Fire at Will [Mech Sci-Fi Military]

PURSUIT

"Hold still," Becca said as she straightened Will's warped chest plate. The dented mech's outer plate exposed the twisted chassis beneath, and Will gritted his teeth as she got to work with a press jack.

Bruised and battered, Will grimaced with every movement, trying to distract himself by looking around the narrow, smoke-filled street.

Armored units swarmed around them, kicking up dust, each team methodically sweeping the field. They cleaned the rubble and examined the bodies littered along the narrow street for clues and effects.

Becca levered the last bit of the chest piece off Will, and he extracted himself from the dead mech. Sparks danced across exposed wiring, making Becca flinch.

"Can you fix it?" she asked doubtfully.

Will blinked the sweat from his eyes and wiped away the grime before answering. "Give me an hour, and I'll have her operational again."

"We don't have an hour," Becca muttered, glancing towards the troop transport's open ramp where others were already boarding.

"Then I guess I'll have to do without," said Will, adjusting his stiff shoulders.

At that moment, a chorus of beeps rose around them. Everyone checked their comms. Instructions crackled through radios; soldiers hastily packed equipment, hands waved for boarding.

Will's slate buzzed in his pocket. He tapped it open—Damian's name flashed on the screen.

Will answered on the first ring. "Tell me you have good news."

"We got a track on Jorg," said Damian. "Lawson's in pursuit."

"Where?"

"He slipped into the Filder freight tunnels. Situation's still volatile." Damian's voice crackled through the comms. "I need you with the rest of the pursuit team. The fight's not over."

"Got it," said Will as he hailed one of the transport trucks.

"Good luck, Striker out."

The call cut off. Will and Becca sprinted towards the waiting vehicle and clambered aboard along with the rest of the troops. Stowing away their gear, the rear doors slammed shut, and the truck set off with a screech of tires.

Will and Becca jolted in their narrow, metal side-seats as the transport barreled out of the ruined mercenary base. Each impact sent reverberations up their spines, the compartment swaying under the weight of a dozen exhausted troops and equipment-laden operators.

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Will winced with each bump, his jaw clenched. Pain flared across bruised ribs and sprained ankles. Though suffering no life-threatening wounds, he had been thoroughly banged up.

All the while, he kept replaying the last half-hour in his head. Flashes of the dead Condors came to him, half-buried in ash, their vacant eyes staring accusingly at him. Will gasped, his breath coming short. He couldn't breathe. There was not enough air in the small compartment.

Beside him, Becca studied his pale face in the dim light.

"You okay?" she asked over the din of rattling equipment.

Will nodded, trying to imitate the focused determination of the soldiers around him. Across from him, one of the operators took out an old-fashioned pocket watch and flipped it open.

Tik-tik-tik…

The mechanical ticking of the second hand anchored Will as he steadied himself, finally able to look at Becca.

"I'm worried about the timeline," he admitted, his voice rough. "The vote will start soon."

"Four more days..." she said quietly.

"Yeah..." Will glanced back at the ticking clock. "Hope we make it in time."

Tik-tik-tik…

Will and Becca sat in silence for the next couple of minutes as the transport raced through the underground freight tunnels. The air grew noticeably colder, and Will heard the crunch of snow as the troop transport plowed through ice. Intermittent chatter over the comms revealed that the Captain had been evading capture for a while—hitching rides in long-haul trucks and disappearing again whenever truckers discovered him. Lawson and the scouting team were hot on his trail, guiding the rest of the troops.

Will breathed quickly, his breath fogging in the air. A few more minutes of rattling over icy roads, and the vehicle ground to a halt. The rear doors swung open with a hiss of hydraulics. Soldiers spilled out into the knee-deep drift, rifles at the ready.

The comms chatter intensified as instructions were relayed. Will tapped his earpiece, and Lawson's clipped voice came through.

"Recon 1, confirm your position."

Will blinked against the sudden brightness and reported his sector. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the low winter sun glinting off the snow.

Lawson was about to switch to another platoon when Will breached protocol.

"I'm ready—send me in."

There was a pause on the line as Lawson weighed the request.

"How's your condition?"

"I'm combat-ready."

"Stop," Lawson snapped. "I've already spoken to Striker. How is your condition?"

Will's shoulders sagged. No matter how much he wanted to join the operators, he wasn't in shape to keep up with them.

"I'm pretty banged up," he admitted. "Bruised ribs and a twisted ankle."

"Copy that," Lawson replied. "You're attached to Team Zeta. Jorg was last tracked east of Sector 9. You'll be rear guard while we complete the encirclement."

Will winced as he shifted his weight off his battered leg.

"Don't stray far from your team," Lawson continued. "Jamming starts in five."

"That won't look suspicious at all," Becca muttered.

Will grimaced as he stared through the falling snow. The chilly wind picked up, lowering visibility. The streets were empty for now—but once the jamming started, people would notice.

"Roger that," said Will.

"Stay sharp. Over and out." Lawson signed off.

Will and Becca moved before the comms even went silent. With a quick grab of their gear—just a pair of pistols between them—they waded through the snow. A biting wind whipped across the street, driving flakes into their faces. Will winced, his twisted ankle throbbing with every step.

"You ready?" he called over the roar of the wind.

Becca nodded.

Will took the lead, his eyes blazing. "Let's finish this."

Together, they jogged toward the lieutenant waving them forward.

The hunt for the last Condor continued. Will had his fingers crossed.

Hopefully, the bird wouldn't slip the cage.

He had to make sure of that.