With a jolt, Tiny awoke, her dreadlocks cascading against the worn headrest of an old leather chair. Eyes, dark as the void of space, flickered with a spark that rivaled supernovas. She’d drifted into an unplanned slumber, a luxury seldom afforded to her. A speckled blend of salt and pepper, her hair danced lightly as she surveyed the squalid one-room sanctuary. A solitary freckle on her upper lip lent an air of endearing charm to her hardened visage, while a faint scar on her chin whispered tales of battles fought and survived. Thoughts drifted slowly as she found herself wondering about the ghosts that once inhabited the complex before they claimed it as their base.
Amidst the detritus of discarded liquor bottles, soiled undergarments, and forgotten paraphernalia, state-of-the-art military-grade equipment hummed and chirped with a quiet menace. Surveillance cameras scanned hallways posted with patrolling guards armed with rifles and body armor. The complex was a symphony of decay, the faint stench of human waste hanging in the air like a grim reminder of the world outside. Scars of time lined the walls, cracked and stained, some punctured with gaping holes, others missing entirely. This was the fortress of ‘Tiny’s Terrorists’, a tabernacle amidst the ruins.
To the untrained eye, the building was a relic of a bygone era. Perhaps, some time before the riots, this was a flourishing and bustling community, but you wouldn’t know it now, given the current state. The first four floors were a tableau of desolation, a testament to the ravages of time. Nestled within the heart of the complex, from the fifth floor upwards, thrived the ‘Terrorists’. As a motley crew of political activists, saboteurs, hackers, and mercenaries, they made a home amidst the ruins, a haven from which they planned their next move.
Tiny, a petite woman barely standing 5’5", never christened the organization, nor herself. The media, ever eager for a sensational headline, named them ‘Tiny’s Terrorists’ when footage of their involvement in the hospital bombing had surfaced. The world was never given the full perspective of their mission. The intention, taken out of context, was never truly understood or evaluated before the courts of public opinion had a say in the matter. It was easy to look at the facts and cast judgment based solely on their actions, but there was more to the story than that. They were terrorists, yes, but they were also the last line of defense against the chaos that threatened to engulf the world. They never attempted to justify their actions nor slander the innocent lives that were lost, but there was a deeper meaning to the tragedy that was entirely swept under the rug.
About two decades ago, Tiny masterminded a devastating attack on a government-run military hospital, an aggression she deemed necessary for reasons she felt responsible for. A monster now walked the Earth, thanks to her. She refused to stand by as a faceless, unchecked beast sought global domination. Armed with intimate knowledge of their plans and organizations, she saw the hospital bombing as a declaration of war and, at the time, a means to an end; a bold statement to the powers that be: ‘I am still here, I know your plans, and I will not allow you to succeed.’
Now, as a result, in her twilight years, she’s a hunted woman, perpetually on the run; but the end was in sight. Their current operation, nestled within this ten-story abandoned project on the south side of Washington, DC, was the final gambit. The riots, the global uprisings, all orchestrated, just as she had carried out the hospital attack, so too were these coups. Today was the day the greatest nation in the world would fall unless Tiny and her ‘terrorists’ could hold the line.
Tiny hadn’t led an easy life. The daughter of a renowned scientist and researcher, she’d inherited his legacy and his curse. His work had been shrouded in secrecy from the moment he’d brought it home. Tiny was just a baby when he embarked on the project that would ultimately see his demise. Even after she took over, she found the operation’s history to be a labyrinth of redactions and controversial facts. Many of the findings were previously undocumented. She’d have very little to go on; nobody in the organization could provide any clarity or direction. Her supervisor remained adamant that the key to success was given to her by her father, but who knew what that meant? The only clue was a cryptic note from a senior director from years past, hinting at the potential of these ‘devices’.
Her father had bequeathed to Tiny what could only be equated to three processors, technology so advanced it was beyond anything humanity had ever seen. She was forced to weaponize them, a perversion of her father’s name that she found deeply offensive. In protest, Tiny defected, attempting to start a new life, but she hadn’t run far enough. Everyone she loved was taken from her; they murdered her husband and framed her for it, and her two sons vanished into the foster system. At times she preferred to concede to her identity as Tiny, for the idea of being who she used to be was too painful to bear.
Tiny, face still damp from its hasty wash, exited the 10th-floor efficiency. The hallway was dimly lit, the shimmering lights casting long, dancing shadows on the cracked walls. She descended the stairs, her boots echoing in the silence, a stark reminder of the desolation that surrounded them. The control room was centralized on the 5th floor, on the interior of the complex. From here, the vast array of security equipment and trip wires could be monitored, giving ample time for a tactical response from their quick reaction force.
The control room’s door whispered open, and she was immediately enveloped in the clandestine world of the ‘Terrorists’. Their notorious moniker was no hyperbole; they were the epitome of focus, a collective force encircling the nerve center of their operation. Blueprints sprawled like veins across the table, screens flickered with cryptic data—each glow casting a painterly stroke on their faces, etching their resolve in light and shadow. This was her team of hackers and technology engineers, disgruntled and disillusioned. She found each of them at the ends of their rope and pulled them into the fold.
