RATATATATATATATAT
PSSSHT PSSSHT PSSHT PSSHT
BANG BANG BANG BANG
BOOM BOOM BOOM
Goldenclaws armors and infantry poured fire down the circular staircase without pause. Bullets sparked against stone. Steam hissed from damaged pipes. Explosions echoed through the shaft like a drumbeat meant to drown out fear.
Under the staircase, Megan and the Misfits were pinned in place, using the descending spiral as hard cover. They fired back in disciplined bursts.
Below them, sprawled along the steps, were the bodies of Goldenclaws infantry who had tried to ambush them and paid for it.
“Megan, come in,” Janet’s voice cut through the chaos over comms.
“What is it?” Megan replied, not looking back as she fired another burst. “I’m kind of busy here.”
“If what the Misfits said is true,” Janet continued, hesitating, “fifty blocks of C4 on the lowest level… there’s a high chance it’ll collapse the Goldenclaws HQ’s underground network.”
“Yeah,” Megan said flatly. “Figures.”
RATATATATATATATATAT
Bella leaned out from cover and unleashed her M240L at a charging steam armor. The rounds slammed into the metal frame, staggering it but not stopping it.
She didn’t panic. She knew the armor was thick. Too thick.
Instead of spraying wildly, Bella locked her aim directly on the cockpit slit.
One bullet did nothing.
Two bullets did nothing.
Then she held the trigger.
THUNK.
THUNK.
THUNK.
THUNK.
The same spot. Over and over.
The metal finally gave way. One, then two rounds punched through. Inside the cockpit, something important stopped functioning.
The armor froze mid-step, swayed once, then collapsed forward with a heavy clang.
Bella ducked back behind cover just as her belt ran dry.
“Captain!” she whined. “New weapons, please? Those armors are ridiculously thick! One belt per target is exhausting!”
Irving was already kneeling, rummaging through his sub-space bag, his expression calm despite the firefight.
“Wait—wait,” he replied.
“Me too! Me too!” Ivy shouted.
“Captain, I want a sniper rifle,” Kovalski added quickly. “I’m tired of using the MP5.”
They clustered around Irving like children who had spotted a snacks aisle.
“Christ,” Irving snapped. “One by one!”
Moments later, the chaos briefly paused—not from enemy fire, but from logistics being resolved.
Ivy grinned as she checked her new Tokarev 7.62×25, then admired the belt across her chest loaded with grenades of several very different purposes.
Bella whistled appreciatively while feeding an AP belt into her brand-new M249 SAW.
Kovalski pressed a kiss against the stock of his Barrett M82 sniper rifle like it was a long-lost lover.
Irving finished by calmly racking the bolt on his AR-15.
All of them loaded with fresh armor-piercing ammunition.
Megan stared at them.
“How,” she demanded, voice sharp, “did you bastards manage to bring that kind of weaponry in here?”
Every Misfit froze.
Then, in perfect unspoken agreement, they all suddenly found something extremely important to do—checking sights, adjusting straps, reloading mags, inspecting the ceiling, staring at the floor.
No one answered. Because they know there’s nothing legal on the answer.
“C-Captain?! How much time’s left?!” Ivy tries to change the topic while scrambling back to her firing position.
“Ah! Twenty-four minutes left!” Irving answered loudly, making sure Megan heard it. “Apparently we don’t have time to chat!”
Megan grit her teeth. The Misfits’ attitude was infuriating.
And yet—
That irritation was quickly overwritten by something else.
Because no matter how stupid they sounded, they were about to prove—once again—that stupidity and lethality were not mutually exclusive.
“Bella. Kovalski. Covering fire,” Irving ordered, voice snapping into pure professionalism. “Ivy, take the right flank. I’ll take the left.”
“Roger that, Captain!” the Misfits replied in unison.
Kovalski paused just long enough to hand Megan a pair of earplugs.
