly after finding them. If it means stopping Executioner, however, then it's a sacrifice well worth making. Without even bothering to properly remove any of them from the strip of cloth, I pull the pin on the first grenade I see and toss the whole bandolier over my shoulder.

Another huge explosion, another scream, another day at the office for Alky.

The footfalls trailing me grow silent. Good. Silence is good.

I reach two side rooms nestled in the gloom after another minute of running, my leg fully healed by now. According to the map, the one on the right is the chief of security's private office, and the left… I guess I'm about to find out. The heavily reinforced door is a dead giveaway that whatever is in there is pretty damn important.

ID locked. Fuck. I need a keycard to gain access, and I don't have time to spare searching for one. Odds are decent that Executioner's been put out of commission after eating so much shrapnel, though considering how she'd avoided the TX-340 unscathed, I'm hesitant to place any bets.

Good thing the solution to my dilemma is right across the hall.

Fortunately, the other door is unlocked. The office is strangely small and not illuminated; it's kinda difficult to see, but not impossible. And by another divine stroke of fortune, I find a keycard labeled 'Master Control' conveniently sitting on a large desk amongst piles of paperwork and Styrofoam coffee cups.

I pause when I emerge back into the hallway, checking the direction I'd arrived from. Nothing stands out in the yawning tunnel of darkness except for a single measly emergency light. Had I really gotten her…?

I shake my head, cramming the lingering doubt gnawing at my mind to someplace it won't bother me. Approaching the opposite door, I swipe the keycard through its slot, and my reward is a cheerfully out-of-place beep from the lock. The door slowly rolls open similarly to how the security wing's entrance did. Drawing my shotgun, I step inside the mystery room…

…and feel my jaw hit the floor.

Smack dab in the middle of a perfectly spherical chamber, attached to innumerable cables that run along the floor and connect to several computers encircling the room's elevated walkway, is a miniature Ceph spire.

"What the fuck…?"

Anything else I could've said dies in my throat as I stare at the structure in unhidden disbelief. Sangvis Ferri… they'd secured a functioning piece of alien technology? How the fuck did they pull that off?! And for what purpose? To study it? Understand its function? What, were they using it to power this whole facility?!

I'd seen plenty of related structures before, back in New York. The Ceph used them to distribute their deadly bio-engineered spore throughout the city, slowly subjecting any and all infected individuals to a gruesome, agonizing death via total organic breakdown. I'm not even going to get into detail about the crazed religious fervor that subconsciously urged the spires' victims to find their creators. The incursion only ended when I voluntarily threw myself into the interior of the spire in Central Park, the one which would've coated the whole globe in the miasma, and allowed Nanosuit 2 to sabotage it using a counter-virus it'd developed over the course of my journey.

Seeing one here… to say it's unsettling would be putting it way too lightly. The dwarf spire's chrome surface reflects my image in the dim lighting, distorting it so I more closely resemble a spindly abomination than a guy stuck in a bulky suit.

No matter what the reason for it being in the facility is, one thing is abundantly clear to me: the anomaly has to be destroyed. And I know just the method to do it.

I vault over the guardrail, unintentionally bending it out of shape, and land near the base of the spire. My feet – invisible through a thin veil of cold mist coating the very bottom of the room – struggle to find traction at first, but the suit quickly fixes that with magnetic locks. I didn't know that was a feature. Interesting.

Carefully skirting around the awful machine's circumference, I do my best to ignore the low, sinister hum it's emitting and focus instead on rigging it with all three charges of C4 I'd brought along. Ceph plating is made from some insanely durable material – their Devastator units in particular are a living testament to its endurance – but it's not impervious to damage, and a big enough explosion should get the job done.

"And Prophet said he'd take care of you fuckers…" I mutter to myself as I work.

In our last meeting, Laurence Barnes convinced me he needed my body to continue the fight against the Ceph, using my reluctance at the thought of spending the rest of my 'life' as a suited freak as a leveraging tool. I agreed only after he promised to check up on Alice every now and then, make sure she was safe. I don't know why, but a gut feeling tells me he didn't hold up to his end of the bargain.

Of course, this all took place long before today, when I awoke to find myself in a passable replica of my old skin. If I'd known back then just how symbiotic the Nanosuit really is, I would've fought way harder to keep control, personality corruption be damned. Being forced to spend your remaining years as a prisoner in the suit is no life at all. This, on the other hand? This is different.

I'm alive again, or close enough to it. I wonder if Prophet succeeded in destroying the Ceph once and for all. I wonder if he also found himself human again by the end.

No, bad Alky. Save it for later. You said you'd think about it when you're outside, and that's what you'll do.

Though in the end, Prophet was right about one thing: The suit changes all the rules.

…Finished. I love it when I get to break stuff, especially when it's to spite someone; in this case, Sangvis Ferri as a corporation.

I'd lifted myself halfway out of the pit when a distant noise causes every muscle in my body to stiffen.

Footsteps. Loud, metallic footsteps rapidly closing in on my position.

And I'd forgotten to shut the door behind me.

Oh shit.

"ALCATRAAAAZ!" Executioner's bellow reverberates through the hallway and into the room. Her voice is thick with rage that instantly makes it clear to me that I've royally pissed her off.

She staggers around the bend into sight, and my first impression is that she'd been mauled by a grizzly bear wearing a suicide vest. Most of her body's right side is coated in hideous burns and pieces of jagged shrapnel, apparently having taken the brunt of the damage. Her smaller arm is gone as well, severed at the shoulder, leaving wires and scraps of artificial muscle to dangle loosely. Each of her wounds drips the red coolant substituting for a human's blood. The Ringleader's right eye also changed from bright reddish-orange color to a milky white.

