A wet rip filled the air as flesh split apart under shadowed light. Across smooth black plates beneath, rows of identical figures tore bright cogs from their ribs without delay. Not one made a noise while peeling open their frames. These replicas of Sterling Prescott stayed silent on cold ground, heads bowed low. Before them loomed a giant hunched shape - ancient bone fused with time-worn stone - receiving each pulsing core handed forward.
Out of nowhere, Commander Arthur Prescott moved - ID 001 etched deep into broken armor at his shoulder. The clang came next: his huge sword, corroded and old, slamming down on cold metal plates. Without warning, that twisted limb - a tangle of bone fused into flesh - lashed out. It grabbed what was closest, a finely built mechanism meant for precision. Gears split under pressure as if they were brittle leaves, reduced to shimmering powder inside its grip, then drawn inward through gaps in the rib cage, where something once beat like a heart.
Out of nowhere, it hit - fast, tearing through him like fire. Thick black blood oozed nonstop from his ruined center, then suddenly churned into steam. That oily stream cracked and vanished, swapped by a fierce gold light so sharp it hurt to imagine. Bone by dead bone, the glow clawed forward, turning what had long turned to stone.
Crouched low by the cracked metal shell of his fallen pod, Vance Kensington stayed still. Tremors punched through the broken city - his reinforced bones handled them without effort. From what he'd absorbed on the Harvester's upper levels, time fog seeped into his rebuilt foot, locking it solid, no longer weak like before. That upgrade did nothing for the frozen sigil carved at the back of his neck. Cold like empty space surged from it, shrieking inward as raw chronal energy built up half a football field ahead.
Fumbling back to awareness, Elian let out a low moan, his body slumped beside the cold metal of the launched device. His eyelids dragged open - slow, heavy - one breath catching as sight returned. Across the shadowed cave, something bright pulsed, moving in twisted patterns that made his stomach twist. What he saw wasn't ceremony. It was hunger wearing sacred shapes. The figures bent and swayed, mouths smeared with light, feeding on forms too familiar to ignore. A shiver locked his spine, not from chill - but recognition.
Hush now, said Vance through gritted teeth, his palm pressed tight across the kid's lips.
Axiom flattened itself onto the cold metal floor, its dense body pressing down hard. Silence came over it, cutting off every flicker of energy around its form. Down below, the shadow-lynx moved without noise, aware of how things stood within the Fracture. It saw what rose through the ranks - a force swallowing clones whole - growing stronger by breaths. That thing neared a point where thinking once might wipe out everything they were.
Out of nowhere, Arthur Prescott shifted into something faster. Light poured over him, spilling across what remained of his broken form. Where rust and old battle scars once held tight, changes started - slow at first. Instead of crumbling further, the jagged bone spears pulling metal into his ribs pulled back. Metal followed, peeling away decay like time reversing itself, revealing smooth surfaces beneath. Soon, it shone again - the way high-ranking Syndicate leaders used to wear their armor: clean gold lines on bright white shell. His face changed next. That hollow gap where dark mist oozed now closed up. Flesh returned. A new eye formed inside, burning soft yellow from within.
Far beyond mere recovery, he shaped his past like clay. With every dose of the Harvester's factory-made essence, the Vanguard's creator unwound time - peeling back hundreds of years stained by chaos and rot.
Something shifted across the Harvester grid when it sensed what had vanished. A deep absence echoed through its links, marking what could never be retrieved.
From the far side of the cave, the sealed drop-pods finally cracked open with a sharp release of air. Instead of human forms, what emerged were dense mechanical shapes - angular, built for force. Each one moved on multiple jointed legs, dark surfaces swallowing the dim glow around them. Like echoes of the machine Vance stopped earlier, they advanced without pause. The floor trembled slightly as hundreds flowed forward, climbing over debris in unison. Their bodies split open mid-stride, revealing curved sound emitters and jagged cutting arms. Closing in on the figure rising through their level, they prepared to act.
A silence fell across the meal as Arthur turned. His face - whole again - faced the incoming tide of machines. No weapon was drawn. A single hand lifted instead. With a click of fingers, stillness answered motion.
A hush fell, snapped shut by an abrupt pocket of empty air. From Arthur's chest bloomed a vast curve of gold-lit time, spilling forward like liquid light across the oncoming machines.
