NOVEL NEXT Chapter 6: Well… That’s One Way to Flank Someone
The metal beam pressed cold against Fen's back. He stayed low, breathing through grit in his teeth, fighting the pull to look again. The rift loomed in his peripheral like an exposed nerve. It pulsed—slower now, more deliberate—but whatever was crawling through hadn't stopped. If anything, it was closer. Closer than he liked.
He hadn't seen limbs. Just the suggestion of movement where the shape broke light—curling, peeling, reforming like living code without boundary. Not rendered. Not human. Something that shouldn't exist outside of an androids nightmare.
His mind spun through options. He couldn't stay here, not with a sniper lining up a cleaner shot. But if he moved, he'd leave himself open. The shot that sent him diving for cover hadn't been a warning.
Then Seraph's voice snapped through the open air, clipped and focused, just loud enough to carry.
"Southwest catwalk. Thirty feet up—halfway up the tower."
A pause.
"If you're planning to move, do it fast. I'll cover."
She was sheltered behind a chunk of broken catwalk, crouched low, her sidearm already raised. A moment later, it barked three times, each shot ringing sharp against the metal walls.
Fen didn't wait for silence. He pushed off and moved, fast and low, gravel skimming underfoot. Another round tore into the wall behind him, chasing his shadow, but he made it to the next cover point—a collapsed pipe strut near Seraph—and dropped to one knee, rifle up, eyes scanning.
Seraph shifted beside him. "We can't fight both at once," she said. "Not without some better cover."
Sniper had height and clear sightlines. The thing in the rift wasn't waiting for introductions. Two threats. Two fronts.
From her position, Seraph called over, still scanning for a line of fire. "You think these are the players the system flagged? I mean—do dead-world types usually open fire without a word? Is that normal now?"
Auri drifted into view, floating between them, rising above the cover like she hadn't noticed the sniper rounds—or didn't care. "I did a quick fly-by of the sniper's nest. No tags. No HUD markers. And unless those same dead-worlders respawned rocking high-tier merc skins and black ops gear…" She tilted slightly, her tone sharpening. "I'm gonna say these aren't dead-worlders."
Fen didn't take his eyes off the anomaly. "Oh and Auri, what the hell is that?" his voice peaked with curious fear
Seraph shifted for a better angle—and froze. The change in her posture was subtle, but Fen caught it.
"That's not normal code decay," she said quietly. "It's like the system's trying to tear itself apart."
As if hearing her, the creature surged forward, claws forming and scraping through the half-rendered ground like it had finally found traction. Its mass twisted, slithered, reached.
Fen raised his rifle.
"Uh-uh," Auri cut in, shooting forward like a streak of light. "Sniper's yours. Void-nightmare's mine."
Auri moved quickly, rising above them in a burst of motion. Her form fractured outward—light and logic spiraling from her like a living explosion of code. Shards of radiant geometry lanced into the rift, striking the creature full-on.
It recoiled with a shriek—not digital, not anything clean. Just a raw, broken sound. Then it lashed out, claws like wire and shadow scraping across the air, rage flaring as it surged forward again.
"Go!" Auri shouted, her voice cutting like a blade, wild with power. She met the anomaly's rage head-on, arresting its assault with sheer force. "I'll hold it! And try not to get double-deleted while I'm saving your asses!"
"Auri—" Fen started, but she pulsed brighter, cutting deeper into the anomaly. Her voice strained. "I said go, Fen!"
Another sniper round cracked the air. Then Seraph added, "Vehicles incoming—two, maybe three. Closing fast."
Fen risked a glance. Dust plumes bloomed in the distance—three vehicles moving fast, low to the ground, their frames squared and angular. Matte black armor, no markings, no lights. Designed for deployment, not transport. Fen didn't need a scan to know they weren't a taxi service. And they sure as hell weren't dead-worlders.
"They're coming from our side of the sector," he muttered. "But they're not here for a chat."
His eyes tracked their approach. That didn't add up. If the rift had just opened, and these trucks were coming in from the opposite direction, they couldn't have come through it. Not unless they'd circled way out and around—which didn't make sense with their speed or formation.