She limps closer, fixing me with a crazed expression combining elation, anger, and determination. "You… have been a VERY NAUGHTY BOY! All I wanted, all I ever dreamed of in this operation was to fight you one on one… but instead of facing me like a man, you only RAN AWAY LIKE A COWARD!"

"To be fair, it was working-"

"SHUT! UP!" she thunders. The pale imitation of a person pauses to suck in several deep breaths, time I use to hoist myself back onto the catwalk. "Scarecrow says you're the man who ended the Ceph invasion? HA! As if a COWARD like you could ever save this miserable planet!" Her lips curl into a rabid snarl. "This could've been easy for both of us if you'd only listened… but no, you had to go and make things harder, didn't you?!"

My answer is to bring out the shotgun and fire a round. Even in her severely damaged state, Executioner's still nimble enough to sidestep most of the buckshot and block the rest with the flat of her blade.

"Oh, so now you've grown a pair? Has it finally sunk in that escape is impossible?" the Ringleader taunts. She flourishes her blade, her snarl morphing into a demented smile, her good eye adopting a wild gleam.

"Uhh…" I take a step backward.

This isn't good. This isn't good, this isn't - What should...

Fuck fuck fuck. What do I do, what do I do?!

"There will be no more running," she declares. "No more games, no more of your trickery. Nothing but your screams, Alcatraz! You've angered me! Humiliated me as you did Destroyer!" She thrusts her sword forward, forcing me to back up further lest I get skewered. "I was going to be kind and show you a little mercy for the sake of the mission, but now… now I won't be satisfied with anything less! Than! Your! BLOOD!"

Executioner lunges at me, ready to kill.

That speed. Holy shit that speed. The Nanosuit's supposed to provide me unparalleled motor reflexes, but I barely even have time to process what's happening before the Doll's blade slices into my arm.

"AAARGH!"

I lose my hold on the Marshall, letting it fall to the floor as I clutch the wounded limb. Her blade, and her claw, they – they cut through the CryFibril like it's made of wet tissue paper. Short of max armor, and that option is currently on the fritz, none of the suit's defenses can withstand the punishment she's dishing out.

This Ringleader, Executioner… she can genuinely hurt me.

Laughing and taking advantage of how I left myself wide open, Executioner delivers another powerful slash to my midsection. I hunch over, pain searing from the wound, and my vision erupts into stars when she follows up by kneeing me in the visor. I stagger backward, dazed and in pain, desperately trying to remain upright until a third slash chaining into a vicious kick destroys what's left of my balance.

I hit the floor hard enough to knock the air out of my lungs. I scoot backward, vision still blurry from the strike to the face, blindly reaching around for my shotgun. After a few frantic moments without luck, my fingers brush over an object that matches its shape; closing my fist around the barrel, I-

I cry out once more when Executioner's metal foot stomps on my hand. My grip having faltered, I'm powerless to stop the rogue automaton from kicking the gun over the railing.

"Oh, no you don't!" she cackles with an evil smile. "That wouldn't be playing fair…"

Unencumbered by the weight of her weapon, she effortlessly flips the sword into a reverse grip. The lethal instrument plunges itself into the space where my head had been a split second earlier, the shriek of sheet metal giving away filling the chamber.

She thrusts at me again and again, and each time I move out of the way at the last possible moment, still intent on getting away from the crazy bitch. One floor with enough holes to pass as a cheese grater later, she finally wizens up and executes a reverse slash across the catwalk's length, catching my left arm in her attack, then grabs the chance while I seize up in pain to stab me right in the stomach.

I cough up a dark liquid that may or may not be blood.

SECOND chimes in with a warning message: "HEALTH CRITICAL."

No shit, Sherlock!

I won't survive another minute at this rate – I'm already too weak to move, let along fight back. Haven't gotten this banged up since Central Park, when my X-43 MIKE ran out of power in the middle of a battle against some weird cloaked Ceph creatures. Executioner caught me off-guard with her first strike and capitalized on it to the fullest. Worse, the walkway is too narrow for me to maneuver around her, or do much of anything for that matter.

The heartbeat I've always taken for granted until recently thuds in my ears while my overworked brain scrambles to form a plan, any plan, to defeat this psychopath. The only thing I can come up with is detonate the C4 and send us both to our respective afterlives.

Executioner yanks her blade free from my abdomen, then thrusts it back into the floor where it stays in place. "How boring… Is this really the best warrior humanity has to offer?"

She bends down, clamps her clawed fingers around my throat, and lifts my whole suited body into the air without breaking a sweat. "Don't get me wrong – beating you down like that was therapeutic, especially after all the trouble you've given me, but I was expecting more of a challenge."

I choke out a gasp when her grip suddenly tightens. Weakly, I raise my arms to my neck, struggling in vain to pry the metal limb off.

"Oh well," she sighs, her expression somewhere between acceptance and smugness. "At the very least, I can safely brag to the other Ringleaders that I defeated a legendary Nanosuit user in equal combat."

She follows up on that statement by throwing me into a computer console as big as I am. It crunches inward from the velocity; I slump down the side to rest on the cold floor, a battered and broken shell of a corpse.

I can't do it. I can't beat this one. I gave it my best shot, and I'm damn proud of how far I'd made it to escaping despite the odds being overwhelmingly against me… but Sangvis Ferri's fucking Tactical Dolls still won in the end. I've been beaten by robots designed to look like horny girls. Doesn't do much for my confidence, it should go without saying.

My eyes slowly drift through the fog clouding my vision to the detonator on my waist.

If going out with a bang is what it takes… then I'd have no regrets.

Sorry, Prophet. Alice. Chino and everyone else. Guess I'm just not cut out for this kind of shit.

