NANITE

The target of the VPD's barrage was massive—at least seven feet tall, a walking siege engine plated in overlapping carbon-skin armor. Once matte-black, the plating was now scratched raw, revealing the metallic exoskeleton beneath, and glowing faintly along stressed seams with an internal, angry light. Hydraulic pistons, thick as a man's arm, lined its powerful legs. His left arm ended in a brutally efficient blade; his right was a shifting, multi-barreled implement of indiscriminate destruction.

Its face was barely a face anymore. The lower jaw had been crudely replaced with a reinforced steel plate, bolted directly to the skull. Its optics now burned with a deep, unnatural crimson. A neural overheat warning, a frantic red light, blinked visibly behind its temple plating.

He'd snapped.

That's what the street called them—Snaps. People who'd gone too deep into chrome, their minds fractured by too many mods and too little soul left to anchor them. Their humanity, if any remained, was burned out, overwritten by the cold, relentless logic of metal and silicon. And hate for the humans.

Bullets pinged off the snap's heavy plating like angry hail on a steel roof. A few lodged in exposed joints, but most ricocheted or flattened, useless. The behemoth raised its right arm, the weapon array whirring. The barrel split open with a pneumatic hiss, internal coils glowing a furious orange.

Ray's breath hitched, a useless human reflex. His own chest felt tight.

Boom.

The projectile screamed through the air, a blur of motion, and struck the ground beside a VPD squad car. The explosion didn't send fire, but force—a concussive blast that flung the armored vehicle like a child's toy. It smashed into a concrete barrier, metal shrieking in protest as jagged shards ripped free, spinning through the air like deadly shrapnel.

A choked scream followed. One of the VPD officers staggered back, his chest armor torn open, dark blood spattering the rain-slicked pavement.

Ray ducked instinctively behind a nearby derelict car, the sounds of urban warfare a sudden, brutal symphony.

But then—through the cacophony—he heard it. Clear and piercing.

A child crying.

He risked a peek around the rusted chassis. There, cowering behind an overturned, burning sanitation vehicle, perilously close to the rampaging snap, was a boy—no more than six years old. Wide, terrified eyes. A smear of blood on his lip. He was curled into himself, trembling uncontrollably. Trapped.

No escape.

Ray felt his stomach twist, a phantom sensation in a body that no longer processed food. He'd seen this scene before—too many times. Good people, ordinary citizens, trying to play heroes. It never ended well. His logical, survival-driven mind screamed at him to stay down, to wait for CRUX-9, the heavily armed enforcers, to arrive and deal with the snap. But a glance at the child, so small, so vulnerable… it would be too late by then.

He pictured the worst-case outcome: The snap turning, its crimson optics locking onto him, that multi-barrel weapon firing. His body, even with its new resilience, tore apart in seconds. Would I survive that? The nanites had healed bullet wounds, but this… this was different. Probably, a detached part of his mind supplied. At least, I hope so. The uncertainty was a cold knot.

He hesitated, the internal conflict a silent, raging battle. His own survival versus the life of a stranger, a child.

Then, with a grimace, he slowly pulled his hood further over his head, the fabric obscuring most of his face. He raised his neck gaiter, covering the rest. "Stupid," he muttered under his breath, the word a condemnation of his own reluctant heroism. "Stupid and probably dead. Again."

He bolted low from cover, moving like a shadow between debris and the flickering, chaotic light. One misstep, one stray glance from the snap, and it would all be over. The snap shifted its massive frame, momentarily distracted by incoming VPD reinforcements arriving at the far end of the street. Heavy boots pounded the pavement, more shouts cut through the din.

Ray reached the kid, dropping to a crouch beside him. The boy flinched violently, his small body rigid with terror.

"Hey," Ray said softly, his voice surprisingly calm amidst the chaos. "We're getting out of here. You hear me?"

The boy nodded, fresh tears streaking down his soot-covered cheeks, his small hand gripping Ray's arm with desperate strength. Ray scooped him up, hugging the child's small, trembling frame tight against his chest, shielding him as best he could.

The snap roared, a deafening, metallic bellow of pure, unadulterated rage. A high-pitched whine screamed through the air—the telltale sound of its weapon coils charging. Another shot was coming.

Ray ran.

He didn't look back, didn't dare. Wind blasted past him, carrying the stench of cordite and burning fuel, followed by a thunderous crash. The snap had fired. The car he and the boy had been sheltering near moments before was obliterated—flung into a concrete pillar, reduced to a mangled wreck. If they'd stayed even a second longer, they'd be mush. At least the kid would be.

