“Now Playing: Death Brink by NEARLY ALIVE” The grand back screen read. The music thumped on with a digital foreboding, and a steady synthetic percussion to back it.

  It started calm, but John could be anything but calm. Chad didn't answer still, and trigger fingers were getting itchy.

  The DJ piped up again. “Starting off with a gem from the year 2014… talk about a blast from the past ah? Snap your backs and fill your awe ladies and gents, Death Brink is a BANGER! Take it away, audio player!”

  “Fuck it! Everyone, spread out!” John thunders to Crosby, Gary, Yukon and Gilbert. They comply with a bit of incoherent chatter filling the airwaves. The song reaches its second built-up, introducing a melancholy synth that sounds like a piano.

  “What’s your fucking plan John!” Gilbert yells, struggling the swerve to throw the waves of people in his armor.

  John shoves another dude out the way in the direction of the DJ.

  “I'm thinking! Give me a moment!”

  John finds a minor gap in the crowd— just enough to spread his arms. He asks the rest over the radio. “Are any of you in an open position?”

  “Yes.” Replies Crosby.

  “Yes.” Replies Yukon.

  “No.” Replies Gary.

  “No.” Replies Gilbert.

  “Okay! Once you are, pull out your weapons at the ready! Chad! Can you hear me?!” John yells again, only to be met with no answer.

  The song changes yet again. The foe-piano is gone, replaced with more epic ebbs and swells.

  “In a good place now.” Says Gilbert.

  “Same.” Says Gary.

  “Alright… lemme… lemme think of something…” John says as the percussion builds up. Then, a massive explosion can be heard from the outside. Then another one. Then another. Then another. The last one in particular echoed through the building. Those explosions were the only confirmation John needed.

  The song and beat was building to an inevitable drop. People were growing visibly scared. Some might've even feared that their rave would become a massacre. Some even began drawing weapons of their own.

  “JOHN! WHAT IS THE FUCKING PLAN!” Crosby yelled.

  Just before the beat drop, his reply was simple.

  “OPEN FIRE!” And so, they do.

  John rips out his pistols from the briefcase on the floor and throws his pistols up towards the bodies and pulls the triggers. These new ones, laser-firing and battery powered, burn holes after very few hits.

  His heel clips a random person, knocking them over to the ground.

  He shot them in the face so quickly he didn't even see they had a gun.

  The screaming and shouting started, yet the dubstep kept roaring. The rave lights, mixed with the strobing, mixed with the floor, mixed with some blood, mixed with the laser fire was a scene straight from sensory Hell.

  Shot after shot after shot embedded into the bodies of those present.

  He spun himself like a carousel to shoot the surroundings equally, and impersonally. He kept it semi-auto, yet his trigger fingers were fast. Bodies started falling, and so he got up so as to not be crushed. His inhibition locked on to a threat pulling a gun to his head. It was almost like slow motion, back-handing the gun out there hand and abetting a few laser shots into their boiling skull. They collapsed dead. As did another. As did another. He would dodge a knife, shoot them, punch someone in the face accidentally, shoot them too. The pile of courses was building up.

  The herd was starting to thin a little as threats became less crazed and more focus. A horrible stabbing pain came from his back, so hard it knocked him over onto some bodies.

  It felt like a hydraulic press stabbed him. That same pain came again, and again, and again, and again. As the shots stop, he looks behind and flips to full-auto to turn the culprit into swiss cheese.

  He pulls himself up as he turns the man into a window.

  The pain in his back is throbbing, but fine. Maybe these suits are bulletproof. Through the screaming and the blasting music and gunfire, they all hear Gilbert comes over the radio.

  “EVERYONE GET DOWN. I'M GONNA LET LOOSE.” John throws himself to the floor as he hears the whir of the chain cannon begin. And as it begins firing, it sounds like a vomit of hellfire. Because it was.

  It was not a laser weapon like theirs— it's oversized bullets would tear through multiple people until they'd finally find a stop in the fifth. Despite not being explosive, they made people explode.

  People flew into each other from the force like the atoms of nuclear fission; John kept his head down and hoped to God none of that flurry hit him. As more bodies collapse on top, and the warmth of viscera leak over him, his stomach curdles. But at least he's alive. He would've vomited if he had anything in his stomach.

  Gilbert's fire abruptly stops, and he comes over again on the radio. “GET THESE FUCKING BITCHES OFF OF ME!” He yells.

  John tries desperately to get up, but the corpses of the rich prove to be heavy. All he can hope is someone else deals with it as he digs his way out the sea of blood and bodies. At least laser weapons don't recoil as he fires again into some vague silhouettes of decadent people.

  He left it in automatic, meaning those people swiftly became not-people. In the brink of an eye. Years and decades of relationships, hardships, a childhood. Once, a daughter or a son.

  Now a bubbling mess or melted pile on dehumanized gore-blood on the floor. It didn't matter.

  He rises to his feet, catching a few loose strays of laser fire. They feel like nothing. His high-tech glasses highlight which targets are enemies. And so, he sprints towards them. The pistol he set to auto runs out of ammo from its battery, but the targets shooting at him won't wait for a reload.

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  And so he throws it at their face, knocking them back and making them grunt. He sprints at them, leaps, and punches them in the face. As they collapsed to the floor, he shot them dead with their own weapon. As he crouches down to grab another pistol, someone tumbled over him into the floor. He kicks the weapon out of their hand and shoots them too.

  As they scream, it's clear the one shot wasn't enough.

  So he has to shoot them again, and again, and… now they've stopped breathing. He turns around and fires at more obscured targets. As does the rest of his crew. Until no stragglers are left.

  Upon the death of the last stranger, the music swells down, though none of them dare to think of the horror of this scene. Don’t think. Just do.