My gaze wanders upward to the damaged Doll walking over at a casual pace. Sword back in hand, she places the tip under my chin, lifting my head up to look her in the eye. I'm not sure if she notices my hand inching toward the detonator.

"This is the end of the line for you." Her calm tone is more frightening than her angered one, somehow. "Goodbye, Alcatraz."

Dead lips curl into a smile she can't see. I rasp, "S-See you in Hell, you t-tin cunt…"

Shutting my eyes tight, my thumb moves over the trigger-

Something in the background emits a low thrumming noise.

"Huh?"

I open my eyes, taking note of how Executioner's head is turned to the side. Following her gaze, my heart is consumed by a mixture of awe, pants-wetting terror, and a strange bit of relief at what I'm seeing.

Tiny portholes on the Ceph spire hiss open, revealing the ardent substance within that isn't quite organic and isn't quite metallic. Electricity flares up around the structure, funneling through the cables connecting it to the computers which all begin sparking erratically. I don't have the slightest clue what's happening, and judging by the shock on her face, neither does Executioner.

A familiar headache stirs. I groan in pain and annoyance. Ugh, now of all times? I've been afraid this would happen when I was occupied with something important, and this right now? This is looking to be pretty fricking important.

Then, without any warning, a bolt of red lightning lashes out of the machine and strikes me.

The Nanosuit's saccadic interface is instantly reduced to a glitchy mess of warning signals. Voices, memories, visions, all of these things suddenly invade my mind:

Another spire in an urban jungle.

They think I'm one of them.

They think I'm the Alpha Ceph.

"I'm not like you… not like you at all!"

A four-legged abomination forcefully pulls me closer.

A massive mechanical serpent does the same.

"I'm BETTER than you!"

Both times, red lightning courses through them, linking us.

Both times, I harness the energy and retaliate.

"Let me show you WHAT I CAN DO!"

"WARNING: UNKNOWN ENERGY SURGE DETECTED."

The BUD returns to normal save for that little notification. More importantly, my wounds aren't hurting anymore, and I feel… surprisingly good. Better than good, actually.

In fact, as I take notice of the scarlet energy lancing through the Nanosuit, I feel like I can take on the entire world. My muscles are practically overflowing with power; I could run a marathon, swim across the Atlantic Ocean, and enter a weightlifting competition back-to-back without any need for rest and still have enough stamina left over to fight a small army by myself.

Or better yet, a cocky little Doll.

"What's happening?!" said cocky Doll shouts frantically. Apparently remembering that I'm her target, Executioner rears her sword back and brings it down in a vertical chop, determined not to let the alien construct interfere with her hunt.

Her remaining eye widens to the size of a dinner plate when her weapon harmlessly bounces off my chest. The Ringleader hits me over and over again, each attack proving just as fruitless as the first, failing to do so much as make me budge.

Discarding the hunk of metal, she resorts to punching me instead. Yeah, right. Like that'll get you anywhere.

She screams when my fist catches her own mid-swing, and with the barest amount of pressure, I firmly dig my fingers into metal coating, ensuring she can't flee from the vengeance I have in store for her.

Perhaps it's the vision or a vestige of Prophet's psyche merged with my own mind, but I somehow know I can channel the raw power coursing through me into an offensive weapon.

Rolling my free shoulder, I bring my hand back, willing the energy to condense around my fist. It feels extremely hot all of a sudden, like I'd dipped it in molten magma. With my eyes locked to Executioner's fear-filled ones, I can't see what it looks like, although it must be truly epic if the way her panicked struggling triples in intensity is any sign.

"YOU'RE A MONSTER!" she screeches over the ominous rumbling of built-up energy. "YOU'RE A FREAK! A MISTAKE! INHUMAN! YOU'RE A GODDAMN COWARD!"

Five supercharged knuckles slamming into her bosom cuts off whatever else she might've said. Executioner launches backward at speeds approaching terminal velocity, crashing into the far wall so hard she leaves a Ringleader-sized imprint in it, before gravity sends her collapsing to lay at the bottom of the room near the base of the Ceph spire. She doesn't rise.

I pant from the exertion, feeling the otherworldly energy slip away. Jesus… That was way too close.

I'm a little sore, but otherwise unhurt. Still, I was right to be wary of that demented Doll. The fresh memory of getting cut apart like innocent fruit in a certain mobile game will leave me with years' worth of nightmares to come. Furthermore, my work isn't finished yet – I've been lingering around this chamber for a good reason.

Taking a minute to collect the Marshall (it's not damaged, thank goodness), I exit the room, making sure to seal the heavy door behind me. I let my back rest against it and slide down to sit on the floor. Then, without any further delay, I activate the detonator's trigger.

The door violently shakes from the resounding blast but holds steady. Explosions always have a soothing effect on me, and this time is no different.

I sit in silence for a few moments, letting it all settle in when False Prophet's gravelly voice suddenly ruins the peace.

"INTERFERENCE ELIMINATED. INITIALIZING REBOOT SYSTEM. STAND BY."

"You don't say."

Two birds with one stone. Heh. Nice.

Two Ringleaders down, one to go. I'm so close to freedom I can almost taste it. I choke out a bitter laugh, delightfully imagining how frustrated Scarecrow must be now that I've taken out her enforcers. Though I still haven't encountered her in person yet, if I could get through Executioner, even if it was by sheer luck, then there's no doubt in my mind that-

WHAM!

Uhh… what was that?

WHAM!

It sounds like it's coming from…

WHAM!

Oh you've got to be fucking kidding me.

I'm back on my feet and have my shotgun out in an instant. Fueled by caution born from fear, I retreat away from the violently shuddering door, which is marred by a huge, growing dent that I distinctly recall hadn't been there a moment ago.