A vibrant energy pulsed through the space, a silent orchestra of hushed tactics and rhythmic keystrokes. These were not just individuals but cogs in a grand machination, each focused on the task at hand. The atmosphere was electric, charged with a potent mix of eagerness and tension, a palpable force that she breathed in deeply. With every fiber of her being primed, she readied herself to conduct the impending symphony of strategy and precision.
An operation was underway. Tiny was to be the surgeon. In the dim of the makeshift infirmary, a bed lay in wait, not for a mere mortal, but for a being of steel and sinew; a cyborg. Tiny’s cadre, a band of rebels outmatched and outgunned, gathered in solemn assembly. Their faces were canvases of worry, painted with the stark reality of their plight. The virus they had banked their hopes on was a wildcard, and the odds of ensnaring Nolan, the mechanized titan, seemed a fool’s gambit.
"Jax, status report," Tiny commanded, her voice echoing through the room. Her focus split between the equipment scattered about.
Jax turned to face her, his eyes reflecting the glow of the screens in front of him. "The software validation is complete, ma’am. We're ready to infiltrate the CSS mainframe. If your admin accounts are still up, we have everything we need to plant the virus in place to overload the HIVE’s processors. Everything but our guest of honor."
Tiny nodded, wearing a grim smile. "Good. Let's bring down the CSS war machine. We need to check in on the other teams, get on the horn, and squeak. Let’s make sure everything is still under control.”
One of the communications officers, nodding, hunched over a console and spoke, "I'm about to radio them now, ma’am,” he spoke into his headset, his voice a low murmur in the room.
Amidst their strategizing, a spectral presence lingered unseen. Lil’lah, the wraith from beyond the cosmos’ edge, traversed a shadow’s path from her distant vessel, bearing silent witness to Tiny’s saga since the day sorrow first touched her life. She’d watched the tapestry of events weave itself, and now she’d pinpointed the object of her obsession: a processor pulsing within Nolan’s mechanical chest.
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After decades of tracking the sparks, Lil’lah finally knew the full story. At some point, that child from the funeral grew into a brilliant scientist and discovered how to use the sparks, but her work was turned over to a corporation who used it for something other than its purpose. Her father did not have a chance to pass down the necessary information before he passed away, so Tiny didn’t know how he came about them, or that they were intended to save the world.
Even now, while the stars seemed to align in Lil’lah’s favor, luck may not necessarily be on Tiny’s side. Compelled to tip the scales, Lil’lah closed her eyes to request assistance from One Mind, who, while a vast intelligence, found itself shackled, unable to commandeer Nolan’s will — whose core programming declined external communications. All the One Mind could muster were ephemeral influences, the faintest of cosmic breaths to sway destiny’s hand.
In a clandestine broadcast, the rebels reached out to their comrades lining the Pentagon’s gates. This signal, infused with the coordinates of their derelict stronghold, pierced the void and found its mark. Nolan, whose very essence was obedience, shattered his chains of command. Seizing the rogue transmission, he compulsively urged Tiny to veer off the path laid before him; a renegade in pursuit of Tiny.
“Check this out,” murmured Tiny, her eyes locked on the radar screen. A solitary blip blinked back at her, an anomaly that appeared shortly after their broadcast. “What is that?” she whispered, more to herself than to Jax, who stood by her side, his brow creased in concentration.
“It’s moving unlike anything I’ve seen in a while, maybe even since we located here,” Jax replied, his voice low. “Could be just a glitch, or a personal aircraft…” His voice trailed off, the implication hanging heavy between them.
Tiny shook her head, “Let’s assume this is the real deal, that glitch is moving with some kind of purpose… …It’s him. It has to be.” Her eyes scanned their control room. “Let’s move everything down to the fourth floor, he doesn’t need to see the whole operation.”
As Nolan’s shadow loomed closer to the abandoned edifice, the rebels steeled their resolve, unaware of the celestial ally in their midst. A spark of hope flickered in the abyss, a beacon against the encroaching night. The stage was set, and the players aligned for a clash that would echo through the annals of their world. On this precipice, the fate of a rebellion—and perhaps all of humanity—teetered, awaiting the push of destiny.
#
The nation’s capital city lay in cold, desolate ruin; devoid of obvious signs of life, the conclusion of several weeks of siege. For weeks there had been upheaval in the streets, riots resulting from protests that took a sinister turn when the National Guard was sent in to ‘enforce peace’. Now, all that remained were shadows. By day, trash littered the streets and stray animals wandered in deranged packs, praying on anything they could sink their teeth into, and at times even turning on each other. Any people around were more animalistic in nature, choosing to wander about the urban battlefield in search of stragglers-turned prey. Nighttime belonged to only the most vicious, who— if they chose to do so— wandered about in their toughest-looking body armor, draped in several of their choice weapons, drenched in blood. This zoo; this cesspool, formerly a bustling metropolis on the nation’s east coast, was by design.