They hadn't come through the rift. The direction was wrong, and they were too coordinated for a last-minute response. These trucks had been nearby—waiting. Watching.
Fen tracked the formation. If they'd wanted him dead, they could've rigged the place to blow. Buried a mine under the road. Hell, even the sniper could've aimed to kill. But that shot had been wide—too wide. Not a warning. Not a miss. It was pressure. Keep them pinned. Keep them nervous. They weren't here to finish this fast. They wanted control.
Then there was the thing in the rift.
Whatever it was, it didn't care about leverage. It warped the code like it was shredding the world underneath, and if it got hold of them... Fen didn't think there'd be anything left to respawn.
He glanced toward Auri, still holding the line, and Seraph crouched behind cover near him. As they shared a quick glance they nodded.
These two forces weren't working together. Their goals were too different. One was here to capture. The other to annihilate.
And Fen wasn't about to let either of them get what they wanted.
The refinery loomed ahead, all rusted steel and creaking shadows. Above, the sniper's nest still gave the shooter the advantage. The rift pulsed in the near distance, its light casting Auri in stark relief. She hovered there like a flare, her glow faltering slightly as the creature behind her shifted again—closer now, like it had caught their scent.
Fen scanned the battlefield, mind racing. Sniper up top. Trucks flanking. Auri in the middle of a digital hellstorm. Every direction promised pain. But standing still wasn't an option.
"Seraph," he called, voice tight but measured, "you take the sniper."
She didn't argue. Just moved, with that smooth, practiced urgency. slipping off toward an ancient looking stationary loader crane near the center of the refinery's outer yard.
"I'll deal with the trucks," Fen finished, more to himself than anyone else.
Another round hit gravel, kicking up dirt a hand's breadth from his boot. He didn't flinch. The decision was made and he was already moving.
The trucks screamed to a halt in a wide arc, skidding through the settling dust. Their matte-black hulls caught the last slants of fading sunlight, silhouettes etched sharp against the amber haze. Doors flung open in unison, and black-clad figures poured out in fast, practiced motions. They formed tight squads, each one armed with identical pulse carbines.
This wasn't some crew of players sneaking into the sector. These were professionals.
Fen slid behind a steel beam and raised his rifle. His HUD flickered to life, trying to lock onto targets through the smoke and dust. Signal interference spiked—too much static for a clean read.
He tapped the sight mounted to his rifle. The item description flashed in the corner of his vision. He didn't need to read it. He already knew what it said:
[ITEM: WEAPON MODULE: GHOSTSIGN MARK II — TACTICAL VISION (legendary)]
Bypasses standard signal jamming and cloaking fields. Temporarily overlays target data via residual combat traces and micro-heat signatures.
Duration: 5 minutes. Cooldown: 15 minutes.
He activated it.
The world sharpened—an augmented overlay snapped into place, marking heat signatures with red diamonds and feeding him live data on the troops unloading from the trucks.
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Fen had pulled the item from a high-tier mil-sim—an old mission chain with brutal objectives and even better rewards. GhostSign modules were rare, nearly impossible to find, and banned in most PvP circuits for good reason. In real combat, though, they were priceless.
Twelve red diamonds lit up. Target telemetry poured in across his vision.
No player tags. No team affiliation. But the overlay still traced their outlines, each marked with a glowing hexagonal icon—six segments, each labeled with a letter grade from D to S tier. Every SynthNet player used the same standardized readout: one segment for each of the six core stats—Agility, Strength, Presence, Willpower, Resilience, and Cognition. At the center of the icon, a colored eye indicated their designation: blue for softcore, red for hardcore.
Most were what he expected. Blue-eyed and B-tier across the board—solid, but average. Players who knew their way around a sim, but were used to logging out when things got deadly.
But two outlines stood apart. Red-eyed markers. Hardcore. One showed A-tier Agility and Cognition. The other, A-tier Presence and Willpower.