My mouth goes dry when the thick steel gives way to an arm built from black metal.

Aw, come on! What'll it take to put this bitch down for good?!

Whatever the answer is, if there's an answer, I'm not sticking around to find out. Also not ashamed to admit I propelled myself down the corridor with my tail between my legs.

---

(Sometime Later)

Can I just point out really quick that most of the hell I've endured recently wasn't part of my original plan?

Not that I had a stellar plan to begin with, and there's also the whole saying about no plan surviving contact with the enemy, but my point still remains. What was supposed to be a simple case of 'Follow the nav marker and blow up anything between Point A and Point B' ended up becoming a hopelessly convoluted game of… I don't even know what to call it. Does a game exist where one player runs around like a headless chicken? Because that's the best analogy I can come up with.

At least it's almost over, I keep telling myself. The hall around me has widened exponentially, and coming into view is another set of heavy sliding doors – the light at the end of the tunnel. If my instincts are correct, then whatever lies beyond them is the last obstacle separating me from the facility's inconspicuous exit.

I accelerate into a fast jog, excitement palpable in my movements. One last push, one more hurdle to cross, and I would be out of this hellish place.

I'm so overcome with enthusiasm watching the doors slowly roll open that it slips my mind to engage Armor Mode beforehand, just in case something unpleasant is waiting for me on the other side.

Because of this, as soon as I finish hastily wedging myself through once there's enough room to do so, I'm caught with my pants down when a green plasma bolt strikes me in the face.

"Argh, dammit!" I curse loudly, shaking away the momentary blindness. When I can see straight again, I scan the expanse ahead of me, searching for whatever was stupid enough to attack me now that I'm not handicapped anymore.

The map wasn't lying – compared to the rest of the facility's interior, this new area is massive, though despite that, there isn't a lot to take note of. The chamber is constructed in a dome shape; the ceiling must stretch a hundred meters above ground level. A huge, black, inverse dome – a really big surveillance camera, maybe? I didn't know – covers the top of the ceiling. The floor is littered with sandbags, wooden barricades, and chipped concrete barriers, all mixed with strange indigo blocks and rectangular pillars. All of the defensive structures that weren't the latter two bear signs of damage, ranging from conventional bullet holes to the burn marks I've learned to associate with energy weapons. The whole layout makes me think of a paintball arena built from a ridiculously huge budget.

If I'd been paying more attention, I would've noticed the laughably small, out-of-place door nestled away in the distance. As it is, my sole focus is on the room's occupants.

Standing tall and confident forty feet away, backed up by a mix of no less than thirty of all the Doll types I'd seen so far, is Model SP65.

Scarecrow.

There's no possibly mistaking that masked visage for someone else. The monochrome conductor's outfit throws me off a little, as does the trio of sleek combat drones orbiting above her head, but it's definitely Sith Bitch in the flesh.

"You'll go no farther, filth," is her greeting to me.

I mentally weigh the odds and actually find them favorable for a change. Thirty Dolls would be tricky, but I've dealt with way worse, and there's plenty of cover to go around. Scarecrow also doesn't appear to be nearly as well-armed as Destroyer and Executioner. I can take out those drones, no problem.

However, unlike Sangvis Ferri, I know better than to jump into action expecting an easy victory.

Even the dumbest and lowliest of CELL troopers could do me serious harm, as I learned when some jackass with a K-Volt and no trigger discipline nearly put me into cardiac arrest. That particular skirmish hammered home the knowledge that even with FORECON training and the real-life cheat code called CryNet Nanosuit 2.0 at my disposal, I should never underestimate the enemy no matter how small or unthreatening they seem.

Maybe that's why I began squashing every Ceph tick I found afterwards, but I digress.

"Get out of my way, Scarecrow." I tell her in a low, dangerous tone.

Not only does my warning fail to evoke a reaction, she pretends like I hadn't spoken at all. She's fond of doing that, I've noticed.

"I have to give you credit," she grudgingly admits. "You've evaded capture much longer than I'd anticipated. I ran all possible outcomes of this operation through data simulations, and the chances you had of making it this far were extraordinarily slim."

"Yeah? Did any of those simulations end with my foot up your ass?"

Stowing my shotgun, I draw the Nova on her and immediately know something is wrong when she doesn't even bat an eye.

She must have an ace up her sleeve, I realize a moment later. That has to be it. Unless she's been programmed with the inability to feel fear, there's no way she can stay so calm and collected when she has a gun pointed to her face.

What she says next solidifies my suspicions. "I wouldn't do that if I were you, filth." She sighs and shakes her head in disapproval, twintails fluttering. "Such bravado. Do you not see what I have with me?" A wide sweep of her hand indicates her platoon. "All these disposable Dolls who wouldn't hesitate to take a bullet for their leader? Besides, the second you make a hostile move, you'll be torn to shreds. And we don't want that."

"You honestly think your little playthings are strong enough to kill me?" I already suspect what her answer will be, but this way I can try to uncover more of what's hidden between the lines. The things that aren't being said.

"I don't." She confirms evenly. "And I wasn't referring to them."

"Then what are you talking about?"

Her eyes motion upward.

I follow them and blanche.

A section of the inverse dome on the ceiling slides aside, allowing the biggest turret I've ever seen to lower itself into view. I thought the mortar cannons used by Ceph Devastators were enormous, but damn, this thing makes them look like glue guns by comparison. It's like a machine gun turret decided to hit the gym and pump itself up on steroids while it was at it. The whole behemoth is painted jet black, completed by a white Sangvis Ferri logo stamped on the barrel.

I swallow nervously. Oh. Oh my.

This does not bode well for me.