Ray's boots hammered the pavement as he tore down a narrow side alley, the child a surprisingly light weight in his arms. He only glanced back once, a quick, furtive look, to confirm they weren't being followed. His lungs, though no longer needing oxygen, burned with a phantom ache.

He didn't stop, didn't slow, until the cacophony of the firefight behind them became a distant, muffled war drum.

Then he heard it. A new sound. Heavy. Rhythmic. Growing louder, closer—like thunder with wings.

He looked up.

A sky casket. That's what the streets called them. A flying beast—part heavily armored personnel carrier, part airborne war monument. Its undercarriage looked like a flying bunker welded to powerful jet engines, its surface covered in carbon scoring and blunt, utilitarian plating. Four massive engines howled above him, the vehicle bristling with smart missiles and an array of scanning lenses that glinted in the dim light like multifaceted insect eyes.

Crux-9 had arrived.

Ray looked down. The child in his arms had passed out, his small face pale and still. An officer, clad in heavy tactical armor, sprinted up, his movements efficient, his eyes alert behind a reinforced visor. Ray handed the kid over with a quick, wordless nod and turned away.

Not to run. To climb.

He found a rusted maintenance ladder bolted to the side of a nearby building and scrambled up, his movements swift and sure. His fingers found purchase on the cold metal. He needed to see this. With his own eyes. He'd seen the bootleg footage, the grainy, shaky clips passed around on encrypted data boards. Most people dismissed them as enhanced, edited and fake.

But this was now. This was real.

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From the rooftop, Ray crouched low, hidden in the shadows, and scanned the fractured, battle-scarred street below. The sky casket banked hard, its engines screaming, and with a hiss of powerful hydraulics, its side panel slid open mid-flight.

Then—something jumped.

It dropped like a meteor, a streak of black and crimson against the bruised pre-dawn sky. A comet of fury. It landed hard, the impact shattering the ferroconcrete street below. Dust and debris erupted in a perfect, expanding ring, rippling outward like a shockwave.

The snap, momentarily disoriented, turned instantly, his weapon arm clicking forward, coils glowing an ominous, fiery red with imminent charge.

Then—a black-and-red wound tore through the settling smoke and dust. The snap's weapon arm detached cleanly at the elbow, spinning once through the air before slamming onto the pavement with a heavy thud. Severed so cleanly, so precisely, it didn't even spark.

Behind it, wreathed in dust and the faint shimmer of displaced air, stood the thing responsible. Its back was to the now-disarmed snap—as if it no longer considered the psycho a credible threat. A torn, grey cape, scorched and frayed at the edges, whipped in the wind created by its sudden arrival.

The figure was a tower of jagged black armor, each plate edged like a blade, overlapping in an intricate, deadly carapace. Crimson veins of light pulsed rhythmically along its joints and seams, like captive lightning. Heat shimmered around it, distorting the air, as if rising from a forge. Beneath its menacing, skull-like hood, a visor glowed with predatory intensity. Shaped like a fanged death mask, its eyes were narrow, vertical slits of blood-red light, like twin targeting reticles.

The first word that struck Ray's mind wasn't a name. It was a warning. A legend whispered in the darkest corners of Virelia.

Asura.

Ray whispered it aloud, the name a breath of awe and terror. "A fucking Asura."

Not a rumor. Not a shaky, edited video. Not just hushed whispers between black market runners and terrified citizens. Real. Here. Now.

Fully converted. A human mind, a human soul, if any of it remained, sealed inside a bespoke warframe. Organs gone. Muscles replaced with fibersteel and advanced servomotors. Bones discarded, replaced by an articulated, armored chassis. A god built for one purpose, and one purpose only.

War.

Embers, stirred by the concussive force of its landing, floated around the Asura—not falling, but rising, pulled inexorably toward the intense heat pouring from its core. In its hand, it held a blade. Simple. Unadorned. No sigils. No chrome polish. Just matte black steel, drinking the light. A weapon without pretense. Not for ceremony. For execution.

Ray's breath caught in his throat, his chest tightening with a feeling he couldn't name. For a single, stretched heartbeat, the world held still, poised on a knife's edge.

Then the snap lunged.

Ray barely saw the motion—just a blur of vibrating metal and the high-pitched scream of something moving impossibly fast. The Snap's remaining left arm, its monomolecular blade, was vibrating so violently it shimmered like heat distortion, a silver mirage of death. Then—an instant, jarring shift in its body mechanics. The Z-Dragger. Suddenly, the snap's entire posture changed—smoother, sharper, terrifyingly faster. Every movement became a calculated, lethal strike.