B-tier meant decent survival instincts and casual effort. A-tier meant training, risk, and pressure-tested reflexes. Red-eyes? That meant they'd chosen death over resets.
Fen tracked their movements—controlled, assertive, methodical.
These weren't just players.
They were professional operators.
Fen tracked his scope toward the two red-eyed elites—A-tier, armored heavier than the rest. He'd love to drop one of them first, but that plating? Not from this range. Not clean.
Instead, he shifted focus. The C-tier grunts wore lighter gear, and two were unlucky—caught between trucks with no decent cover.
He exhaled.
Crack.
The first collapsed.
The second hesitated. That pause was all it took.
Crack.
Two down.
The rest scattered. Fen was already adjusting.
Fen didn't smile, but he felt it—that low buzz deep in his gut. He'd wanted the world to feel real again. This was real. And for the first time in a long time, that old thrill surged through him.
He felt alive.
He tapped his comm. "Contact—dozen targets. Two down. They're unloading something, but I don't have line of sight."
Seraph's voice crackled in over comms, dry as dust. "Hold up. I'm about to try those toys you gave me. Remind me—how much explosive did you say was packed in these things?"
Fen's mind flicked back to that morning, just before they'd pulled out of the garage.
He'd smirked, tossing her a sidelong glance. "Oh yeah. Almost forgot. Check the glovebox. Made you a little gift in my free time."
She'd given him a look but reached inside anyway, fingers brushing a neatly wrapped bundle. When she peeled it open, her eyebrows shot up.
"Explosives?" she'd asked, turning one of the compact satchel charges in her hand. It seemed to radiate a destructive power, like it was already itching to blow something up.
"Not just any explosives," Fen had grinned. "These'll punch through starship hulls, blast doors—you name it. Learned a few tricks running old mil-sims. My guerrilla insurgent skill is maxed, so I figured I'd make you something nice."
She'd snorted, giving the charge a theatrical once-over. "You sure this won't blow us up too?"
He'd shrugged. "Depends how creative you get. But hey—they'll make an impression."
A pulse blast snapped Fen back to the present. Sparks rained overhead as he ducked lower behind the beam.
He keyed his comm to respond to Seraphs question, keeping his eyes on the advancing troops.
"Those things have a generous payload—easily enough to level a small building. Why? What are you planning?"
Seraph's voice came back dry, casual. "Oh, nothing. Just figured you might want to keep your head down."
Fen braced. Whatever came next, it'd be loud.
Seraph grumbled as she crept along the edge of the refinery, keeping low.
"Sure, investigate an anomaly. It'll be easy, the AI said. Nothing's ever easy with Fen around."
She darted between rusted debris. The sniper had pinned her earlier, and Fen was right—those players had spread out fast. She'd thought about climbing the crane, flanking the shooter from above, but the first time she peeked out, a pulse round had sparked inches from her head.
Not happening.
The crane loomed ahead—old, battered, and barely upright. That gave her an idea.
She reached into her satchel and pulled out the compact charges Fen had gifted her. Not just bombs—these were a way to make a statement.
"Let's see how much you meant by 'generous payload,' Fen," she muttered, crawling toward the base.
She worked quickly, fingers moving on instinct.
"Who needs to worry about the high ground when you can just delete it?"
With the explosives rigged, she sprinted back the way she came, ducking behind the chassis of their truck.
She tapped her comm to fen. "Hope you're not standing too close, hotshot."
Fen's voice crackled back, wary. "What the hell are you doing now?"
Seraph smiled. "Helping."
She hit the detonator.
The blast punched through the refinery like a fist. The crane groaned, its base already failing, tilting and listing forward with a tortured shriek of metal. Seraph peeked out just in time to see it topple toward the main tower—slamming into the upper levels where the sniper had been nested. The impact shattered scaffolding and stone, sending a ripple of debris into the air. But the crane didn't stop there. It kept falling, dragging half the tower with it as it crashed down into the loading yard below. One of the enemy trucks was caught in the wreckage, crushed beneath twisted steel as smoke billowed skyward.
No return fire followed.
