Grid 078 — Abandoned Metropolitan Sector
Local Time: 02:13
Contract: Retrieval of Navigation Data — Coral Smuggler Vessel Sallow's Lament
Registered Ravens: Two
The city had been dead for thirty years.
Skyscrapers rose in silent rows, their glass faces shattered or missing entirely, leaving grids of empty windows that stared like hollow eyes. Highways looped through the urban canyon in graceful concrete arcs, their surfaces cracked and weedy, abandoned vehicles still frozen in the traffic patterns of the evacuation—rusted cars, overturned trucks, a public transport bus tilted against a barrier, its yellow paint faded to bone. Streetlights stood at intervals, most dark, a few still flickering with residual power, casting pools of sickly amber light that did nothing to illuminate and everything to deepen the shadows. Highway signs hung overhead—massive green rectangles bolted to steel frameworks, their reflective lettering peeling but still legible: EAST 34. INDUSTRIAL ZONE. EXIT 12. Somewhere in the distance, a construction crane loomed above the skyline, its boom angled over a half-finished tower, a single frayed cable hanging from its tip, twisting slow in the stagnant air. The cable sang one note—a high, mournful sound that carried across the empty streets.
The central intersection was a tangle of collapsed overpasses and scattered vehicles. A fuel truck lay on its side near a shattered storefront, its tank ruptured, the asphalt around it stained with the ghost of evaporated diesel. A billboard had fallen from its mounting and now leaned against a building, the advertisement—a smiling woman holding a product long forgotten—faded to a pale smear. Glass crunched underfoot. Wind moved through broken windows, carrying the smell of rust and old rain.
At the center of the intersection, mounted on a concrete median still painted faded yellow, sat a console. Ancient. Armored. A relic from before the Fires, its casing scarred by weather and shrapnel. The navigation data from Sallow's Lament was locked inside. Dead Coral smuggler. Dead ship. Living coordinates. A map to something valuable—Coral, weapons, secrets—buried somewhere in Rubicon's contaminated wastes. Whoever reached that console first would walk away with a future. Whoever reached it second would walk away with nothing—or not walk away at all.
Two ACs entered the city from opposite ends.
BAD OMEN came from the east, stepping over a collapsed highway on-ramp, its reverse-joint legs finding purchase on cracked concrete. Rust-red paint, scarred and flaking, revealing layers of older colors beneath—grey primer, faded black, a hint of blue from some long-forgotten owner. A midweight frame built for aggression, not elegance. The left shoulder armor was missing entirely—a wound from a previous contract, never patched, the exposed servos and linkage catching the flickering streetlight like mechanical viscera, gleaming wetly. On the remaining right pauldron, a faded emblem: a bird with hollow eyes. GRAVE SPARROW's mark. The bird seemed to watch. To wait.
Armament: a kinetic rifle on the right arm—thirty rounds in the magazine. A four-cell missile pod on the right shoulder, one salvo remaining. A backup handgun holstered on the left hip—twelve rounds, small caliber, kept for emergencies that always came.
LOAN SHARK entered from the west, weaving between abandoned cars with an easy, liquid grace. Sleek. White. Corporate issue from some Rubicon subsidiary that preferred its cleaners to look presentable. The paint was fresh, unmarred, gleaming under the sickly streetlights like polished bone. The AC moved with the confidence of a machine that had never known a fair fight—a predator accustomed to weaker prey. SMILE DOG's reputation preceded the machine like an odor. On the right pauldron, a laughing shark emblem: a grin full of teeth, painted in bright red, the kind of mark meant to be the last thing a target saw.
Armament: a kinetic rifle on the right arm, thirty rounds. A back-mounted grenade launcher on an articulated arm, six shells. A left-shoulder scattergun—four shots, wide spread, devastating up close.
The two ACs stopped at opposite ends of the central intersection.
Fifty meters of broken asphalt and rusted vehicles between them. The console sat in the middle, its amber light pulsing like a slow heartbeat.
Neither moved toward it.
They had seen each other. The contract allowed for one survivor. The console would wait. The dance would not.
LOAN SHARK fired first. Three rounds. Spaced. Not a kill shot—a question. A probe. Where will you go? How do you move? What is your rhythm?
BAD OMEN's ankle verniers barked—sharp, staccato bursts of pale flame. The rust-red AC shoved sideways, the first round punching through the rusted shell of a sedan and exiting the other side in a spray of glass and corroded metal. The second round struck an overturned delivery truck, the impact ringing out like a bell, leaving a fist-sized hole in the cargo compartment. The third round was the one that would have hit—if BAD OMEN had still been there. The AC was already boosting, a lateral burn that carried it behind the cover of the tilted bus, the yellow-painted steel swallowing the machine's silhouette.
The dance had begun.
LOAN SHARK pressed. The white AC's thrusters ignited—a sustained, throaty burn that carried it along the curved row of abandoned vehicles. The Shark moved like water, flowing between cars, using each one as momentary cover, emerging to fire and vanishing again. Two rounds punched through the rusted roof of a sedan, the slugs exiting through the windshield in a spray of shattered safety glass that hung in the air like frozen rain. They buried themselves in the bus's flank.