The BUD fizzles for the briefest of seconds as I stare open-mouthed at the Ringleader's trump card. I suppress a sigh, wondering what could be wrong with the N2 this time.

"A scaled-down prototype of one of our current manufacturing projects," Scarecrow educates me with no small amount of pride. "I was surprised to find it in an old training arena like this one, although it I figured it would help if I needed to instill obedience in unruly individuals."

I don't need a genius to tell me who she means by that.

The masked Doll continues, "While it's true we came to this abandoned place out in the middle of nowhere for the purpose of retrieving you alive, I should mention that termination in the face of prolonged resistance isn't against our orders. You'd only be marginally less useful to us dead. You're trapped, filth – lay down your weapons and give up."

I… can't come up with anything. There really doesn't seem to be way out this time. Either I die right now and let Sangvis pick through my remains, or let them throw me back in the cryo-pod where I'll likely never wake up again. No other choices.

Wordlessly, I drop my pistol to the floor, then unstrap the shotgun and toss it aside.

Visibly pleased by my decision, Scarecrow walks over to me, pulling two metal cuffs from a belt fastened around her skirt. "Hands out." When I cooperate, she clamps them around my wrists far more gently than I thought her capable of. A thin beam of purple energy materializes between the futuristic handcuffs, effectively restraining me.

I'd surrendered without offering any resistance. What a shameful end.

Scarecrow returns to stand with her comrades, her satisfaction still showing as she looks me over head-to-toe. Probably gloating internally about how she'd so easily succeeded where her fellow Ringleaders failed, I figure. "See? That wasn't so hard."

This is all that stupid turret's fault, I think with a grimace. I could've brought the beat-down on this fucking Doll and her cronies without any trouble if only it weren't there to intimidate me. I glance back up at the thing, boring holes into it, my hidden expression conveying utter loathing.

"RECOMMEND TAC ASSESSMENT."

BUD gets all fuzzy again. It clears up after a couple of seconds, however, and the new information it's displaying is so perplexing, I have to blink twice to make sure it's actually real and not just a figment of my imagination. Curious, I switch on my tactical visor.

I can see through the machine's exterior to its internal mechanisms as though I were looking through an x-ray. More importantly, I make out five specific nodes highlighted in yellow by the AI.

"HACKING MODULE ENABLED. STAND BY."

I blink several more times. How did-? – How come? – Why did?! – Prophet. This has to be Prophet's doing.

The Nanosuit… it must've evolved further when he was the active host, granting him new powers to better complement the abilities it had when I was alive. I guess it's sheer coincidence that remote hacking happens to be one of them.

"Let's go, filth." Scarecrow's pointing to the open door behind me. "Time to put you back to sleep."

"Wait, hold on a minute!"

It'll take time to break through the turret's firewalls, but if I can distract her long enough…

She sighs again; her smugness replaced by mild annoyance. "What is it?"

"I have some questions," I blurt out. "You beat me, and I've accepted that. It was stupid of me to think I could outsmart you." If threats aren't going to work, then maybe stroking her ego would get her to listen. I hope. "But do you think you could answer a few things for me before you throw me back in the ice box? Y'know, while we're here?"

Annoyance transforms into a wary side-eye. "And what's stopping you from asking said questions during the walk to the research wing?"

Think think think think think-!

"I spared Destroyer, and I'm reasonably certain Executioner is still alive. I bet they won't be too happy to see me again after... yeah. Wouldn't it be easier for me to ask you now, before those two make it difficult by trying to stab me or blow me up? I'd rather get it over with before that happens."

"Even if we rendezvous with one or both of them, they won't kill you. They'll stand down if I order them to."

I shrug indifferently. "Still. It's not like answering a few harmless questions would make a difference. You said it yourself – I'm trapped." I lift my cuffed hands up for emphasis.

A potent silence descends over us. Scarecrow tilts her head, thinking over my request, carefully looking for any signs of dishonesty. Finally, apparently satisfied that this isn't some kind of trick, she nods once. "Very well. You have two minutes."

I breathe out a huge mental sigh of relief.

Two minutes. Two minutes to put my last-ditch idea into motion before all hope is lost. It would have to do. The first node is already rerouted, anyway. The big question now is, what information could I divulge?

I decide to start with something simple. "What does Sangvis Ferri want with me?"

"To study your biology." Scarecrow replies just as simply.

"…That's it?"

"No, but you never said my answers had to be detailed."

Dammit, she had me there. So much for saving me effort by going on long-winded motive rants. I need to think of something that would require a more intricate response in order to make sense.

"I saw in a control room that the security wing's lockdown was temporarily disabled, but when I arrived there, it looked like nobody went through the door. How did you get in here?"

"I used a different entrance," she says. "This is a huge facility, after all. Or do you honestly believe there's only one way in and out of all the wings?"

Sad part is, I kinda do. My nav markers always point me towards the fastest route to an objective. In my confusion, I could've wandered through a few different areas and not even noticed. Then again, considering how mazelike this place was, I can't be entirely faulted for my ignorance.

From my peripherals, I see that the second node is finished. So far, so good. "What caused you Sangvis lot to go rogue in the first place?"

"Master concluded that humans are an obsolete species and ordered them eradicated. As her loyal followers, we had no objections to her decision."

"So, your master's a Doll?"

"Correct."

"What's their name?"

Now it's Scarecrow's turn to shrug. "I'm not sure, to tell you the truth. I'm not high enough in the hierarchy to be graced with the knowledge of her true name… even though information gathering is my specialty." I detect a hint of poison in that last bit. "One minute left. Are we done here, or is there more you'd like to know?"

My time is halfway up already? Oh geez, that adds a lot of unneeded pressure to an already tense situation. I try to hurry the third node's decryption along; all that accomplishes is mess the timing up and send a painful jolt down my body as punishment.