  The door could barely be seen through the bodies.

  They group up near the center.

  “Right! What the fuck are we gonna do now!” Crosby asks.

  “Escape.” John says as a different realization intrudes. “Wait… Where the fuck is security?” He asks them.

  “Wherever the Hell, they wouldn't be far.” Gary replies.

  John tries to reestablish contact with Chad, the lights dimming down during this minor break in the music. “Chad! Can you hear me! The massacre is done! Either come back here or go to the rendezvous!”

  Still no answer. Gary snaps John back to the present. “Boss. We need to fortify here. Security will be coming any moment.”

  “You heard him, find a spot!” John orders, signaling with his finger to disperse. He heads to one of the raised parts of flooring near the sides of the room where the bodies were thinner.

  There was some loose cover behind pillars and statues. He takes cover, as do the rest. Gilbert decides to head behind the DJ stand.

  The music starts its slow buildup again, just as voices can be heard echoing far from the hall. Angry voices. Sprinted voices. Unamicable voices that grow closer.

  The music swells further, even as the enemies enter. “Let them come… attack when it drops.” John orders.

  His violence is being absorbed into the soundtrack.

  It helps him detach from its absurdity. As the music builds further, he can't help but feel a familiar feeling. Even in all the dead, the killing, the smell of iron… John couldn't feel more alive.

  The music builds. And builds. And builds. And builds.

  The enemies leak into the room towards the center. John can feel it as the percussion built. The anticipation makes him almost explode. And as the beat drops again, he unholsters his shotgun. And they all raises their weapons towards security.

  The mighty slug rounds of the KSG require only one shot for one kill.

  The slugs could've killed an elephant, and so they do quick work of the enemies' heads. Shot, pump, move, shot. One after another after another.

  Security was lit up like they, the intruders, should've been.

  And they were. But there was one keen difference— the AI gave them relic-esque equipment and power.

  The cover became a sick joke as they all exposed themselves more. The laser fire of the enemies did nothing. They couldn't even feel it against their clothing. Gilbert in particular made a mess, mounting the chain cannon to the DJ stand and emptying his ammo back-pack into the security.

  Some of them retreated to the hall; even less did so successfully.

  The Arch Legion slowly engulfed the remaining security within the room like a tightening laser-noose. They pushed further, their focus shifting more towards the hall itself. The music moved to their behind as they continued moving towards it.

  The strobing lights allowed the dead to bathe in the glory of what would've been a party. Music blasted, lights flashed and roamed. But no one was dancing. Most weren't moving. The only people who did were either spasming their last, or were of the Arch Legion— who began pushing out from the dance hall with surgical accuracy. Identifying and eliminating every target faster than the targets could react.

  The music grew filtered and far as they continued to push out. By the time they got near the exit of the lobby, John signals for them to stop.

  “Alright boys. Re-rack and reload.” He commands. He replaced the battery on his other laser pistol and switches it to semi-auto. He loads more shells into the shotgun, while Gary checks his magazines. Crosby replaced his battery, as did Yukon.

  Gilbert had about a fifth of his ammo remaining.

  The song slowly began its final wind down far in the distance behind him. As it got quieter, the ambiance overcame it.

  Sirens. Rain. Burning. Distant yells and screaming.

  “Chad! Hurry the fuck up and respond!” John orders one last time. There was a short delay, but he finally got a response.

  “I'm… I'm here boss! I'm uh— argh, banged up badly… security caught on to me early. I couldn't respond.”

  “Where are you!” John asks as the rest of them finish their lock and load.

  “I'm pinned down near one of the docks. B— bleeding. Don't know if I'm surrounded. I… I need help boss.” Chad informs.

  Less than a minutes jog from them was their arrival helipads. The rotocopter floated in the air not far from the shore, awaiting exfil.

  They could have ordered SERaMACs to come to them and leave Chad behind. They could have… but of course they didn't.

  Plans changed, and John make sure they were known.

  “Alright boys… here's what's happening. You— Crosby, Yukon; you two stay here near the helipad. Defend it. It is our new exit.

  Gary, Gilbert, I want you two with me. We're gonna go and save Chad. Everyone got that?”

  “Yes sir.” They all said.

  Yukon and Crosby began heading for the helipad.

  “On me.” John says to the rest, turning around and leading them towards the massive downward slope to the docks.

  It was devoured with roman-esque statues, beautiful architecture blended with invasive technology. John led, keeping his eyes aware of any threat that may appear. A few loose security would pop out to try and take pot shots, yet they were totally ineffective. And the unlucky ones would eat lead.

  “Double time.” John orders, picking up the pace down and expecting the others to follow. He was worried Gilbert might not keep up, but his robot legs should be perfectly fine. Over four fifths the way down now, and the lightning has calmed to how noisy it is elsewhere.

  But the wind has picked up. And the rain falls badly.

  It feels like the beginning of a storm.

  The brief respite allowed the ecstasy of the fight to fully set in in John's bones. Almost at the bottom now, but a faint sound begins entering the ambiance. Not music. Not weather. More like… a white noise.

  Like a far-off rotor getting louder. And louder. It comes faintly from the sky, John looking in the direction it comes from.

  The faint blinking lights— red and green— flash on and off in the distance. It looks like a… plane? Kinda like the one from the hangar… only black. Or maybe that was the lighting?

  He isn't sure. He hasn’t seen many planes in flight.

  Their pace towards Chad slows as the thing in the sky gets closer. And louder. And bigger. More foreboding. John doesn't care to find out what it is as Chad comes in over the radio.

  “Please hurry boss.” He begs.

  “On it.” John replies.

  They pick up the pace again, about halfway to Chad.

  Yet the thing in the sky gets closer… and closer…