BAD OMEN was no longer there.
The rust-red AC had boosted up. A vertical leap, thrusters angled down, launching the machine onto the roof of the bus. The vehicle's frame groaned under the sudden weight—a shriek of tortured steel—but held. BAD OMEN landed in a crouch, reverse-joint legs absorbing the impact like springs, and immediately launched again—a second jump, higher, toward the elevated highway that curved overhead. The AC's hand caught the concrete barrier, fingers digging into cracked cement, and pulled itself up onto the road surface. The barrier crumbled slightly under the grip, chips of concrete raining down.
Cars dotted the highway in frozen procession. A box truck. Several sedans. A motorcycle on its side, wheels still intact. The highway curved gently, offering sightlines to the intersection below and the buildings beyond. Streetlights lined the barrier, most dark, one flickering with a sickly buzz.
BAD OMEN's torso rotated—a 180-degree twist, independent of the hips, the machine's spine joint articulating in a way no human anatomy could permit. The rifle came to bear on LOAN SHARK below.
Three rounds. Aimed. Deliberate.
LOAN SHARK's lateral thrusters fired. The white AC slid sideways, the first round missing by centimeters and sparking off the asphalt, leaving a small crater that glowed faintly red. The second round clipped the Shark's left pauldron, and the white armor cracked—a spiderweb of fractures radiating outward, the laughing shark's territory violated. The third round was aimed at the Shark's head. LOAN SHARK dropped—a full torso collapse, the machine folding at the waist joint in a way no human spine could mimic, the sensor suite disappearing behind a parked van. The round passed through empty air and punched into the van's side, exiting through the roof in a spray of fiberglass and rust.
LOAN SHARK answered from behind the van. Four rounds. Rapid. The slugs tore through the vehicle's thin metal, through the empty space beyond, and struck the highway barrier near BAD OMEN's position. Concrete chips exploded. The rust-red AC boosted sideways, running along the elevated road, using the abandoned cars as a moving screen of cover. Its footsteps cratered the already-cracked asphalt, each landing sending vibration through the highway's ancient bones.
The Shark pursued from below. The white AC's thrusters flared, carrying it along the street, keeping pace with BAD OMEN's movement above. The two machines moved in parallel—one on the highway, one on the ground—firing through the gaps between vehicles, through the concrete barrier, through anything that offered a shot. The city absorbed their exchange: windows shattered, walls cratered, a fire hydrant erupted in a geyser of stale brown water.
BAD OMEN vaulted over a box truck, planted a foot on its roof, and kicked off. The truck's suspension collapsed, the frame bottoming out with a crash that echoed down the empty street. The rust-red AC soared across a gap in the highway—a section where the road had collapsed, leaving a ten-meter void filled with nothing but air and the distant glint of rubble below. Gravity seized the machine instantly, pulling it downward even as thrusters fired to extend the arc. The landing on the far side was brutal—knees bent to absorb the impact, but the force still translated through the frame. The highway surface cracked further, a network of fissures spreading outward. Inside the cockpit, GRAVE SPARROW's restraints bit into flesh. The world shuddered. A warning chime sounded: JOINT STRESS. STRUCTURAL LOAD.
BAD OMEN came up firing. Two rounds. One sparked off a streetlight, shearing the pole in half; the toppling fixture crashed down toward LOAN SHARK in a cascade of sparks and broken glass.
The white AC boosted sideways, the falling streetlight smashing into the asphalt where it had stood. Glass and metal scattered across the intersection. LOAN SHARK used the chaos to fire three rounds upward, angling for BAD OMEN's legs—a shot at the vulnerable joints that kept the machine mobile.
The rust-red AC jumped. Not high—just enough to clear the rounds, which chewed into the highway surface, leaving craters that bled dust. Mid-jump, suspended in that brief moment where gravity had not yet reclaimed its due, BAD OMEN fired twice. LOAN SHARK boosted behind a delivery truck, the rounds punching through the cargo compartment and exiting the other side, missing the Shark by inches.
BAD OMEN landed. The highway surface groaned. The rust-red AC kept moving—running, boosting, sliding behind an overturned sedan. The world became a blur of concrete and rust and muzzle flashes.
LOAN SHARK fired through the truck. The slugs tore through the thin metal walls, through the empty space, and struck BAD OMEN's cover—the sedan. The vehicle's frame buckled, windows exploding. The rust-red AC boosted away, the sedan collapsing in on itself, a cloud of rust and dust blooming like a dirty flower.
They traded fire across the urban canyon. BAD OMEN on the highway, using cars as shields, using the concrete barrier as cover, using the curve of the road to break line of sight. LOAN SHARK on the ground, weaving through the frozen traffic jam, using trucks as mobile walls, using storefronts as momentary shelter, kicking through plate glass windows to create new firing angles. The city absorbed their violence—windows shattered, vehicles crumpled, streetlights fell, asphalt cratered, awnings tore free and fluttered down like wounded birds. And still they moved. Still they fired.
BAD OMEN's rifle clicked. Magazine change. A two-second vulnerability.