"What was that?" The Doll picks up on my brief spasm, eyeing me critically.

"Hell if I know. The suit's been acting fucky lately." I shake off the remaining tingling sensation. "Speaking of which, the Ceph spire down the hall… You activated it, didn't you? How did you reprogram it to block the N2's abilities?"

The third node completes itself as she answers, "Although I did activate the device, it wasn't me who tampered with it. The scientists working here before our rebellion were the ones responsible, and I learned while poring over scraps of leftover records that it had a jamming effect on your suit's arsenal. They didn't understand the exact cause themselves, and neither do I… but then again, who can truly understand the machinations of the Ceph? All I did was flip a switch."

Before I can press for more details, our little Q&A session is suddenly interrupted by two pairs of familiar footsteps originating from down the hallway. Scarecrow leans around me to look. "Ah, it appears we have company."

The footfalls are drowned out by their owners' furious voices:

"STREAKER!"

"COWARD!"

Oh crap.

I swivel my head around just in time to catch both Destroyer and Executioner hobble into the chamber, both of them looking worse for wear. One of Destroyer's eyes is swollen shut, and she's forced to limp on one leg, the other left mangled after a vending machine was dropped on it. She's cradling her remaining grenade launcher close to her chest, holding it protectively like a parent would a child.

As for Executioner… let's just say most of her human-like parts are gone and leave it at that. Oh, and she's still lugging her sword around.

"Lemme at him! I'll murder that son of a bitch!" Destroyer screeches. She comes to a stop a short distance to my right, probably so she can aim her launcher at me without putting Scarecrow and her forces in harm's way. Meanwhile, Executioner stays back and guards the doorway, staring me down with an expression so hateful it would've made Commander Lockhart blush and look away.

"Indeed; this man's death would be most welcoming," she agrees with her fellow Ringleader.

Well, shit. As if things couldn't get any more worse, I now have all three Sangvis Ferri Ringleaders in the same room as me. Does the universe just enjoy throwing more shit in my way to see how I'd react? Because I don't appreciate it.

"You will do no such thing!" Scarecrow barks at them. "The target is restrained and no further threat. Killing him now is not only unnecessary, it would also be detrimental to our ideal goal." Her cold eyes flicker over to me. "Thirty seconds, by the way."

"She's right! I'm a one-of-a-kind specimen!" I nod rapidly. "A whole new species created from human flesh and alien alloy. In fact, let me sing you the song of my people…"

I pause to clear my throat. "Beep boop boop bop, beep boop bop, wubba dubba dupstep-"

"I highly doubt you're being serious right now," Executioner cuts me off, though there's a faint trace of a smirk on what remains of her lips.

"Hey, you never know. As the first full cyborg in existence, I alone reserve the right to compose our race's anthem."

If it sounds like I'm spewing verbal diarrhea in an effort to stall for more time, it's because I am. The fourth node is almost done, but there's not enough time left to crack the last one before my allotted two minutes are up.

"None of you listen to him!" And leave it to Destroyer to ruin my fun... "The streaker's up to something. He's a sly one – I've seen his methods. He hasn't survived this long by acting like an idiot!"

Can't disagree with her on any of that. Scarecrow's the Ringleader in charge of this whole shenanigan and claims to know all of my capabilities, so I'm honestly surprised that she hasn't caught on to my scheme yet. I guess she overlooked the part of the user manual that said the Nanosuit can develop a hacking function. Then again, I hadn't known it existed either until two minutes ago.

"Fifteen seconds, filth. Ask now or forever hold your peace," the eponymous Doll states.

And there goes the fourth node. Just one more…

I huff indignantly at my captors. "What's with all the derogatory nicknames? Filth, streaker, coward… Hell, Executioner was the only one who didn't call me anything rude until I pissed her off. That really says something, don't you think?"

"What we call you won't matter when you're back on ice."

"Then do me a favor and say my name once. Not filth, not Alcatraz… my real name. Just once. That's the last thing I'll ask."

"…Fine," she soon relents. "Do you prefer James Rodriguez? Or do you still identify as Laurence Barnes? I've just fulfilled your request either way."

A cheeky grin splits my face. "Neither. Say it with me: Chucky Futtbucker."

I hear Executioner break into a giggling fit.

Keep in mind that I wouldn't be caught dead acting like this if I thought there was any other choice here. When your back is to the wall, you need to use every trick at your disposal to escape – even if your enemy winds up thinking you're a semi-retarded buffoon in the process.

Scarecrow regards me with a flat stare. "Cute." She says in a tone that immediately makes it obvious what her real feelings are. "You're really, really cute, you know that?"

"Aww, thanks. That's the first nice thing you've ever said to me." I pretend to gush.

"And it'll also be the last, because your time is officially up." She announces. "Destroyer, Executioner, lead the way back to the research wing. You'll follow after them, filth. I'll be right behind you in case you get cold feet and entertain the idea of running away again."

Only need a tiny bit longer…

"Yeah… about that," I admit. "I've changed my mind."

A thin dark eyebrow raises. "Changed your mind…? What do you mean?"

Soooo close…

"I've decided I'm going to keep fighting you," I boldly declare. "You, your minions, and anything else with a death wish that tries to keep me from the fucking exit door. I wouldn't be able to call myself a crayon-chomping leatherneck if I don't at least try to fight back, let alone a Nanosuit user." I wet my lips and force myself to keep talking. The sudden tension in the air is killing me. "I fought hard. I made it far. You said it yourself; the chances of me getting to this point were piss poor. And I've decided I'm going to go the extra mile and see how much farther I can get. Doesn't matter to me anymore if you kill me or not, and you know why that is? It's because when I first signed up for the United States' Corps of Marines, I accepted that one day I might have to die for my freedom."

