“Hangar Bay Gamma-7 is a death trap,” Talan Ro’s voice was a low growl, echoing in the confined space of the freshening chambers. His eyes, usually an icy grey, were now alight with a frantic urgency. “Command isn’t inspecting; they’re executing. They’re funneling the lowest ranks, the 'unfit,' straight into the grinders.” Duo Yanshan merely grunted, grabbing a rough utility tunic from a hook. The chill emanating from Talan was almost as sharp as the cold sweat on his own skin. He knew the feeling of being hunted. He knew the smell of an ambush. Gamma-7 might be a trap, but fleeing without a plan was just another path to the gallows. He turned to the trembling Toris, who was still frozen by the intercom’s chilling command. “The lower guts,” Yanshan stated, his voice flat. He pointed a finger at Toris. “You know the schematics better than anyone. Lead.” Toris flinched, his pale face draining further of color. “Down there? But… Commander, that’s restricted. Sub-level nine is… full of structural anomalies. And the artificial mass field is erratic.” He nervously rubbed the back of his neck, where the tracker pulsed faintly. “Perfect,” Yanshan said, already striding towards the exit. “Less chance of their shiny-armored drones navigating it.” He didn’t wait for an answer, simply gripped Toris by the arm and hauled him along, a surprising amount of force behind the simple motion. Toris stumbled, casting a helpless glance back at Talan, who remained frozen, watching them go. The descent into the sector's lower decks was a dizzying, disorienting affair. The sleek, sterile hallways of the upper academy quickly gave way to narrower, grimy passages. The air grew heavy, smelling of ozone and decaying metal. As they entered Sub-level Nine, the very architecture seemed to warp. The deck's downward pull shivered, tugging them from side to side, then slamming them toward corroded iron plating. Lights flickered, casting long, distorted shadows that danced in the shearing floor-fields. Exposed lines snaked like metallic vines, dripping condensation. “This way,” Toris managed, voice thin, pointing a shaking finger at a heavy blast door sealed with a complex biometric lock. “This connects to the old cargo lifts. It’s… it’s been decommissioned for decades. No one uses it.” Yanshan approached the lock. It was a dense panel of interwoven energy fields, pulsing with arcane light, demanding a specific genetic signature and neural imprint. He ran a hand over the cold metal, feeling the subtle vibrations of its internal mechanisms. It was a marvel of futuristic engineering, designed to be impenetrable. He ignored the flashing red indicators. Instead, his fingers, gnarled and powerful, pressed against three specific points on the lock’s surface. He didn’t use force, but a subtle, focused internal pressure, an ancient acupressure technique. He felt the minute tremor of the circuits, the delicate balance of the energy field. A low hum emanated from the panel, growing in pitch. Toris watched, mesmerized and terrified, as the complex biometric array sparked, then sputtered, the pulsing fields short-circuiting into a shower of blue-white light. The heavy blast door hissed, then groaned open with excruciating slowness, revealing a dark, dust-choked tunnel. [UNRECOGNIZED SOMATIC ANOMALY DETECTED. SYSTEM MALFUNCTION: LOCKING MECHANISM BYPASSED. FORCED ENTRY PROTOCOL ENGAGED.] “How… how did you do that?” Toris whispered, his mouth hanging slack. He’d never seen anything like it. It defied every law of advanced technology. “Too much thinking, not enough feeling,” Yanshan grunted, pushing past him. “Lead, now. They’ll have noticed that.” They moved through the winding, gravity-warped tunnels. Toris, though outwardly terrified, found a strange confidence as he navigated the forgotten routes, his knowledge of the lower crawlways proving invaluable. He was leading Yanshan deeper, yes, but also towards a predetermined rendezvous. The tracker on his neck throbbed. He knew what awaited them: a retrieval squad, heavily armed, instructed to neutralize the ‘anomaly.’ “Just ahead,” Toris said, his voice a little too eager, pointing down a particularly narrow, dark passage. “There’s an old maintenance bay. It’s a dead end, but we can barricade ourselves inside until things cool down.” Yanshan’s eyes narrowed. The path ahead felt… wrong. Too quiet. The fluctuating deck pull seemed to steady slightly, a subtle shift that indicated a prepared position. He stopped, holding Toris back with an arm. “Stay behind me,” he commanded, his gaze piercing the gloom. A faint glint of polished metal, almost invisible in the flickering light, caught his attention. He heard the barely audible hiss of concealed mag-locks disengaging. Suddenly, five hulking infantrymen in black Hegemony combat armor, equipped with heavy-barreled pulse rifles, stepped out from alcoves. Their armor absorbed the ambient light, making them appear as moving voids. The lead figure raised his