MetaCraft Cybernetics (5)
When we reached the third research building, the shooting started.
The squad member walking second in line reflexively aimed upward. But the infected researcher in lab clothes dropping from above was faster. With a loud crash, the two tumbled into a heap—the infected on top in mount position.
Its dark brown skin was cracked like drought-stricken paddy fields. The left eye was cloudy like rotten fish, the right buried in tumorous growths around it. The only moist part on that parched face was its gaping mouth, packed with tiger-fish teeth.
“Kieeeek—!”
It roared right in the squad member's face. Foul saliva dripped from between its long, black teeth, splattering onto the robot's optic lens. But the red glow behind the mechanical lens didn't flicker.
“Kek—!”
The pinned squad member reached out with his right hand, clamping the infected's throat. Steel fingers dug into the flesh instantly, black ichor oozing from the wound. The infected thrashed to pry it off, but it held firm. The squad member smashed his left fist into its mouth.
Crack!
Most of those sharp black teeth shattered, raining down on his faceplate.
“Kweeeek—!”
Black blood poured from the jagged stumps, and a hail of bullets soon turned its head into a geyser as it collapsed.
At the same time, howls erupted from the silent labs around us. The infected had detected intruders. Black shadows rose one by one in the dark second-floor hallway. Then came the sound of multiple footsteps from the pitch-black tunnel ahead.
“Fall back. Set up a fire line in the tunnel.”
No sooner had I spoken than three infected dropped from the ceiling near the entrance, right over our heads. The squad's guns blazed simultaneously. Two were shredded mid-air before landing, tumbling like ragdolls. The last one's jaw shattered on an upward rifle-butt uppercut, sending it sprawling.
“Kieeeek—!”
It sprang back up, looking just like a jawless ghost from a horror flick—hideous upper teeth and a lolling black tongue with nothing below.
It couldn't bite shit in that state. Ignoring the pain, it charged with that mangled face forward—only to splatter blood as lead slugs punched through it.
The squad members swiftly backpedaled toward the tunnel. A regular army would've turned tail and run, with a few selfless soldiers halting to cover the retreat. But these were robots. Their tactics differed from human troops.
A few rearguards retreated straight back while the rest crab-walked at near-sprint speed, guns barking nonstop at the pursuing infected. It looked comical at first glance, but it was damn efficient.
“Kieeeek—!”
“Kweeeek—!”
Infected poured from the tunnel ahead—lab coats, worker uniforms, military gear, all sorts.
But we'd claimed the tunnel interior, perfect for a kill zone. First row went to kneeling fire, second row standing.
“Fire!”
Gun muzzles erupted in unison. A platoon pouring lead into a confined space was a sight to behold—like hundreds of pumpkin flowers blooming and withering in endless cycles. Even in the chilly underground, heat rose, acrid gunsmoke fogging the air.
The squad coordinated their fire rates. No gaps in the barrage—someone always covered during reloads.
Thud.
Unlike the cease-fire, no need for a stop order. Their machine precision pierced the dark and smoke, halting fire the instant the last infected dropped.
> Damage assessment: No friendly casualties. Ammo remaining: 81%.
“Confirm kills on any without headshots. Commence search.”
> Order acknowledged.
Being a combat zone, they fanned out in pairs to sweep. Gunsmoke drifted, filling the building.
“Underground means no venting. Wish we could crank the HVAC.”
Disaster control room's in the next block.
A heavy mechanical voice came from behind. “Excuse me, Manager.” I stepped aside. The squad member knelt before a cabinet in front of me, opening it. Watching from a few meters away, I continued chatting.
“Not just combat—they're pros at searching too. No need to micromanage; they scour every nook on their own. Convenient...”
Suddenly, a racket from the cabinet—something burst out.
“Kiriririk—!”
It was a conger eel-like monster. Caught mid-open, the squad member half-allowed entry into its mouth.
Bang!
The dropped cabinet slammed shut. It struggled to extract the burrowing thing, to no avail. The creature's body glistened with slippery mucus. Even steel hands with superior grip friction slid off.
Three nearby squad members rushed over, weapons trained.
“One of those that infect machines?”
Doesn't match the look. If there's a separate strain with the same ability, that's a problem.
Meanwhile, the eel and squad member tugged in a deadlock—which ended soon. The eel gave up entering and tried escaping. Probably meant for organics; no esophagus or airway in a robot's mouth. Realizing the wrong address too late.
The ambushed squad drew his combat knife, impaling the retreating creature's core.
“Kirik—!”
Now a live sausage skewered on the blade. It writhed madly, only deepening the wound.
How to finish it? Shoot it? Nah—the robot went full macho. Reverse grip on the knife, slammed it into a nearby desk.
Clang!
Sparks flew; blade sank deep, pinning the eel between desk and hilt. Then a haymaker fist.
Splat!
But not done. Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Two, three, four, five!
Lifting the dripping fist revealed the desk caved in, the eel's head pulped.
“Gotta keep this gas mask on forever, huh?” I fiddled with mine.
See? Told you, idiot.
This madhouse made the gas mask's physical barrier more useful than chem protection.
I'll upgrade it when you get home—tougher and easier to breathe.
Search resumed after the hiccup.
PDA uploads rolled in from all over, same as before.
“Rings? Don't tell me...”
Wedding rings. All the ones on ring fingers recovered.
Mostly gold, some with gems. Useful industrial material either way. But...
“Rings feel kinda guilty taking.”
Beasts don't need 'em. Think of it as payment for granting them peace. We're not yanking gold teeth, are we?
True enough. Assigning special meaning to trinkets is human, but a luxury in this era.
Her last comment sparked curiosity. “You skipped gold teeth, so you respect some boundaries?”
Nope, would've taken 'em if there. Turns out mutation sheds old teeth for new ones.
Figures.
“Why grab Calorie Balance and Shark Rice?” Short op, no resupply needed.
Stuff our city's missing. Scanning for recipes. More snack variety's a win.
“Thrifty homemaker.”
Our luxury foods are limited to partnered corps recipes. More options? Hell yes.
Every unclaimed food—from ancient traditions to junk snacks—vanishes forever.
Beyond city perfection, she craves knowledge preservation.
“Shame no Choco Pies besides Shark Rice.”
What? We produce 'em.
She showed the PDA entry: 'FL105551 Choco Pie'—code, name, image.
“Not that one. The Orion brand.”
Filling's the same.
“Taste is worlds apart.”
Dead serious. Overseas deployments, kids gave better intel quality/quantity for Orion over knockoffs.
Search wrapped as Artemis and I bantered; on to the next building.
“Slimmer pickings than expected.”
Low risk, low reward. Steady does it.
Top three scariest on the battlefield:
1. Blind bullets/shells. Like lightning strikes—irrelevant vs. infected.
2. Dumb allies. The squad's faces peeking in the dark felt familiar now, almost friendly. Artemis's programming atop robust frames outclassed any soldier I'd known. Even my old mates—sorry, guys.
3. Unpredictables. The real killer. No clue on neural-augmented infected speed, strength, numbers.
But that's why we're here—for that tech. Gotta clear every wing.
Tunnel ended; fourth hall loomed. Tension high, we advanced.