Seraph let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, adrenaline still coursing through her veins. One sniper nest, one enemy truck—flattened in a single move.
For a heartbeat, the battlefield froze.
Dust curled into the sky. No one moved.
Not a sound. Not a shot.
Even the wind held its breath.
Then static crackled across the comms—jagged, uncertain, like the system itself was struggling to catch up to what had just happened. A moment later, Auri's voice came through, breathless and smug.
"That still only counts as one." She huffed.
Fen's dry chuckle followed a beat later. "Well… that's one way to flank someone."
Seraph allowed herself a genuine smile, ducking lower behind cover. "What can I say? I aim to impress."
And then, like a conductor's baton falling, the silence shattered. Pulse fire resumed from every direction.
Fen scanned the battlefield as he responded to Seraph and Auri. "Let's not get too comfortable. This isn't over yet."
He exhaled, steadying his breath. The red diamonds still hovered in his HUD. Seven targets remained, Seraph must have caught a couple as the remnants of the crane crushed the truck. He lined up his next shot.
The rifle fired with a familiar hiss-pop, superheated plasma tearing through the air before finding its mark. Another enemy dropped.
Fen adjusted his scope and cycled through vision modes, scanning the far end of the refinery yard. Something shifted near the rear truck. He zoomed in, narrowing his focus—and his blood ran cold.
They weren't just unloading gear.
They were assembling something.
A segmented frame began to take shape, its limbs unfolding with precise, mechanical movements. Heavy pistons locked into place, and armor plates clamped down over exposed joints with a solid thunk. Fen's pulse climbed.
What they were building was unmistakable.
A combat mech.
It stood roughly twice the height of a man, supported by wide, piston-driven legs and heavy, reinforced feet designed to anchor it against recoil. Its arms were thick hydraulic limbs braced with internal supports, each one ending in a mounted pulse cannon already spinning up with a faint hum. The entire frame was blocky and brutal—less like a modern war machine and more like a weaponized industrial loader, something built for raw output rather than elegance. The plating was mismatched and overbuilt, bolted over key systems in jagged layers that reminded Fen of patchwork battlefield repair jobs.
It moved like a gorilla made of steel—low-slung, powerful, and undeniably dangerous.
Fen had faced one before. Once. It had taken a full squad, three detonators, and a medbay visit he still remembered to bring the thing down.
They weren't just hard to kill. Mechs like this were built to let a small force hold off entire platoons. You didn't deploy one unless you intended to annihilate anything that got in your way.
And now they were bringing one online—just for him and Seraph.
Fen wasn't sure if he should be flattered or terrified.
"A little of both, if I'm being honest," he muttered to himself with a dry laugh.
He swallowed hard, watching the red-eyed pilot climb into the cockpit—exposed just enough to glimpse the harness locking into place. A sensor lens blinked to life, casting a red gleam across the battlefield.
That was all the confirmation he needed. Some part of him had still held out hope—maybe they were just scavengers, looting a forgotten sector. Dead-worlders chasing easy creds in the ruins of the tutorial zone.
But no faction brought a mech like that into a sector. Not unless they didn't care about the rules. Not unless they didn't plan on leaving witnesses.
They weren't raiders. They weren't thrill-seekers.
They were professionals.
And they were here for him.
"Well," Fen muttered, "frag me."
He ducked low behind cover as the mech's cannons powered up, his mind racing. Standard pulse carbines were bad enough—but this? This was on another level.
"Auri, Seraph," Fen said into the comms, his voice clipped. "They've got a mech."
A beat of static.
"Haha, Fen," Seraph said. "Did you just say they've got a mech? Real funny. Please tell me you're joking."
Another pause—then her voice dropped, quiet and serious.
"…Oh sparks, you're not. I just got a look at it. That's a full combat mech. And whatever Auri's tangling with? Fen… we can't face this. Not with the gear we've got."
The mech's twin cannons spun up with a shriek.
Fen didn't wait. He dove behind cover as the first salvo screamed past.
The refinery lit up with bursts of hellish blue energy as plasma bolts began to tear through steel and stone.