“Tarkhan, dear,” Zibya said, her voice dropping to a low, thrilling murmur, “let us turn off the safety protocols.”
Tarkhan’s answering growl was a low thrum that echoed through the smart-glass floor, a sound of profound agreement. His irises caught the overhead LEDs as he braced his knuckles against the breakfast counter.
[Zenith System: Administrator Zibya detected. Confirming command: Disable all penthouse safety protocols. Initiating offensive countermeasures subroutine. Please enjoy your enhanced defensive capabilities!]
The sky-mansion dropped violently, then struck solid dockyard pilings with a jarring crunch. A groan of tortured metal screeched from below, followed by a chorus of panicked shouts from outside. The Veridian Docks were a cacophony of alarms and distant clanging, but inside their glass cage, an unsettling silence fell.
Then, the exterior blast doors hissed open. The air, thick with the smell of ozone and damp concrete, rushed in. The council commander stood framed in the opening, flanked by a dozen heavily armed security operatives in sleek, obsidian-colored armor, a thin grin splitting his aristocratic pallor.
“Well, well, the little blood-bag and her beast,” the commander drawled, stepping over the threshold. “Such a shame. I expected a more… spirited defense. But it seems the Purge Protocol has broken you.” His gaze swept over the clean foyer, narrowing when he saw no overturned tables.
“Oh, Commander, how dreadful of you to assume such things,” Zibya chirped, her tone bright and melodic. She curtsied with exaggerated politeness, a demure hand fluttering to her chest. “We merely decided to redecorate a little.”
Before the aristocrat could react, the lights in the sky-mansion blinked out, plunging the room into shadow. Only the faint, holographic glow of the AI’s interface shimmered around Zibya, tinting her apron neon green.
[Zenith System: Commencing ‘Midnight Snack’ subroutine. Enjoy the ambience, residents!]
The operatives fumbled in the sudden dark, carbines swinging wildly. Then, a series of sickening thuds echoed through the room. The luxury chaise lounge, usually a soft cloud of comfort, shot out like a battering ram, impaling one enforcer against a wall with a wet snap. A set of ornate, polished obsidian tables launched themselves like frisbees, shearing through the legs of two more.
The commander roared, “What in the Abyss?!”
Blast doors, previously concealed within the walls, dropped shut with hydraulic force, cutting off two more guards who had strayed too close. The clatter of their rifles on the parquet floor marked the impact. The sanctuary was now an automated labyrinth.
Tarkhan surged through the gloom, seven hundred pounds of mutant muscle clearing the perimeter. Claws sheared through tactical vests, driving the remaining guards against the bulkhead until the screaming abruptly stopped.
The aristocratic officer tapped his gauntlet, triggering an arc of pale energy that unfolded into a towering combat frame. The exoskeleton locked into place with a pneumatic whine, cold plating snapping over his torso. Its chest plate pulsed with a frigid, cerulean light, and its arms ended in gauntlets that hummed with Chronium-laced blades.
“Impressive parlor tricks, blood-bag,” the commander sneered through the frame's external speakers. “But against true power, you’re nothing.” He lunged at Tarkhan, the mech’s blades striking with terrifying speed. Tarkhan met the blow with a roar, his claws raking against the Chronium alloy, but the contact sizzled, and a plume of acrid smoke rose from his fur. A deep burn marred his forearm.
“Tarkhan!” Zibya called out. The metal was toxic to his lineage. He recoiled, his teeth bared in pain, but before he could recover, the exoskeleton drove an armored fist into his ribs, hurling him through a reinforced partition. Shards of smart-glass rained down as he hit the ground with a bone-jarring impact, momentarily stunned.
The commander advanced, pinning Tarkhan’s chest beneath an iron-shod heel. The mutant werewolf strained against the deck, snarling as Chronium-treated spurs hissed against his gray pelt. The pilot raised an arm blade toward Tarkhan’s throat.
“That’s it, beast. Struggle,” the pilot gloated. “It only makes your death more satisfying. And then, little Zibya, you’ll be all mine.” He laughed, a high, mocking sound that grated on Zibya’s ears. “Did you really believe an escaped blood-bag could defy the council?”
Zibya set her jaw and slipped off her flour-dusted oven mitts. She moved with a sudden, unexpected speed, snatching something long and slender from a hidden alcove. It was her old IV pole, the very one she’d used to bludgeon her way out of the blood-den, its base still stained with ancient, dark memories. It glinted ominously in the dim light, a crude but effective weapon.
“Oh, sir,” she said, her voice sweet and even, “I do apologize. We haven’t had a chance to show you our *full* capabilities yet.” She sprang across the slick floor, aiming not at the chassis, but at a cooling intake that flared blue beside the hip joint. The steel rod drove straight into the power cell, piercing insulation and hydraulic conduits with a harsh shriek of ruptured metal.
White discharge crackled along the frame, throwing the pilot into violent convulsions. The mechanized suit collapsed under its own weight, hydraulic fluid pooling across the tiles. Free of the tread, Tarkhan rolled upright, shaking charred fur from his shoulders.
The pilot, twitching behind cracked plastoid, managed a ragged gasp. “You… you little…!” His armored fingers struck an override toggle on the rig. A siren wailed through the corridors.
[Zenith System: Warning! Lord Vane’s Kryos-Seraph self-destruct sequence initiated. Estimated detonation in 60 seconds. Area of effect: Entire Veridian Docks block. Have a delightful day!] The AI’s cheerful voice was a terrifying contrast to the imminent obliteration.