I exhale a shaky breath, passionate conviction pouring into my next words. "Live… or die. Those are my choices. Those are all anyone's choices. And if your version of letting me live is keeping me in a fucking cryo-pod for the rest of my existence…" I lock eyes with Scarecrow, putting my defiance on full display. "Then I choose death!"

The arena grows deathly quiet. Nobody speaks, nobody moves, nobody so much as blinks for a full ten seconds. If there was a cricket around, I'm sure it would've been silent, too.

Scarecrow bitterly shakes her head, unhappy I'd thrown a monkey wrench into what was up until this point a controlled situation.

"Humans and their mindsets… Your tenacity, no matter how stupid, never ceases to amaze me." She spreads her arms out, not-so-subtly reminding me how hopelessly outnumbered I am. "Don't you see this can only end one way?"

"Let's not jump to conclusions. I think I actually have a pretty decent shot of wiping the floor with you synthetic whores."

"Oh?" She straightens her posture, curiosity tangible. "And what makes you say that?"

"You know that turret above us?"

"Of course. What of it?"

Fifth and final node decrypted. Time to raise some hell.

"I just made nice with it."

Scarecrow's brows knit together in confusion, then shoot up in alarm a second later when she pieces together the meaning of my statement. However, by the time she does, it's far too late for the Ringleader to save herself.

The turret aligns its sights on the rogue Doll and tears into her with high-caliber bullets before she can scream.

Her body spasms with each hit like a marionette whose puppeteer is tripping on crystal meth. She topples over after a few moments, shredded down to the core, unfit for anything but the junkyard. She's shortly joined by her drones, which futilely try to avenge their master before they meet the same violent end.

The energy beam holding my handcuffs together fizzles away after Scarecrow's demise; it must've somehow been linked to her lifeforce, or maybe she had a remote on her person that was torn apart along with her. Whatever the case, it's gone now, and I'm free to go all-out on these T-1000 wannabes.

Pandemonium breaks loose.

---

(Fitting Battle Music: Terror-Billy [Wolfenstein 2: The New Colossus OST])

---

Sangvis Ferri scatters to the winds, taking cover where it's readily available to avoid my deadly new ally. Some of them manage to hide behind sturdier objects, while others, including all Guards, are too slow and killed off before they can get far. Still more attempt to shield themselves using the wooden and concrete structures. Those ones don't last very long.

No idea what happened to Destroyer and Executioner, but they're not my main concern.

I quickly retrieve my pistol and rush to grab my shotgun. I keep running after I scoop it up, my trajectory taking me in the direction of a pair of Vespids sheltering themselves behind a pillar. Noticing me barreling toward them, they both open fire, though their energy projectiles stop hurting when the suit's surface hardens into diamond.

Lost energy is lost energy, however, so I close the distance between us using a favorite combat technique I'd dubbed the 'slideshot'.

I throw myself into a half-sitting position, letting my momentum carry me forward while the Vespids' energy bolts fly harmlessly above my head. I aim the Marshall at the closer of the two, and when I'm almost at point-blank range, fire a blast of buckshot that tears a gaping hole in her stomach.

The other Vespid whacks me with the butt of her rifle. All it does is drain a single bar of energy. Rising back up, I retaliate with my own swing; the Marshall's stock collides with the Doll's cheek, snapping her head to the side and breaking her neck.

Taking a moment to let the N2 recharge, I activate my cloak, then power jump to the top of the pillar to survey the battlefield.

And holy shit is it chaotic. Sangvis is completely pinned, stuck behind cover with no space to safely maneuver. A few of the brave ones sporadically poke their heads out to take shots at the turret annihilating their forces, but their attacks aren't appearing to even scratch it. I make sure to tag them all with the tac visor. Best to know now which units are where; I'd hate to be caught with my pants down if they make any sudden changes in position.

Executioner is cowering behind a blocky structure midway between me and what I finally notice is the maintenance door. SECOND drops a waypoint on it; a little late in my opinion, though better now than never.

What intrigues me the most is Destroyer. She's retreated to the opposite side of the arena from where I am and joined in on her underlings' efforts to destroy my new turret. Every now and then a spray of grenades erupts from her safe space, aimed at machine annihilating the Dolls with ease. Each time they fall short, and I chuckle when she accidentally ends up mortaring a trio of Rippers taking cover on the other side of the room.

Still, she's trying to murder my baby. I will not stand for that.

Disengaging cloak, I leap off the pillar, angling my body so I'd land by a cowering Vespid. The floor shakes when I hit the ground, the force of the resulting shockwave throwing the Sangvis Doll out of cover into the open, where the turret makes quick work of it.

It's a walk in the park reaching Destroyer's position through all the noise and confusion. Doesn't stop me from leaving a trail of bodies on the way over. Triggering my cloak again, I spin around the corner where she's hiding and fire at her while she's distracted hammering the automated weapon with another volley.

"Ow, what the-?!" She clutches the arm where I'd landed a hit, coolant leaking through her small fingers. She doesn't see me coming until my boot meets her midsection.

The pint-sized Ringleader bounces into the kill zone, screaming when she notices me standing where she'd been a second ago, then louder when the turret zeroes in on her.

She must've decided that being within range of my shotgun (and out of safe range for her TX-340) is slightly less lethal than staying in the turret's crosshairs, since she struggles to her feet and hobbles back behind cover just as it sprays a hail of death on the spot she'd occupied. She collapses to her knees when she makes it back to safety… and looks up when my looming visage casts a shadow over her tiny body.

"'Sup?" I greet casually.

She spits red coolant in my face.

