Apocalypse: becoming the hidden Ruler

Axel was lying low just ten meters from the chaos, tucked into a shallow dip in the ground, using the reverse slope as a shield from debris and shrapnel. From where he was, he could hear the voices coming through one of the masked men's comm watches.

That voice... why does it sound familiar?

He didn't have time to think it through—because the moment that thought crossed his mind, that gut-wrenching sixth sense of danger flared up again.

The two masked men suddenly broke off their attack and pulled back.

Then, from high above the silent, snowy grasslands, a piercing whine split the night.

Axel practically leapt out of his skin.

What the hell kind of firepower is this?!

From the pitch-black sky, a barrage of air-to-ground missiles came screaming down in a perfect spread. The combat robot's red sensor lights flickered wildly. With a mechanical hum, a blue energy shield flared to life around it just as the first warhead hit.

BOOM.

"Fuck!"

A wall of flame and shockwave slammed outward. Smoke mushroomed up, turning the battlefield into a swirling hellscape. The masked men scrambled to retreat.

Axel didn't wait around. He snapped out of his fake-coma mode.

Time to move. Time to get the hell out of here.

"This is way, way out of my league," he muttered to himself, dragging his aching body forward through the shallow trench. "If I stay here, I'm fucking dead."

"Command: Retreat." The voice came from the robot's core, still operational.

When the dust started to clear, the robot stood on battered legs. Its armor was scorched black, and three of its main barrels were torn clean off. But the tracks beneath it churned into motion—it was heading back toward Sin City.

"Don't let it get away!" one of the masked men yelled.

They regrouped and closed in, but the robot had already shifted to retreat mode. It still managed to spit out bursts of artillery fire to keep them at bay, though it was clearly damaged and running low.

Watching them disappear into the dark, Axel realized his window had opened.

Now or never.

He sprang to his feet and dashed across the battlefield, keeping low until he reached the twisted, barely-recognizable truck.

He climbed inside.

Please work… please work…

He turned the ignition.

VROOOM. The engine roared to life.

Axel exhaled a breath. But just as he reached for the gearshift, he paused.

"No… not yet."

He jumped back out of the truck.

Half a minute later…

Up ahead, the battle had reached its bloody conclusion. The combat robot finally collapsed into a heap of smoldering scrap. Sparks crackled from its joints. One final twitch—and it stopped moving.

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"Finally brought the bastard down," one of the masked men said, panting.

"Damn, that felt good. Been getting pushed around for days."

"What about the captain?"

"It's done. He hit their convoy and jacked the cargo. Looks like Crowe was trying to end it all in one night—robots, stolen goods. I thought he just wanted payback."

They looked pleased with themselves, just starting to relax.

Then they heard it.

The distant rumble of an engine.

Truck engine.

Their smiles froze. They turned.

Out of the smoke and darkness, a heavily damaged truck was speeding away—windows shattered, the cab scorched—but clearly heading straight back toward Sin City.

"Team Three, report!" their captain's voice exploded over the comm. "What the hell's going on?! Who's driving that truck?!"

The two men looked at each other, completely dumbfounded.

"…I don't know."

"Chase him! Now!"

They sprinted back toward their own vehicle, adrenaline surging.

But as soon as they moved, they realized something was off.

Thunk. Whump-thump-thump...

"The tire's been slashed!" They stared at the deflating rubber, jaws clenched.

Shit.

At this speed, there was no way they'd catch up—and the closest backup teams were too far to intercept in time.

It finally clicked.

"That bastard," one of them whispered.

"That driver was faking it the whole time…"

They stood there, faces turning green with fury and disbelief. They replayed the scene in their minds—the 'injured' man flailing through the air, the limp body, the way he just laid there, conveniently out of the way…

"He played us."

"Motherfucker played us good."

.....

"Team One, mission complete."

"Team Two, mission complete."

"Team Four, mission complete."

…

The operation had gone off with surgical precision. Standing at the edge of the mobile command hub, Wesley scanned the returning members of the Whisper Syndicate with a nod of approval.

Crowe had dispatched a whole damn convoy out of the city, and they'd caught wind of it almost immediately.

They couldn't afford to make a move within city limits, but once those trucks hit open ground? Game on.

Most units had returned in one piece, missions accomplished. Clean hits, no major casualties.

Except for Team Three…

Wesley's gaze drifted to the two men standing awkwardly at the edge of the gathering—dust-covered, gear scorched, and very much looking like they'd been through hell.

He exhaled slowly. "Report."

The two pulled off their masks, shame written all over their faces. One of them had a split lip and the other looked like he'd been fried in a microwave.

And then, they started talking.

By the time they finished explaining what had happened out on the grasslands, the room had fallen into an awkward silence.

Vince broke it first, voice calm. "That… wasn't on them."

The others nodded in agreement.

Those drivers were clearly just decoys, throwaways Crowe sent to eat bullets. No one could've predicted he'd stash a full-on combat robot in one of the trucks, let alone arm it to the teeth. Any sane person caught in that blast zone would've bolted. And that one guy—they admitted—actually had run… but in the smartest damn way possible.

He braked right before the explosion, played dead like an Oscar contender, then slashed their tires and vanished into the night with the truck.

Who was this guy?

"Yeah…" Wesley murmured. "Not really your fault."

Punishment would normally follow a screw-up this public, but even he had to admit—this was bullshit luck.

And that driver? He wasn't some clueless cannon fodder. Anyone who could pull that kind of stunt wasn't new to the game.

One of the bruised men—the one with the short hair—cleared his throat.

"Captain, uh... there's something else. Not sure if I should say it."

Wesley raised an eyebrow and glanced at Vince. The hesitation was strange. "What? Spit it out. We're all family here."

Short Hair hesitated again, then blurted it out.

"I think the driver... looked a lot like Axel."

Silence.

Wesley suddenly understood the hesitation.

Axel was Vince's recruit. One of the pre-selection candidates. If he'd just outsmarted a full unit of official operatives, that was going to piss a lot of people off—especially Xander.

"You sure?" Wesley asked carefully.

The man pursed his lips, not wanting to double down. "Could've been a mistake. I only met him once, when we assembled before selection."

Vince gave a little shrug. Then he smirked. Next to him, Kaia chuckled.

Wesley squinted at them both. "Okay, now you're creeping me the fuck out. What's so funny? If you know something, just say it."

Millers leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

"I think he's right. That was probably Axel."

The man from Team Three looked panicked. "I—I didn't mean anything by it! Maybe I was wrong. Just—just a hunch."

"Nah," Kaia said, still smiling. "That's exactly Axel's style. Sneaky little bastard."

Wesley turned to Rosaline.

She rolled her eyes, lips twitching. "If it wasn't him, I'd be surprised."

Wesley finally relaxed, a grin tugging at his mouth. "Perfect. That's going in the report. Chief Xander's gonna love this."

They'd intercepted a huge shipment of Crowe's raw materials tonight—enough to make the bastard bleed for weeks.