And yet—the Asura moved first. Not reacting—anticipating. Sliding through the smoke and debris like something born from it, an avatar of silent, inevitable death.

Ray's mouth went dry. "No way…"

The snap slashed upwards, aiming for the Asura's visor—a blow so fast, so powerful, it should've split reinforced steel. But the Asura dodged easily, then kicked the snap hard enough to send the massive cyborg skidding across the cracked street, sparks flying.

Ray leaned forward, his eyes wide, transfixed by the deadly ballet unfolding below.

The snap rebounded instantly, its movements still unnaturally fast, charging again, lower this time, aiming for the Asura's legs. The Asura twisted, fluid and graceful as a striking serpent, its black blade flashing—a streak of midnight in the chaotic light. The snap blocked, but the Asura was already inside its guard, its armored elbow smashing into the Snap's ribs with brutal force. A sickening crack echoed up to the rooftop. The Snap staggered, its movements momentarily faltering.

But the Asura didn't press the advantage. It just waited. Poised. The absolute, unnerving stillness of a predator that knows its prey is already doomed.

Then came the storm. The snap roared, a sound of pure, animalistic fury, and unleashed a desperate flurry of strikes—blade swipes, powerful jabs, wild, arcing slashes—all brutal, untamed, unpredictable. The Z-Dragger mod elevated its aggression to a terrifying peak, its strikes blurring at the edges, pushed far beyond any normal human limitation.

Ray could barely follow the exchange. Just flashes of motion—metal colliding with metal, shadows dancing a deadly jig. But the Asura didn't miss a beat. It dodged, deflected, moved with an economy of motion, a terrifying grace, that felt utterly inhuman.

He's playing with him, Ray thought, a chill running down his spine. He could've ended this already.

The Asura stepped contemptuously around a wild slash and punched the snap square in its reinforced jaw. The impact sent the modded man airborne—flung backwards like a discarded ragdoll. Ray flinched as the snap hit the ground hard, skidding across the pavement with a grating, metallic shriek.

Still, impossibly, it rose. Its posture trembled now, its balance faltering. The clean, terrifying synchronization of its Z-Dragger was slipping, degrading. Ray saw it clearly—the snap was burning out, its overstressed systems failing.

The Asura tilted its head—an almost curious, detached gesture. Cold. Unshaken.

The snap gave one last, defiant roar and charged, a final, desperate lunge. The Asura took a single, deliberate step back. Inviting.

Then came the end. A subtle, crimson pulse flowed through the Asura's limbs, a surge of contained power. One motion. One impossible blur. Ray saw the black blade arc—and split the snap's chest wide open from shoulder to hip.

The snap crumpled, its systems failing, its crimson optics dimming. Dead before it hit the ground.

Ray's knees felt weak. His breath came in short, shallow, unnecessary gasps. The Asura stood over the fallen body—unmoving, implacable, like a statue carved in vengeance and black steel.

Execution complete.

Ray wasn't sure if he should cheer… or run. But a thought, cold and sharp, took root inside his mind. With my nanites… could I one day become something like that? The idea was both exhilarating and terrifying.

Then the Asura's head turned, its glowing red gaze sweeping upwards. Ray's breath hitched. He ducked low, pressing himself flat against the rooftop grit, as the Asura's gaze lingered on the spot for a beat longer—right where Ray had been—then, with chilling indifference, turned away.

Down below, Crux-9 agents, clad in identical black tactical gear, had begun to swarm the site. One knelt beside the snap's inert body, already running scans. Another stood watch, their helmet visor reflecting the flickering firelight and the surrounding ruin. Efficient. Silent. Clinical. Like everything had gone exactly as planned.

The Asura walked wordlessly to the waiting sky casket and stepped inside. No ceremony. No debrief. It simply sat—motionless in one of the reinforced, crash-proof chairs—and the armored door sealed shut with a pneumatic hiss.

Ray crawled backward across the rooftop and slipped over the opposite edge, descending quickly and silently using a thick maintenance pipe instead of the exposed ladder. The VPD had finally arrived in force, their sirens wailing like hungry, metallic beasts. The last thing he needed was to be questioned about what he had just witnessed.

On the way home, his mind still reeling, he stopped by a grimy, twenty-four-hour corner kiosk and picked up a pair of nutri-wraps—pressed soy protein, stale but edible. His body no longer required sustenance, but the act of eating was a small, familiar ritual, a fragile tether to his rapidly receding humanity.