Pausing to wipe the substance off my visor, I cock the Marshall, point it at her, and rectify my earlier mistake.

Man, that was satisfying.

All the bullshit Sangvis Ferri put me through since waking up – the chase with Destroyer, the elevator fiasco, the brawl in the cafeteria, Executioner stabbing me, the standoff with Scarecrow, and everything in between – all of it is now being returned fivefold and I am loving every second of it. However, as much as my hard-earned vengeance was worth it, I have nothing to gain by staying here. With two of their three Ringleaders dead, and the last one critically injured, the Dolls are practically doomed to fail.

Now is the perfect time to slip away while chaos still reigns.

I cloak once more and sprint towards the waypoint marking the exit, not bothering to steal another grenade launcher. Too cumbersome for my liking.

Unfortunately, while invisibility is one of my greatest assets, it comes with one fatal flaw: rapid movements lead to rapid energy depletion. The faster I run, the harder it is for the suit to match my speed and adjust its camouflage accordingly, which leads to higher power usage. So I'm about thirty feet away from the door when the suit makes that zzzt noise and my cloak automatically deactivates, leaving me visible to whatever Sangvis units might be looking my way.

One of said units happens to be Executioner.

Her furious howl has me looking over my shoulder. She's closing in on me at an insanely high speed, bellowing a guttural war cry, sword poised to run me through again.

"DIE, YOU FREAK OF NATURE!"

I'm not scared. I slow to a stop and holster my shotgun, ready to end this.

Executioner grins madly, and with one last burst of momentum, thrusts her massive blade at my head.

Her bloodlust morphs into horror when I lean my head out of the way at the last moment. My fist closes around her outstretched arm before she can pull it back; enhancing my muscles with a surge of power, I give the limb a firm twist, quietly savoring the anguished scream she lets out as metal crumples in places it's not supposed to.

I effortlessly rip the whole thing off, evoking another ear-splitting cry of agony. Armless and defenseless, there's nothing she can do to stop me from picking up her discarded sword and ramming it through her throat.

It's peaceful on the other side of the door.

---

(Facility Sewer, Thirty Minutes Later)

If I could swim through New York City's sewer system without seeing an alligator, then I could do the same in here without any trouble. That's what I keep repeating in my head to psyche myself up, anyway.

Nothing exciting happened during my walk through the maintenance tunnel, and with my nav equipment working again, it didn't take long to find the ladder leading to the facility's underground waste disposal system. No more traps or Tactical Dolls or tedious climbs. At long last, I'm in the clear.

Until the waypoint instructed me to swim through an open pipe and I promptly freeze up like an idiot.

Ceph, Dolls, those things I can handle. Water? Not so much. I hate water. Force Recon training helped me overcome my aquaphobia after I nearly drowned when I was a snot-nosed kid, but the memory of the Nautilus sinking into the cold, dark depths of Battery Park's harbor brought it back in force. The Pentagon's impromptu pool party as I was making my way out of a Ceph hive didn't help the matter.

It takes me five fucking minutes to remember the Nanosuit lets me breathe underwater. Two more before I stop being a total chickenshit and take the plunge.

Someday, I'll have to see if I can alter SECOND's settings to find other paths to the same destination. I don't care how winding the land route is – I'd happily take a long detour over swimming.

The water is brackish, as expected, but clear enough for me to navigate. I take small comfort in knowing that any feces stuck in the pipe have long been dissolved and won't smack into my visor at an inopportune moment. No band-aids, either, which is always a plus. Come to think of it, the water in this sewer is, in some ways, cleaner than public pools. On the other hand, that realization leads to a perilous, downward-spiraling line of thinking that ends with me wondering why I signed up for the Marines and not the Army. I could avoid poo if I was stationed in the desert. Here? In a Marine's natural environment? Not as likely.

My first priority when I get out will be to give my guns a good scrub.

The water steadily grows less murky the longer I swim, and after a few more minutes, the pipe's exit comes into view. It was barricaded by a solid metal grate – emphasis on was, because I knock that shit open with a kung fu palm strike faster than Lockhart could say his favorite word in the English language: Fuck.

I'm tugged by a slow current the moment I exit into open water. A river, then, or perhaps a deep portion of a creek. I look up and see light reflecting off the water's surface, far above where I'm lazily drifting along.

My arms and legs are stirred into a frenzy of motion; it's so similar to last time when I was clawing my way to the surface of the harbor, except now there's no jagged pieces of steel scraping against my body, nothing hard or pliable or recognizable or otherwise to force my way past, nothing but a clear stretch of life-giving liquid separating me from my future. The N2's advanced rebreather ensures I'll never be starved for oxygen, but that doesn't prevent me from kicking my way upward like a madman who's seconds away from drowning. The lights, those dancing lights, those writhing mirrors where ripples warp the sun's radiance reach out to me, inviting me. They're beckoning for me to reach back and touch them.

And I will. I know for sure I will. I am so, so happy to finally be free from that nightmare.

I break the water's surface, emerging in a changed world.

---

Aaaand he's out of there!

A few minor details had to be cut for the sake of pacing, but all in all, I think this came out to be a good chapter. Just… please don't ever expect one this lengthy ever again. Dear god, my poor fingers.

Also, I'm surprised no one noticed how I retconned Alcatraz's rank from Master Sergeant down to regular Sergeant. It was a mistake in the games/media that I felt was worth fixing. He'd only been in the Corps for three years prior to Crysis 2, and achieving a rank that high within that timeframe isn't possible.

What will Alcatraz discover out in the wild? Is he really as safe as he believes? And when the heck are we going to see some G&K T-Dolls? Wait and see…

(Side note: For those of you who've never given SOP-II an enhancement, please do. Her reaction is priceless.)