LOAN SHARK exploited it. The white AC's thrusters screamed, launching the machine upward—a vertical climb, straight toward the highway. The Shark's hand caught the concrete barrier, pulled, and the white AC vaulted onto the elevated road twenty meters ahead of BAD OMEN. The barrier crumbled under the sudden weight, chunks of concrete falling to the street below.
The rust-red AC was still reloading.
LOAN SHARK charged. The white AC's rifle came up—five rounds, point blank, the muzzle flash illuminating the scarred rust-red frame in strobes of white light.
BAD OMEN's left arm came up instead of the rifle. The forearm armor caught three rounds, the impacts ringing like hammer strikes, each one a physical blow that traveled through the frame. The fourth ricocheted off the barrier and into a car, shattering its remaining windows. The fifth punched through the thinner armor of the left wrist, severing a hydraulic line. Fluid sprayed—a thin, dark mist, almost black in the dim light—before the self-sealing systems clamped down. The wound bled anyway, a slow drip that pattered onto the highway, dark spots on grey concrete.
But BAD OMEN had bought the two seconds. The fresh magazine was in. The rifle came up.
Seven rounds. Full auto. A wall of lead, the muzzle flash painting the highway in strobes of orange light.
LOAN SHARK's thrusters fired down. The white AC launched vertically, the burst passing beneath its feet. The rounds chewed into the cars behind it—a sedan's engine block erupted in a shower of sparks and shrapnel, a box truck's cab disintegrated into a cloud of fiberglass and twisted metal, a motorcycle simply vanished in a spray of parts. At the apex of the jump—three meters up, hanging in the air, gravity beginning its pull—LOAN SHARK fired back. Three rounds. Angled down.
BAD OMEN boosted sideways. Not along the highway. Off it. The rust-red AC vaulted the barrier and dropped toward the street below, twisting mid-fall, thrusters firing in micro-bursts to control the descent. Two of the Shark's rounds passed overhead. The third caught BAD OMEN's right pauldron—the one with the bird emblem. The hollow-eyed bird gained a new eye, a clean puncture through the emblem's center. The round didn't penetrate the main armor beneath, but the pauldron's structural integrity was now compromised. A crack ran from the new hole to the edge of the armor, splitting the faded paint.
BAD OMEN hit the street. Knees bent. Asphalt cratered, the impact sending a shudder through the frame that rattled every loose component. The AC was already moving, boosting sideways, sliding behind the fuel truck lying on its side. The massive vehicle provided cover, its ruptured tank leaking the faint, stale smell of ancient diesel.
LOAN SHARK landed on the highway. The white AC ran to the edge, looked down—and BAD OMEN was gone, hidden behind the truck. The Shark jumped. Off the highway, into open air, falling toward the street. Mid-fall, the white AC twisted, rifle tracking, searching for the red gleam of BAD OMEN's frame.
The rust-red AC emerged from behind the truck. Rifle up. Firing.
Three rounds. LOAN SHARK boosted sideways mid-air—a dangerous maneuver, thrusters fighting gravity, the machine's gyros screaming in protest. Two rounds missed. The third struck the Shark's right shoulder, a glancing hit that deformed armor but didn't penetrate. The impact altered the Shark's trajectory, sending it into a less controlled descent.
The Shark landed. Asphalt cracked. The landing was ugly—one knee down, servos whining, the frame absorbing the shock. LOAN SHARK rose immediately, boosting toward a collapsed overpass, using the rubble as cover. BAD OMEN pursued, weaving through abandoned cars, firing as it moved. The rust-red AC's feet crushed a sedan's roof as it vaulted over, the metal collapsing like foil.
Fifteen rounds in BAD OMEN's magazine. Sixteen in LOAN SHARK's.
The city burned with their passage.
LOAN SHARK reached back. The grenade launcher swung forward on its articulated arm, smooth and mechanical and purposeful. The white AC fired—not at BAD OMEN, but at the base of a streetlight near the rust-red AC's position.
The grenade detonated. The streetlight's base shattered. The pole—fifteen meters of steel and concrete—began to topple. Not toward BAD OMEN. Ahead of BAD OMEN. Cutting off the rust-red AC's path, forcing a choice: stop, or be crushed.
BAD OMEN boosted. Not away. Through. The rust-red AC's thrusters screamed, launching the machine under the falling pole. The streetlight crashed down behind it, missing by centimeters, the impact shaking the street, sending cracks racing through the asphalt. A cloud of dust and debris billowed outward.
But the maneuver had cost BAD OMEN its momentum. LOAN SHARK was already moving, closing the gap, grenade launcher firing again. Not at BAD OMEN. At the cars behind the rust-red AC.
The explosion engulfed a row of sedans. They lifted, tumbled, became a wall of flaming wreckage. Metal groaned and twisted. Tires popped in sharp reports. Black smoke billowed upward, staining the already-grey sky. BAD OMEN's retreat was cut off. Smoke and fire behind. Shark ahead.
The rust-red AC's rifle came up. Ten rounds left. It fired them all.