A sudden hush followed. Time twisted, then snapped. In that breath, flawless obsidian shells decayed - aged beyond reckoning in an instant. Not fire, not force, but age tore through them. Metal groaned, split, turned to fragile powder like old bones crumbling under frost. Before any signal fired, before circuits pulsed, they were already gone. A circle of silence formed where war machines once stood. At its heart, light hummed softly from the figure who started it.
Twenty yards beyond their wrecked pod, the wavefront halted. Vance watched it spread, measuring danger fast. A second surge catching them now - frozen forms is all that would remain.
Out there we're not safe," Vance said, pulling his hand from Elian's lips. Up he yanked the shaking child, guiding him close to the broken metal where darkness pooled thick. Focus locked elsewhere - drawn by spinning gears and loud mechanisms - so they crept ahead, sliding step by step toward the hidden chamber
Staring at the huge round jail - blown apart by Elena Rostova not long ago - Elian whispered, "Empty now." The girl with wings? Gone before we got here
"Exactly," Vance replied, his tone flat and heavily pragmatic. "It is the only structure in this cavern built to withstand catastrophic, god-tier anomalies. The walls are lined with chronological dampeners. If Arthur decides to age this entire cavern into dust, that shattered prison is our only viable shield."
Axiom wasn't waiting for reasons. Ahead shot the parasite, slipping between broken runic columns and crumpled drop-pods like shadow through cracks. Close on its heels came Vance, pulling Elian along by a stiff fabric sleeve. Their feet pounded fast over wide plates of blackened metal, backs turned to the rising chaos flaring at their rear.
Footsteps echoed sharply above as more Harvester sentinels spilled down through the high tunnels, locking Arthur's gaze in frozen dread. Light from the crumbling walls flickered wild and sudden when the commander fired burst upon burst of raw time energy, his voice roaring back - deep, thunderous laughter cracking like stone under pressure.
Through the split in the broken vault door Vance moved, its twisted frame torn wide by some great force. Purple streaks marked the metal, bent back like foil ripped open too fast. Elian went ahead, shoved gently but firmly into the tight space beyond. Shoulders scraped against jagged steel as he followed, wider than the opening liked. Last came Axiom, slipping through silent, both tails flicking at odd angles.
A hush sat deep within the prison walls, cramped and tight. Dark marks ran along every surface - runes burnt out long ago, unable to chain what once stirred there. Stale breath filled the space, cut off clean from the cave beyond, where time twisted like smoke.
A flicker sparked to life when Vance snapped the tube free from the pod's wreckage. Light, pale and green, crept across the curved walls. Empty hooks dangled where prisoners might have been held. Instead of broken gear or leftover restraints, there was almost nothing.
A glow spread across the floor, then lit up a low-slung pod tucked far back in the shadows. Not old - this machine carried fresh markings, sharp and clean. A silver wolf gleamed on its side, crisp under the dim shine. Power pulsed through it, soft but sure, like breath in still air.
Frost clung heavily to the glass, slowing Vance's hand as he moved closer. His fingers scraped across the surface, clearing just enough to see through. The blade stayed up, gripped tight in his other fist.
Buried in the icy gel, motionless, lay a youth whose face carried clean lines and grace. This one had golden hair, set just so, untouched by time's hand. His name surfaced slow - Sterling Prescott.
This wasn't just some bare, factory-made copy without a time mechanism. Worn by the teen was battered Tier-3 Vanguard armor, identical to what Vance recalled from the erased reality. Breathing came in short, strained pulls. His face stayed locked, contorted into endless pain.
Down below, they held the real Sterling Prescott captive. While the machine up top spliced copies from his genes, the Argent Cartel slipped through the Crimson Woods' wreckage unnoticed. Not clones first - capture came before replication. Hidden in shadow, the original waited. Above, cold geometry hummed, building false heirs one strand at a time.
Vance's silhouette touched the pane just as Sterling's gaze sprang awake. Not some radiant amber eye nor a sharp purple gleam lit up - just fear, frailty, raw humanity. His fingers, stiff with ice, lifted slowly. That frozen hand met the barrier's inner surface, staring straight into the man he once killed under different stars.
A voice rasped from the pod's speaker, cutting through the quiet underground chamber. The captured person's breathless words spilled out, raw and uneven.
"Please," the original Sterling begged, his voice cracking with pure desperation. "You have to kill me be
fore she finishes the upload."