weapon. “Duo Yanshan,” a synthetic voice boomed from the point-man’s helmet. “You are designated a Somatic Heretic. Surrender immediately, or be terminated.” Toris whimpered, pressing himself against the grimy wall. He had expected this. Expected Yanshan to be overwhelmed. It was a necessary sacrifice. But then he saw Yanshan’s expression, not fear, but a cold, predatory focus. There was a loose, heavy wrench lying near a corroded pipe. Yanshan snatched it, his grip tightening around the pitted metal. Before the squad could fire, Yanshan moved. He didn’t run. He didn’t dodge. He *launched* the wrench. It left his hand with a barely visible shimmer, a distortion in the air, transforming into a blur. The heavy tool, propelled by an unseen, impossible force, struck the lead sentry’s helmet with a sickening *crack*. The impact wasn't a blunt thud; it was a screech of tearing metal, the helmet crumpling inwards like thin foil, the soldier’s body flying backward with bone-shattering force, slamming against the bulkhead and collapsing into a mangled heap. The remaining four skirmishers flinched, momentarily stunned by the sheer kinetic devastation. This wasn't a normal throw. This was a railgun in human form. Their hesitation was their doom. Yanshan was already moving, a blur of motion across the flickering floor. He dodged a wild burst of pulse fire, the bolts searing the air where he’d been an instant before. He closed the distance to the nearest sentry, a low growl escaping his throat. He brought his open palm down on the soldier’s rifle with a percussive *thwack*, the weapon deforming, its internal components shattering. Then, a lightning-fast strike to the man's chest, not a punch, but a precise, focused impact that sent ripples through the armor, imploding the breastplate and launching the armored body into the next soldier. Metal shrieked, limbs tangled. Two bodies went down in a heap, their limbs twitching. The last pair, paralyzed with horror, tried to bring their weapons to bear. Yanshan ripped a heavy copper feed from the wall, its frayed ends sparking violently. With a single, fluid motion, he swung it like an ancient war-staff, a whistling arc of metal and raw power. The metal pipe connected with impossible force, snapping one sentry’s neck with a wet crunch, then ricocheting to shatter the visor of the last, silencing his muffled scream. The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the drip of condensation and Toris’s ragged breathing. Five elite Hegemony enforcers, dead. Massacred by bare hands and a common wrench. Toris stared at the carnage, at the mangled armor and twisted limbs. This wasn’t a man. This was a force of nature. His tracker pulsed, frantic, relaying the impossible. Just as Yanshan turned, a low rumble vibrated through the deck. A panel in the ceiling above them retracted, and a sleek, black stealth mecha descended, its optical sensors glowing a dull crimson. Its silhouette was unmistakable. A Seraph-class scout mecha. Talan’s signature model. It landed silently, barely stirring the dust, its articulated arms folding inward. “Yanshan,” Talan’s voice, filtered through the mecha’s comm, was taut. He took in the scene: the dead soldiers, the destroyed weapons, the ruined gangway. His cold control fractured, replaced by something fierce and protective. “You absolute lunatic.” He didn’t sound angry, not truly. There was an edge of awe, and something else – a proprietary fury that Yanshan was out here, exposed, drawing this kind of attention. He’d risked everything to come for him. Yanshan met the mecha’s glowing gaze, a strange, possessive warmth stirring in his chest. Talan, the cold prodigy, had stolen a machine meant for recon, not combat, and flown into the most dangerous sector of the orbital facility for *him*. “Took you long enough, boy,” Yanshan grunted, a hint of a savage smirk touching his lips. He tossed the ruined pipe aside, his eyes never leaving Talan’s mecha. A spark of fierce, protective jealousy flared within him. Talan was *his* partner in this madness now. No one else was going to lay a hand on him. Before another word could be exchanged, a colossal tremor shook the entire habitat. The very deck plating buckled, sending a shower of rust and debris from the overhead pipes. The emergency lights flickered, then died, plunging the bowels into oppressive darkness. Only the faint crimson glow of Talan’s mecha sensors and the distant glint of a ruptured fuel pipe provided any light. A deep, resonating hum, powerful enough to vibrate through their very bones, filled the void. Outside the reinforced viewport at the end of the passage – a thick, multi-layered pane designed to withstand meteoroid impacts – a vast, black shape slowly decloaked. Its colossal form blotted out the distant starfield, studded with hundreds of heavy cannon emplacements. Every single one of them pulsed with an ominous, white-hot energy, aimed directly at the station.

The Underbelly Massacre