A wall of lead. LOAN SHARK boosted sideways, the rounds tracking. Three struck the Shark's left arm—the one with the cracked pauldron. Armor shattered. Servos screamed. The arm locked, frozen mid-swing, a dead limb from the elbow down. Four rounds sparked off the Shark's torso armor, leaving bright gouges in the white paint. Two missed entirely. One struck the grenade launcher's feed mechanism—a precise, lucky, desperate hit—and the weapon jammed with a grinding crunch.
LOAN SHARK's charge faltered. The white AC stumbled, left arm dead, back weapon useless. But it kept coming, momentum and will carrying it forward.
BAD OMEN's rifle clicked empty. Magazine dry. No reloads left.
The rust-red AC dropped the rifle. It clattered against the asphalt.
LOAN SHARK's right arm came up. The rifle still had rounds. Twelve left. The Shark fired.
BAD OMEN's hand went to its left hip. The backup handgun. Twelve rounds. Small caliber. Useless against heavy armor. The rust-red AC didn't aim at LOAN SHARK's torso. It aimed at the Shark's rifle hand. Three rounds. Rapid. The first struck the rifle's barrel, warping the steel. The second hit the Shark's remaining fingers—the ones that still functioned—shearing off two more in a spray of metal and hydraulic fluid. The third round punched through the rifle's magazine housing.
LOAN SHARK's rifle jammed. Then exploded. A chain reaction, contained but violent. The weapon tore itself apart in the Shark's grip. LOAN SHARK's right hand was now a mangled claw, missing three fingers, servos exposed and sparking.
LOAN SHARK dropped the ruined rifle.
But the Shark was not unarmed. The left shoulder mount swung forward. The scattergun. Four shells. Close range. Devastating.
LOAN SHARK boosted forward. BAD OMEN fired the handgun. Six rounds. Desperate. The small caliber slugs sparked off the Shark's chest armor, leaving dimples but no penetration—a fireworks display of futility. LOAN SHARK kept coming, closing the distance, asphalt cracking under its feet. The scattergun fired.
The blast was a cone of pellets, wide spread, impossible to fully dodge. BAD OMEN twisted, presenting its already-damaged right pauldron. The pellets struck the compromised armor and tore through. The pauldron shattered—chunks of rust-red metal spinning away, catching the firelight from the burning cars. The hollow-eyed bird emblem was gone, obliterated. The pellets that made it past peppered BAD OMEN's right shoulder joint, severing minor linkages, spraying hydraulic fluid in a dark fan.
BAD OMEN's right arm went sluggish. Still functional. But slow. Heavy. Dying.
The rust-red AC didn't retreat. It stepped in. The handgun came up. Three rounds left. Point blank. Aimed at the scattergun's exposed drum magazine. The first round missed, sparking off the Shark's shoulder. The second struck the drum's locking ring. The third punched through the drum itself.
The scattergun's remaining three shells cooked off simultaneously. The explosion was contained—barely—by the weapon's housing. But the force translated directly into LOAN SHARK's left shoulder mount. The articulated arm sheared off at the base, the entire scattergun assembly tumbling to the asphalt. LOAN SHARK's left side was now truly bare—no arm, no shoulder weapon, just a sparking stump.
BAD OMEN's handgun clicked empty. The rust-red AC dropped it.
No guns remained.
They stood in the burning street. BAD OMEN's right arm was sluggish, chest cratered, left wrist leaking, missile pod empty. LOAN SHARK's left arm was dead, right hand mangled, grenade launcher jammed, scattergun destroyed. Around them, the city burned—the flaming wreckage of the sedans casting dancing shadows, the fallen streetlight sparking where it lay across the asphalt, the overhead highway signs creaking in the heat. The distant crane sang its one-note song.
LOAN SHARK's posture shifted. Lower. Tighter. The Shark boosted backward—not retreating, repositioning—and BAD OMEN pursued. They moved through the urban graveyard, two giants weaving between abandoned cars, using every piece of the dead city.
LOAN SHARK's mangled hand closed around a sedan. A rusted four-door, its paint long gone, its windows empty sockets. The Shark threw it. The car tumbled through the air—an ugly, graceless flight—and BAD OMEN boosted sideways, the vehicle crashing into a storefront behind it. Glass and brick exploded, the facade collapsing inward. The rust-red AC didn't slow, reaching out as it ran, its sluggish right hand tearing a street sign from its post—a green highway marker, EAST 34, a slab of steel as tall as a man. BAD OMEN hurled it like a discus. The sign spun through the air, a spinning blade of green and white, and LOAN SHARK ducked, the sign passing overhead and embedding itself in a building's facade with a shriek of torn metal.
They closed distance. LOAN SHARK's leg came up—a front kick, thruster-assisted, driving toward BAD OMEN's chest. The rust-red AC twisted, letting the kick glance off its side, the impact scraping armor but not penetrating. BAD OMEN answered with its own kick—the reverse-joint leg chambering, then firing. The ankle thruster ignited, the knee vernier barked, and the armored foot drove into LOAN SHARK's hip. The kick was accelerated over three meters of distance, the full mass of the machine behind it.
LOAN SHARK staggered sideways, crashing into a parked delivery truck. The truck's cargo compartment crumpled, the vehicle sliding several meters from the impact, tires leaving black streaks on the asphalt. The Shark's hip joint registered the impact—a warning chime, STRUCTURAL STRESS—but held.