This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
“You might want these,” he said calmly. “Me and Bella are going to be loud.”
RATATATATATATATATAT
Bella opened up with her machine gun, flooding the enemies position with suppressive fire. Goldenclaws infantry were forced to dive behind stone pillars, the slower ones riddled with bullets before they could react.
The steam armors, however, stood their ground.
Too big.
Too confident.
Too reliant on their thick plating.
That mistake was handled by Kovalski.
THOOOOOM
A single deafening boom echoed through the chamber.
The .50 BMG round punched straight through the armor’s cockpit—front to back—pilot included. The steam armor froze, then collapsed lifelessly onto the stone floors.
Only one armor remained.
Smarter than the last, its pilot retreated behind a stone pillar, mimicking the infantry.
What the Goldenclaws didn’t realize—
Kovalski and Ivy were already moving.
TAK. TAK. TAK. TAK. TAK.
Irving advanced on the opposite flank, firing rapid, controlled single shots at the infantry hiding behind cover.
Three Goldenclaws dropped.
The remaining infantry and the last armor reacted instantly, pouring fire toward Irving’s position.
But Irving was already gone, slipping behind another pillar.
The Goldenclaws focused everything on him.
They never noticed Ivy.
She closed the distance silently.
Two throwing knives flashed.
No sound.
No warning.
Two infantry collapsed without other Goldenclaws realizing.
Now only the armor remained—still busy firing at Irving’s last known position.
Ivy inhaled.
She activated her thief skill.
Her legs surged with power, and she leapt—twice her normal jump.
Thud.
She landed on the armor’s shoulder plating.
“What the—?!” the pilot muttered as the machine lurched.
Ivy’s eyes locked onto her target.
The neck joint.
A known weak point.
“Yep,” she grinned. “Just like in the BICH briefing.”
Before the infiltration, Megan and Young Mo had drilled the Misfits relentlessly on Goldenclaws equipments.
BANG BANG BANG BANG
Ivy fired her Tokarev point-blank into the joint.
Sparks erupted. Metal screamed.
The armor staggered forward, movements turning erratic and uncontrolled.
Ivy jumped clear as the machine stumbled out from behind cover.
THOOOOOM!
Kovalski didn’t hesitate.
Another .50 BMG round punched clean through the exposed cockpit.
The final armor dropped.
Motionless.
The remaining Goldenclaws infantry finally realized the truth—
They were surrounded.
A realization coming too late.
TAK TAK TAK TAK TAK TAK TAK
BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG
Irving and Ivy moved with ruthless efficiency, eliminating the last resistance in seconds.
“CLEAR!” Irving shouted.
“CLEAR!” Ivy echoed.
Silence returned to the room.
The Misfits relaxed slightly, weapons still raised but breathing steadier now.
Megan stood still, staring.
It had taken them less than sixty seconds to clear the entire room.
“That last armor was supposed to be my kill!” Bella complained, glaring at Kovalski.
“Well,” Kovalski replied easily, “aim better and faster next time.”
Bella shot him a death glare.
Kovalski returned it with a smug smile.
Megan exhaled slowly.
“Sigh…”
If only, she thought, they weren’t such childish idiots.
---
Dungeon, Treasure Room
A few minutes later, Megan and the Misfits regrouped one level above, back inside the dungeon treasure room.
Weapons were reloaded. Magazines slapped in. Belts checked. Chambers cleared and re-racked.
The once-quiet, abandoned treasure room had gained several new decorations.
Dead Goldenclaws dwarves.
Burning steam armor wreckage.
The smell of oil, smoke, and regret.
“Time?” Megan asked, cocking her freshly reloaded submachine gun.
“Twenty minutes remaining,” Irving replied calmly, checking the timer on his watch.
“Megan,” Janet’s voice came through the comm, tight and urgent, “the old man’s clone doesn’t have much time. You need to cut off their power.”
“Copy that,” Megan replied without hesitation.