Scenes like this played out around the world, as terrorist groups and mercenaries performed coups and uprisings. Entire governments fell; political families gunned down in the streets, their bodies paraded around like floats. Calamity was sweeping through the world, consuming everything and everyone in its path; its appetite insatiable. It thirsted for blood and chaos, and there seemed to be plenty to go around, near you. There seemed to be no place safe for the innocent to run. This was the madness that the CSS was attempting to prevent, and Nolan was busier now more than ever trying to regain control of this ‘world gone mad’.
Nolan’s gaze was laser-focused, the coordinates on his screen pulsing like the heartbeat of his mission. “We’re diverting course,” he commanded, his voice a blend of iron and ice. The pilot’s eyes met his, between them sharing a flicker of doubt. “We’ve got a new destination,” Nolan asserted, the numbers flowing from him with an eerie familiarity. “For now, forget the Pentagon, White House, and Capitol buildings. Our prey lies more to the north.” With a silent nod, the pilot recalibrated their path, steering them into the maw of uncertainty, drawn by a signal that whispered secrets to Nolan’s soul.
The radio’s last message haunted Nolan, who wore a puzzled face. It was loud, wasn't it? Had the pilot missed it? Why were the rebels foolish enough to share their coordinates? Nolan’s communicator glowed accusingly, the coordinates stark against its screen. The rebels’ broadcast, clear and defiant, sealed their fate. They’d dared to challenge, and now retribution was on the wing.
Memories of the hospital surged within Nolan, echoes of lost brethren, a constant specter in his dreams. They had fallen, not in glory, but in treachery’s wake. For Nolan, an orphan of war, this was more than a duty; it was a sacred oath, a crusade for vengeance that had become his life’s blood. Raised in the shadow of tragedy, Nolan’s world had been forged by a foster family steeped in military tradition. Abandoned by his parents, separated from his brother, the last thread to his past disappeared into the ether. Nolan now stood as a sentinel of order, his resolve honed in the crucible of countless battles. Today, he would confront chaos, seeking an end to the turmoil that had defined him.
Accompanied by eight elite warriors, Nolan soared through the skies in an older model Blackhawk, rebuilt for battle. These men were more than comrades; they were family, bound by an unshakeable trust, a shared creed, and several other unique tethers. Their mission was crystal clear: to protect the heart of their nation from the serpent’s clutches. As they sliced through the clouds, Nolan realized long ago that no honor was greater than beheading the viper, thus ensuring peace from the eye of the storm. Today, Nolan was determined to finally find justice.
Their Blackhawk descended like a feather against the late morning skyline, its landing on the rooftop parking lot as ethereal as a phantom. The moment the soldiers’ boots kissed the concrete, the chopper dissolved back into the sky. Nolan’s team regrouped under the open air, their resolute faces bathed in the morning glow from the breaking sun. “We intercepted a signal over the airwaves roughly thirty minutes ago. Not sure if you all caught it, but I did.” Nolan’s voice was a deep, baritone. “It originated from that structure,” he gestured northward, where a towering building cast a long shadow. “That’s our target. Somewhere in that building, I believe we will find a band of public menaces— the rebels responsible for that hospital bombing all those years ago.”
With the precision of a well-oiled machine, the soldiers filed down through the parking garage and plunged into the urban maze, their movements a deadly ballet of war. Every shadow held potential danger, every silence a potential ambush; yet, their unchallenged advance was disconcerting, akin to stepping into a spider’s lair.
“Clear!” The call echoed through the empty first floor, a hollow victory amidst dust and echoes. Sunlight peeped in through dirt-caked windows, dust stirred under their boots. The unit moved through each room, from the front door to the rear stairs, then stacked up to proceed up to the next floor.
As they climbed, Nolan’s attention wandered. He began to question the circumstances surrounding their coming to the complex. His body operated as if it were in autopilot, sweeping through just as they did on the first floor. The second and third floors were spectral voids, taunting their futile search. Nolan’s instincts were on high alert; he sensed they were not alone, but struggled to find justification to remain here. With each step towards the fifth floor, the creak of their boots echoed a drumbeat of impending doom.
The fourth floor greeted Nolan and his unit with a deceptive calm, the air stale with the scent of abandonment. They moved with silent resolve, a stark contrast to the vibrant chaos that once filled these halls. Nolan led with a steady hand, his senses attuned to the faintest whisper of threat. The building’s history whispered back, its walls scarred by conflict and decay, a silent witness to the passage of time. With one room left, before continuing up stairs, the soldiers breached, Nolan taking point.
As the last of them entered the dimly lit apartment, chaos ensued. A blinding EMP blast ripped through the complex’s peace, swallowing Nolan’s senses in a tsunami of numb, white noise. Darkness consumed him next, and time ceased to exist. When Nolan’s senses reassembled, they painted a picture of disarray and confinement. He awoke to darkness, a gag stifling his voice, and his limbs shackled to an icy reality. He was immobilized, a captive in a trap he’d never planned possible.