LOAN SHARK pushed off the truck, using it as a springboard, and launched back. The Shark's shoulder—the one with the stump—drove into BAD OMEN's chest. The rust-red AC absorbed the impact, the chest crater deepening, and grabbed the Shark's torso. BAD OMEN spun—hips driving, thrusters flaring—and used the momentum to throw LOAN SHARK into a building's ground-floor window.
Glass and framing shattered. The white AC tumbled through the empty retail space, crashing through displays and counters, a tidal wave of destruction. It emerged through the building's side wall in a shower of brick and dust, rolling to its feet on the adjacent street.
BAD OMEN was already there. The rust-red AC had anticipated the trajectory, boosting around the building to intercept. Its hand closed around a chunk of debris—a piece of the building's facade, concrete and rebar, torn from the wall during the Shark's exit. BAD OMEN swung it into LOAN SHARK's faceplate.
The debris shattered on impact. Concrete dust exploded outward, creating a dense grey cloud that swallowed both machines instantly. The rebar core bent around the Shark's already-cracked faceplate, the force translating through the frame, through the cockpit, into the pilot. Inside LOAN SHARK, SMILE DOG's skull bounced against the restraints. Vision doubled. The world became a smear of red warning lights. A tooth loosened. Blood—copper taste—filled the mouth.
The dust cloud hung between them—a grey curtain, a smokescreen. Neither could see. Both fired blind.
LOAN SHARK's leg kicked out through the dust, finding BAD OMEN's knee. The rust-red AC's joint buckled, the machine dropping to one knee, asphalt cracking beneath it. BAD OMEN's fist swung upward through the grey, catching LOAN SHARK under the chin. The Shark's head snapped back, neck joint groaning, the already-cracked faceplate gaining new fractures.
The dust began to settle, revealing the two machines locked in their blind exchange. They rose together, facing each other in the ruins of the storefront.
LOAN SHARK's hand—the mangled claw—closed around a chunk of fallen brick. It swung. The brick shattered against BAD OMEN's shoulder, creating a fresh cloud of dust and grit. The impact jarred the rust-red AC's already-damaged arm, servos grinding. BAD OMEN answered by grabbing a piece of the collapsed wall—a larger chunk, concrete and rebar—and driving it into LOAN SHARK's midsection. The debris exploded on impact, dust billowing, the rebar core bending around the Shark's torso armor. Inside the cockpit, SMILE DOG's body was thrown against the restraints again. Ribs protested. The world swam.
They traded debris strikes like boxers trading body blows. Each impact shattered the improvised weapon, creating a fresh smokescreen, a fresh cloud of blinding dust. Each impact jarred the pilot, sent warnings flaring, chipped away at the machine's integrity. The intersection became a blizzard of pulverized city—concrete dust, brick fragments, twisted rebar, all swirling in the firelight.
LOAN SHARK grabbed a car door—torn from its frame earlier in the fight—and swung it edge-first like an axe. BAD OMEN's arm came up, the door shattering against the forearm armor. The rust-red AC answered by grabbing the Shark's dead left arm and pulling, using the limp limb as a lever to yank LOAN SHARK off balance. The Shark stumbled forward, and BAD OMEN drove a knee into its midsection. Armor buckled. The white AC folded around the impact.
LOAN SHARK didn't fall. The Shark's reverse-joint leg came up in a kick—but it wasn't aimed at BAD OMEN. It was aimed at the ground. The kick drove into the asphalt, cracking it, and the Shark used the recoil to push itself backward, creating distance. Three meters. Five. It reset, circling.
BAD OMEN circled too. The two machines moved through the dust-choked intersection, through the burning cars and the fallen streetlight, each looking for an opening. The city watched through empty windows.
LOAN SHARK's leg came up—a roundhouse, hips driving, ankle thruster igniting. The kick was beautiful, a perfect arc, the foot tracing a crescent of pale flame. BAD OMEN ducked, the kick passing overhead, and came up with an uppercut. LOAN SHARK leaned back—the torso folding at the waist in that inhuman articulation—and the fist grazed its chin.
The Shark's reverse-joint leg snapped out again. Not a roundhouse. A back kick. The leg extended behind the Shark, its full unnatural arc, striking at BAD OMEN even as LOAN SHARK faced away. The rust-red AC's sensors caught the movement—a flicker of warning—and BAD OMEN twisted, the kick glancing off its side. But the maneuver had cost the Shark nothing. It was already spinning back to face its enemy, the motion fluid, continuous.
BAD OMEN answered with a punch—right arm, sluggish but still powerful. Hips rotated. Torso twisted. Shoulder thruster fired. The fist drove toward LOAN SHARK's chest. The Shark didn't dodge. It caught the punch. The mangled right hand closed around BAD OMEN's wrist, the remaining fingers finding purchase. Servos locked. The Shark pulled, yanking BAD OMEN forward, and drove its forehead into the rust-red AC's faceplate.
The headbutt landed. BAD OMEN's head snapped back, the already-cracked faceplate gaining new fractures. Warning chimes: SENSOR DAMAGE. STRUCTURAL STRESS. The rust-red AC's grip on the Shark loosened.
