NOVEL NEXT Chapter 6: DreamCorps advance
The night was thick with tension, the neon haze of Galvaris Prime's slums flickering under the approaching storm. The air reeked of burnt electronics, melted plastic, and rusted metal, a harsh reminder of the junkyard that sprawled across this sector like a graveyard of forgotten machines. The slums' inhabitants—homeless drifters of all races—huddled among the wreckage, forming a makeshift community of scavengers and survivors, their eyes wary of the approaching troops.
DreamCorp's forces moved like a well-oiled machine, sweeping through the ruined outskirts with precision that spoke of relentless training and cutting-edge coordination. Every squad moved in perfect formation, their armor glinting under the artificial lights as they secured each sector. Their visors pulsed with data feeds, marking potential hazards and hidden entry points, feeding them real-time tactical overlays that allowed them to advance without hesitation. Orders were relayed in crisp, measured tones through their encrypted comms, and responses were immediate—no hesitation, no wasted movement. These weren't mere enforcers; they were a disciplined force, drilled to perfection.
Behind them, watching like scavengers waiting for the right moment to strike, the mercenaries hired by the Iron Fangs observed in silence. The Strix Marauders, led by Valka Solholm, had positioned themselves on the rooftops and within the shadowed alleyways, scanning every movement of DreamCorp's units. Valka's sharp gaze followed the soldiers' precise formations, a flicker of respect flashing in her eyes. "Kid's good," she muttered, watching as one of Sol's traps sent a squad scrambling.
Jex, lounging against a crumbling metal wall, scoffed. "Good? Please. Look at these corporate drones. All that tech and training, and they're still fumbling over some slum rat's tricks." His tone was laced with disdain—old grudges against DreamCorp surfacing as he sneered at their slow progress. "Figures. I always said they were overpaid and overrated."
Inside the underground workshop, Sol and his teacher sat in tense silence, listening. The muffled sound of boots above them sent a tremor of unease through Sol's core. He had done all he could—every trap, every automated defense was primed. He gritted his teeth and started activating his gadgets one by one.
Above ground, DreamCorp's lead commander raised his hand, signaling his men forward. The squads adjusted their formation, the mech taking point. Unlike the gangs of the slums, these were elite corporate soldiers—each one enhanced with nanotech augments, cybernetic vision, and reinforced combat suits capable of adapting to threats in real time. They had encountered makeshift resistance before and crushed it with ruthless efficiency. Sol's traps would slow them down, but they would adapt, adjust, and push forward without mercy.
Sol watched through his drone's feed, his mind racing through the contingencies he had laid out. Every movement of the soldiers was accounted for, every step measured against the traps he had set. He calculated their approach, their formation shifts, and how they responded to each obstacle. His mind ticked like clockwork.
Four seconds. A soldier knelt, examining the surface for potential hazards.
Three seconds. The mech shifted slightly, positioning itself for breach support.
Two. Sol's fingers hovered over his control pad, running through the worst-case scenarios. If this failed, he had three secondary measures, each more aggressive than the last. His drones mapped alternate escape routes, feeding him real-time adjustments. He had no intention of losing control over the battlefield.
One—
The moment the seal broke, fire erupted from beneath. He had counted every step, measured every second. The soldiers were getting closer. Five seconds. The latch would be opened. Three seconds. The lead soldier had his hands on the metal. Two. The mech shifted slightly, blocking some of the blast radius. One—
The moment the seal broke, fire erupted from beneath.
A roaring inferno engulfed the nearest soldiers, forcing them to stagger back as their nanotech suits rapidly deployed heat dispersal mechanisms. Those closest to the hatch were burned, their suits blackened, but none fell. A testament to their preparation.
Sol watched through his drone's feed as DreamCorp's advance halted for mere moments before the formation adjusted. The mech stomped forward, shielding the front-line soldiers while those in the back systematically deployed countermeasures. Small drones dispersed, scanning for more traps, marking them for destruction.
In the underground base, alarms blared as the security system detected multiple hostile signatures closing in. Sol and his teacher exchanged glances. No words were needed—they both knew the inevitable had arrived.
Sol exhaled and rose to his feet, stretching as if preparing for a routine task. His robotic spiders scurried along the walls, slipping into unseen cracks, positioning themselves in perfect ambush spots. His recon drones hovered silently out of the side tunnels, feeding him more data. What he saw made his stomach tighten—the sheer scale of the force sent after them was overwhelming. Dozens of soldiers, all synchronized in their movements, covering each other, scanning, adapting.
And then there was the mech.
Three meters tall, a beast of hydraulic limbs and reinforced plating, its optics glowing a cold blue. Plasma emitters hummed on its arms, and a high-powered railgun was mounted on its back, primed to obliterate any significant resistance. The soldiers used it as a moving shield, letting it absorb damage while they advanced with deadly precision.
Sol rolled his shoulders, forcing his nerves to settle. His mind ran through the contingencies again, recalibrating his expectations. He had accounted for their tech, their training, their discipline—but he hadn't expected them to adapt this fast. It wasn't enough to have traps; he needed to control the tempo. If they dictated the pace, he was as good as dead.
He tapped a small command into his wristpad. The remaining spider drones adjusted their positions, rerouting to secondary ambush points. If the mech led the charge, he needed to isolate it, disrupt the squad's rhythm. His recon drones fed him real-time data, confirming that the mech's sensors were scanning aggressively. It was already adapting to his initial set of traps.
Sol exhaled through his nose. Fine. Let them adjust. That just meant he had to be faster. He could hear explosions echoing through the tunnels, his traps triggering in rapid succession, but the enemy was adjusting too quickly. They were already mitigating his tricks, prioritizing the threats, neutralizing what they could.
It was now or never.
Sol glanced back at his teacher one last time, his mind racing with the weight of the moment. Every hardship, every betrayal, every desperate struggle for survival in the slums had led to this. Yet, in this fleeting instant, all of it felt distant, like echoes of another life. His teacher, still hunched over his work, never wavered. Despite the chaos, despite the looming threat, there was something in his eyes—pride, trust. Sol tightened his grip on his cloaking device. This wasn't just about survival anymore. It was about proving, if only to himself, that he could control the battlefield, that he could outthink them all. Time to play his part. The old Vortigoth never stopped working, fingers flying across his tools, his face a mask of deep concentration. Yet, despite the storm about to crash upon them, his eyes held an undeniable gleam—pride.
Sol clenched his jaw, gripped his cloaking device, and let out a slow breath.
Time to play his part.