She turned to the Misfits.
“Listen up,” Megan said. “My partner is stuck in some kind of holy contraption. We need to disable their power supply from the boiler room so he can walks out. Simple.”
“I’ll handle the power,” Irving said immediately. “You guys handle the enemies.”
Megan paused, then smirked.
“Heh,” she said. “You idiots keep getting more reliable somehow.”
No one responded.
They just checked their weapons again.
---
Boiler Room
Goldenclaws infantry and steam armors were already in position, weapons trained toward the dungeon entrance.
“Careful where you’re shooting,” one Goldenclaws soldier warned the man beside him. “We don’t want to damage the engines.”
Rows of massive steam boilers loomed behind them, pistons pumping, gears grinding, pipes screaming softly under pressure.
They waited.
Then—
Movement.
From the dungeon entrance.
But not people.
Several cylindrical objects rolled out from the darkness, clattering softly across the stone floor before coming to a stop.
The Goldenclaws soldiers frowned.
“What the hell was that?” one muttered.
PSSSSHHHT.
Every cylinder detonated at once—not with fire, but with thick white smoke.
More.
And more.
And more.
Within seconds, the boiler room was drowning in it.
“T-THEY’RE TRYING TO BLOCK OUR VISION WITH SMOKE!” a soldier shouted.
The smoke thickened rapidly, swallowing lights, silhouettes, and depth perception.
Another soldier squinted uselessly into the fog.
“But… doesn’t that mean they can’t see us either?”
Silence followed.
Then, somewhere inside the smoke—
Metal clicked.
Boots moved.
And something heavy shifted position.
The boiler room remained blind.
And the Muricans were already inside it.
Megan and the Misfits had already switched to thermal goggles.
The world shifted.
Through the thick white smoke, heat signatures bloomed clearly—bright silhouettes stumbling, turning in circles, weapons raised at nothing.
The Misfits moved without a sound.
Megan took command instantly. One hand came up. Two fingers pointed forward.
Irving nodded.
With another silent signal, Megan ordered him out.
Irving broke formation immediately, peeling away into the smoke. His objective was simple: sabotage the Goldenclaws’ power supply.
Megan turned back to the rest of the Misfits.
Another set of hand signals.
Spread out.
Hunt.
They moved.
Through the goggles, the Goldenclaws were painfully visible—confused, clustered, calling out to one another, some coughing, others firing blindly into empty space.
RATATATATATATATAT.
A heat signature dropped.
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
Another vanished.
The Muricans didn’t rush. They didn’t shout. They didn’t give warnings.
They simply erased targets one by one.
The Goldenclaws never even saw where it came from.
---
Irving moved alone along the far edge of the boiler room, staying low, following the thick pipes as they snaked along the walls.
No Goldenclaws nearby.
Good.
The pipes converged ahead, thicker, louder, vibrating with pressure. Irving followed them until they led him straight to what he was looking for.
A massive control panel.
Levers.
Dials.
Gauges.
Warning labels written in dwarven.
Irving smiled beneath his goggles.
“There you are,” he muttered.
He took a moment to study the panel, eyes scanning the gauges. Then he reached out and slowly pulled one lever down.
A needle dropped.
Nearby, a massive engine began to hum lower, its roar dulling.
“Oh,” Irving said quietly. “Thank goodness it’s simple.”
He moved to the next lever.
Then another.
And another.
One by one, engines powered down. Steam hissed violently from pressure releases. Gears slowed, clanked, then stopped entirely.
The boiler room’s mechanical heartbeat began to fail.
Satisfied, Irving raised his AR-15 towards the control panel.
TAK TAK TAK TAK TAK TAK TAK.
The control panel erupted in sparks and smoke.
Any hope of a quick repair died with it.
Irving lowered his rifle, turned, and sprinted back into the smoke to rejoin the others.
Behind him, the Goldenclaws’ power supply bled out in silence.