LOAN SHARK pressed. The white AC's knee came up—once, twice, three times—each strike thruster-assisted, each impact driving into BAD OMEN's midsection. The chest crater widened. Wiring became visible. Sparks showered both machines. BAD OMEN's frame buckled with each blow.
But the rust-red AC's left hand—the one with the leaking wrist—closed around a piece of debris. A chunk of asphalt, torn from the street by the earlier explosions. BAD OMEN swung it into LOAN SHARK's faceplate.
The asphalt shattered. Dust exploded. The Shark's head snapped sideways, the remaining lens cracking further. The pilot inside tasted copper again. The world tilted. The knee strikes stopped.
BAD OMEN grabbed LOAN SHARK's shoulder stump and threw the white AC sideways. The Shark tumbled across the intersection, crashing through the already-wrecked bus. The yellow-painted steel folded around the impact, the vehicle collapsing completely. LOAN SHARK rolled, gained its feet, and stood.
Both machines were slowing. The damage was accumulating—servos grinding, fluids leaking, armor compromised. But neither fell. Neither yielded.
They went at each other again.
LOAN SHARK kicked. BAD OMEN caught the kick, both hands closing around the Shark's ankle, and pulled. The Shark's balance vanished. The white AC toppled forward, and BAD OMEN drove a knee into its midsection as it fell. Armor buckled further. The Shark hit the ground, asphalt cracking, and BAD OMEN was on it, pinning the white AC with a knee on its chest.
The rust-red AC's right hand—sluggish, dying—came up. Not a fist. An open palm. It slammed into LOAN SHARK's faceplate and pushed, grinding the Shark's head into the asphalt. The faceplate's remaining lens cracked further. The asphalt beneath cratered, fragments of blacktop digging into the white armor. The Shark's head was being buried in the street.
LOAN SHARK's legs coiled. The reverse-joints fired, driving both knees into BAD OMEN's back. The rust-red AC was thrown forward, over the Shark, tumbling across the street and through a row of parked motorcycles. Metal crumpled. Chrome and steel scattered. BAD OMEN rolled, gained its feet, and turned.
LOAN SHARK was already charging. The white AC had grabbed a motorcycle—a heavy cruiser, rusted but solid—and swung it like a club. BAD OMEN's arm came up to block. The motorcycle shattered against the rust-red AC's forearm, fragments of metal and rubber spraying in every direction. The impact jarred BAD OMEN's already-damaged arm, servos grinding in protest.
The rust-red AC answered by grabbing a nearby car—a compact, light enough to lift—and throwing it. LOAN SHARK boosted sideways, the car tumbling past and crashing into a streetlight. The pole bent, groaned, and fell across the street, creating a new obstacle, a new piece of the environment to be used.
And they used it. LOAN SHARK vaulted over the fallen pole, using it as a springboard, and launched a flying kick at BAD OMEN. The rust-red AC sidestepped, the kick passing, and swung a fist into the Shark's side as it landed. The impact deformed armor. LOAN SHARK absorbed it and answered with an elbow strike—the dead left arm, still heavy, still massive, swung like a flail. The elbow caught BAD OMEN's shoulder, the one missing armor. The exposed servos screamed. The rust-red AC staggered.
They fought across the intersection, through the burning cars, over the fallen streetlight, around the collapsed overpass. The city continued to absorb their dance—buildings scarred, vehicles crushed, signs torn down, asphalt cratered. And the dance continued, a river of violence, one action flowing into the next, each movement a response to the last.
LOAN SHARK grabbed a chunk of rebar from a collapsed wall and swung. BAD OMEN caught the rebar, the impact jarring both machines, and twisted, trying to tear it from the Shark's grip. LOAN SHARK held on. They grappled over the length of steel, each trying to wrench it free, their feet scraping across the asphalt, their thrusters flaring in micro-bursts for leverage. The rebar bent under the strain, the steel groaning.
BAD OMEN's grip slipped. The rebar came free in LOAN SHARK's hand. The Shark swung—a horizontal arc—and the rebar struck BAD OMEN's side. Armor buckled. The rust-red AC staggered, and LOAN SHARK pressed, swinging again. BAD OMEN's arm came up, catching the rebar on the forearm. The steel bent around the impact, becoming a crooked, useless thing. BAD OMEN grabbed the bent rebar and pulled, yanking LOAN SHARK off balance, and drove its forehead into the Shark's faceplate.
The headbutt landed. LOAN SHARK's remaining lens cracked. The Shark stumbled back, releasing the rebar. BAD OMEN dropped the bent steel and pursued.
The rust-red AC's right hand closed around LOAN SHARK's throat. The left hand joined it—the leaking wrist still functional, still strong. Both hands, gripping the Shark's neck. BAD OMEN lifted. The thrusters fired, not for a strike, but for leverage, driving the Shark upward, off its feet.
LOAN SHARK's legs kicked. Desperate. The reverse-joints fired, knees driving into BAD OMEN's chest crater. Each impact widened the wound. Each impact sent sparks showering. But BAD OMEN's grip held. The rust-red AC walked forward, carrying the Shark, and slammed it into the side of the fuel truck.
