A Riot to Make Marx Weep
Marx would weep at the sight. Checkpoints scattered throughout the commercial district were ablaze. Several bomb trucks loaded with nitrogen fertilizer and gas cylinders had barreled into them at full speed before exploding spectacularly. It was like a blow infused with the spirit of the Irish or Al-Qaeda. But this time, it wasn't historical karma—it reeked of internal class warfare. Worn-out communism as the ideological base, a second Luddite movement as the call to action. Terrorism and riots fueled by social discontent.
Shwooooooom—Boom!
"What the hell is going on? Where are the drones? The watchtowers?!"
"No idea! Everything's disconnected!"
"Rioters incoming over there!"
Transco's guards wailed in confusion. Suicide trucks were a textbook attack that should've been stopped cold long ago. But for some reason, the surveillance cameras, auto-turrets, guard bots, drones—not even the delivery robots—had completely failed to detect the terror vehicles charging down the main streets in plain sight.
Late to the party, the guards fired extinguishers to no avail. In this era, vehicle bulletproofing was barely worth advertising.
""Waaaaaah—!""
"Kill the capitalists' dogs! Cover our comrades' spilled blood with the blood of these filthy pigs!"
Bang! Rat-tat-tat! Tu-tu-tu-tat!
"We're gonna get overrun...! Too many rioters!!"
"Wh-when's backup—"
The checkpoints, already reduced to rubble by the blasts, fell one after another to a suspiciously well-armed mob. The rioters smashed, burned, and looted every Transco vehicle and machine in sight. To them, private property built on exploitation and oppression was just stolen goods under the sickle and hammer. They'd call it a just redistribution of wealth.
"The capitalists don't see us as human! We've been slaves, spare parts—and now that even that's replaceable, we're just trash to be swept away! The only way to liberate humanity from the chains of slave and master is to uproot this system, communalize the means of production, and pursue the common good for all society!"
They framed it as a strike by the unemployed, revenge against the oppressors firing on civilians. But plenty were professional protesters, not jobless workers—or just looters. And don't forget the self-proclaimed intellectuals who shouted from safe megaphones, plotting their escape if things went south.
"...Think Transco's reinforcements will arrive soon?"
"Scouts spotted a transport fleet. Heavy-armed security troops, most likely."
"Then let's pull back. Sad about our bleeding comrades, but we need to prep for the next fight."
Revolutions waving the red flag were usually like this. Fail, and it's a riot; succeed, and it's a revolution. Of course, pondering the puppet masters would make Marx not just weep but faint. But to the actors, it didn't matter. Workers shed the blood anyway, and intellectuals reaped the fruits.
Ziiing—Boom. Ziiing—Boom.
"Whoa, Warhounds! Backup's here! Get ready to die, you red bastards—"
The Warhound was a city-combat quadruped armored walker: a heavy unmanned weapon packing a 30mm autocannon, two micro-missile pods, and a grenade launcher. Its hydraulic steel legs easily vaulted debris from the terror attacks. The mounted weapons held more than enough firepower for mere rioters.
But its manufacturer, Venerable Defense Systems, had one issue. Anastasis had recently become its majority shareholder through stock swaps and buyouts with the conquered Elson. Of course, that was still under wraps publicly.
Ziiiing—Tu-tu-tu-tat! Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! Boom!
The Warhound's firepower didn't target the rioters. It turned on the Transco guards hunkered down amid the checkpoint wreckage, catching their breath. The autocannon spat, turning soldiers into red mist in seconds. Grenades arced over cover, raining shrapnel from above. The guards, realizing their "savior" was damnation, screamed in terror.
"Gaaah! Help—!"
"Fuck my mom! Why's the Warhound attacking us?!!"
"Drones are all swarming our side too..!"
"Run! Something's seriously fucked!!"
The guards ditched their weapons and fled. Most got gunned down by unmanned weapons or torn apart by the enraged mob.
Then elite security troops in red exosuits and reinforced armor dropped from armored air vehicles, descending on the scene. Their goal: stop the rioters from hitting high-value assets like Thames & Bray or nearby warehouses.
****
"Still... not enough, huh."
Demir muttered, watching the chaos through tactical binoculars. Cloaked in camouflage, he perched on a rooftop building away from the action.
Maybe the commander dropped without thinking. Transco's elites were just as screwed with unmanned weapons attacking from all sides. Worse, their high average augmentation rates made it hell: short circuits dropping them mid-fight, control hijacks turning them on comrades. The battered survivors got finished off by rioters.
To Demir, it looked like medieval knights hunted down by stragglers.
"Where'd they get the resources for this? Climidocampus was destroyed."
Intel hadn't even mentioned this support. And those AI weapon backdoors screamed security division involvement.
"Security behind it? What the hell's going on..."
Beep-beep-beep.
As Demir considered calling intel, an incoming comm lit up. Not a good sign—they probably hadn't planned this either.
He nodded to accept.
"Receiving. Wow, you launched a massive EW op on Transco just for me? I'm touched."
"Uh, well... We only planned to disable external surveillance around the department store for you, sir..."
Kali's flustered voice echoed in his head. Figures, he thought, sighing inwardly.
"Then what's that? Santa drop a gift?"
"Wish it was, but it's security—special ops division. They're arming the rioters and flying EW support."
"What? That's practically a declaration of war."
"Yeah, the chief blew up and called the special ops head. Got back, 'If there's quarry, we go in.'"
A chill crawled up Demir's spine. Quoted or not, the tone and situation didn't scream "just backing rioters." Social malcontents were always cannon fodder. This meant a real hidden strike was prepped—likely targeting the same mark as him.
"As you suspect, they're probably prepping something big. Worst case: special ops agents take out the count."
"So my job's unchanged? Grab or kill the count?"
"Yes. But don't just watch security do it. Intel wants you to finish it. And..."
Kali hesitated, like she wasn't sure she should say it.
Demir wished she'd skip it, but no such luck.
"If any special ops get in your way... remove them. Success means the chief protects you personally."
"Sigh... Got it. Ending comm—gotta work."
Call dropped. He sighed again. Obvious bullshit, but his position left no choice. Irritating.
Demir lit a cigarette and resumed scanning infiltration routes into the department store.
"...!!!"
He bolted up, prepping to move. An unidentified heavy-armored flyer was barreling toward the department store like it meant to ram it.
"Fuck."
Demir hooked a line to the rooftop rail and rappelled down the building fast. He couldn't lag in this prey hunt.