The truck's tank ruptured further. The smell of ancient diesel filled the air. LOAN SHARK's frame dented the truck's side, the white AC pinned between BAD OMEN and the vehicle.
BAD OMEN's grip shifted. One hand on the Shark's throat. The other on the Shark's shoulder stump. And the rust-red AC began to twist.
Not the arms. The body. Hips driving. Torso rotating. The machine's entire mass committed to the torque. LOAN SHARK's neck joint screamed—a sound of tearing metal, of shearing bolts, of systems failing.
The Shark's legs kicked harder. A knee struck BAD OMEN's shoulder, nearly breaking the grip. Another kick caught the rust-red AC's hip, servos grinding. But BAD OMEN twisted harder.
LOAN SHARK's hand—the mangled claw—came up and grabbed BAD OMEN's faceplate. The remaining fingers found purchase, digging into the cracked surface, trying to tear it free. BAD OMEN's grip on the Shark's throat tightened in response. Both machines were locked in a mutual death grip, each trying to end the other.
BAD OMEN twisted. LOAN SHARK pulled. The faceplate cracked further. The neck joint groaned.
Then LOAN SHARK did something unexpected.
The Shark's legs stopped kicking. Instead, they coiled. The reverse-joints bent, drawing up toward the torso. And then they fired—not at BAD OMEN, but at the fuel truck. Both feet drove into the vehicle's side, and the Shark pushed off.
The sudden force broke BAD OMEN's grip. LOAN SHARK launched backward, out of the rust-red AC's grasp, tumbling across the intersection. It crashed into the concrete median—the one holding the console—and the ancient machine shuddered. The amber light flickered. Once. Twice. Then steadied.
LOAN SHARK lay against the median, sparking. The white AC pushed itself up, using the console as a brace. The amber light cast strange shadows across its ruined frame.
BAD OMEN stood in the center of the intersection. Chest cratered and sparking. Right arm barely moving. Left wrist leaking. Faceplate cracked. But standing.
LOAN SHARK rose fully. The white AC stood beside the console, armless, faceplate shattered, both lenses dark. The laughing shark emblem was gone. There was nothing left to grin. But it stood.
And it charged.
A full boost, thrusters screaming, the white AC becoming a missile. No arms. No weapons. Just mass and velocity and the desperate will to be the one still standing.
BAD OMEN charged. The rust-red AC's thrusters fired, slower, sputtering—the chest damage had reached the generator—but still burning.
They met in the center of the intersection.
The collision was thunder. Chest to chest. Four hundred tons of rust-red meeting four hundred tons of white. The impact sent cracks racing through the asphalt, sent shockwaves through both frames. They locked together—BAD OMEN's arms wrapping around LOAN SHARK's torso, the Shark's legs bracing, each trying to throw the other.
They stumbled through the intersection, locked in their grapple. LOAN SHARK's knee came up, driving into BAD OMEN's midsection. BAD OMEN's fist came down on the Shark's shoulder stump. They crashed into a car, crushing it flat. They staggered into the median, concrete crumbling. They fell.
Both ACs hit the ground. The impact was an earthquake, dust and debris jumping. They rolled, grappled, each trying to gain top position. LOAN SHARK's legs were stronger—the reverse-joints gave better leverage. The Shark managed to get on top, pinning BAD OMEN with its weight.
LOAN SHARK's torso rose. The Shark had no arms. But it had its head. It drove its faceplate down onto BAD OMEN's chest crater. Again. Again. Again. Each impact a hammer blow, widening the wound, exposing more wiring, sending sparks flying. The rust-red AC's frame buckled under the assault.
BAD OMEN's right arm—sluggish, dying—came up. The hand closed around a piece of debris. A chunk of the median, concrete and rebar. The rust-red AC swung it into LOAN SHARK's side. The Shark's torso deformed. Armor buckled. The white AC was knocked sideways, the pin broken.
BAD OMEN rolled, gained its feet. LOAN SHARK rose.
They stood at the edge of the console. The amber light pulsed between them, flickering slightly now, the casing cracked from the earlier impact. The data was still there. Still waiting. But fragile.
LOAN SHARK's leg came up—a front kick, thruster-assisted, aimed at BAD OMEN's chest. The rust-red AC didn't dodge. It stepped into the kick. The Shark's foot struck BAD OMEN's side, armor buckling, the impact jarring both frames. But BAD OMEN had closed the distance, inside the kick's power zone.
The rust-red AC's right hand—the sluggish one—came up in an uppercut. Hips rotated. Torso twisted. Shoulder thruster fired. The punch drove upward, into LOAN SHARK's chin.
The Shark's head snapped back. The neck joint—already compromised, already groaning—cracked. The white AC's head tilted at an angle that was no longer intentional, a permanent list to the left. The dark lenses stared at nothing.
LOAN SHARK staggered backward. One step. Two. It hit the console, the impact jarring the ancient machine. The amber light flickered violently. The casing groaned. A crack appeared in the console's screen.
BAD OMEN stepped forward. The rust-red AC's left hand closed around LOAN SHARK's throat. The right hand joined it. Both hands, gripping the Shark's neck.
BAD OMEN twisted.
Hips driving. Torso rotating. The machine's entire mass committed to the torque. LOAN SHARK's neck joint screamed—a sound of tearing metal, of shearing bolts, of systems failing.
The Shark's legs kicked. Weak. Desperate. A knee struck BAD OMEN's hip. Another glanced off the rust-red AC's thigh. But the grip held.
Then LOAN SHARK's leg found something.
A piece of rebar. The same bent length of steel from earlier, lying near the console, discarded. The Shark's foot hooked it, kicked it up, and caught it between its knees. A desperate, final gambit.
LOAN SHARK drove the rebar into BAD OMEN's side.
The steel punched through the already-compromised side armor. Not deep—the angle was awkward, the grip unstable—but it penetrated. It found wiring. It found a coolant line. Fluid sprayed. BAD OMEN's frame shuddered. A warning chime became a scream: CRITICAL DAMAGE. COOLANT LOSS. STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY COMPROMISED.
The rust-red AC's grip loosened for a fraction of a second.
It was not enough.
BAD OMEN roared—not with sound, but with the sudden, desperate surge of its remaining thrusters. The machine's entire frame committed. The hands tightened. The arms pulled. The torso twisted with everything the rust-red AC had left.
LOAN SHARK's neck joint gave way.
With a sound like a gunshot—like a spine snapping—the Shark's head separated from the neck. The sensor suite, the cameras, the ruined faceplate—all of it tore free in BAD OMEN's grip. Wires and cables trailed from the severed neck like mechanical viscera, sparking and dripping fluid.
LOAN SHARK went rigid.
The white AC stood there, headless, armless, a torso on legs pinned against the cracked console. For one long moment, it remained upright—gyros fighting, systems searching for input that would never come.
Then the legs buckled.
LOAN SHARK fell. It slid down the console's face, leaving a smear of white paint and hydraulic fluid, and collapsed onto the asphalt. The impact was heavy. Final. The machine lay still, sparking weakly from its severed neck, the light dying from its frame. The rebar—its final weapon—clattered to the ground beside it.
BAD OMEN stood over the fallen AC. The Shark's severed head was still in its grip. The rust-red AC's side bled coolant, a dark stream running down its leg. The chest crater was a gaping wound of sparking wires and twisted metal. The right arm hung nearly dead. The left wrist dripped steadily. But it stood.
The rust-red AC looked at the head in its grip. Then dropped it. The head hit the asphalt with a dull clang and rolled to a stop near the median.
The city was silent. The burning cars had burned out, leaving smoldering husks. The fallen streetlight had stopped sparking. The overhead highway signs creaked in the wind. The distant crane sang its one-note song—a high, mournful sound that carried across the empty streets, a lament for the dead city and the dead machine.
BAD OMEN turned to the console. The amber light still pulsed, but weakly, flickering. The casing was cracked. The screen was fractured. The data was still there—but fragile. The rust-red AC extended its left wrist—the one that still leaked fluid, the one that still functioned. The data spike slid into the console's port. It took a moment to connect. The damaged port resisted.
Then amber turned green. Flickering. Unstable. But green.
Data transferred. Coordinates from Sallow's Lament. A dead smuggler's final gift. A map to something valuable, buried somewhere in Rubicon's contaminated wastes.
The transfer completed. The data spike retracted. The console's light flickered once more, then went dark. The ancient machine had given its last secret.
BAD OMEN turned away from the dead console.
The rust-red AC walked through the ruined intersection. Past the crushed cars. Past the fallen streetlight. Past the smoldering wrecks and the shattered storefronts and the torn-down highway signs. Past LOAN SHARK's dark frame, still sparking weakly from its severed neck. It did not look back. It walked east, toward the collapsed highway on-ramp, each step a labor. The left leg's ankle joint ground with every movement. The right arm hung low, barely responding. The chest sparked continuously. Coolant dripped from the wound in its side, leaving a dark trail on the cracked asphalt.
It walked toward the distant crane. The one that sang its one-note song. The one with the frayed cable and the hanging hook. Not because it needed to. But because that was the way out. East. Away from the dead city. Away from the dead console. Away from the dead Shark.
Behind it, the city slowly settled. Dust drifted down from the scarred buildings. The wind moved through the empty windows, making a sound like breathing. The crane's cable twisted in the stagnant air, singing its high, mournful note—a song for the fallen, a song for the survivor.
LOAN SHARK lay at the base of the median. The white paint was streaked with rust and grime and hydraulic fluid. The severed neck sparked once more, then went dark. The laughing shark emblem was gone. There was nothing left to identify the machine except its posture—a slumped, defeated thing, waiting to be salvaged or forgotten.
And BAD OMEN walked on. Into the maze of abandoned vehicles and empty buildings. Into the silence. Into the east.
The crane sang.
Contract Status: Complete
Surviving Raven: GRAVE SPARROW / BAD OMEN
Casualties: SMILE DOG / LOAN SHARK — Frame Totaled. Pilot Status: Unconfirmed.
Navigation Data: Retrieved.
Ammunition Expended: All.
End of Log.