Bloodbath at the Factory

Scarface opened his eyes and found himself in the middle of a ruin.

He saw the lips of others moving, as if shouting something, but only a ringing sound reached his ears.

He looked down at the Auspex.

The screen was glitched.

"Fuck!" Scarface swung the Auspex with his still-functional right hand and smashed it against the ground.

Once, twice, three times.

The machine-spirit seemed to respond. The screen flickered and recovered a little.

But Scarface wished it hadn't.

Because the Auspex displayed enemies packed so densely they filled the entire screen!

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! How many drones do they even have?!" Scarface's voice trembled.

Suddenly, a more violent explosion came from the rooftop. A drone crashed into the laser cannon emplacement, igniting the power cells. The entire gun was blasted into a twisted lump of metal, tumbling off the roof and crashing down.

The gunner inside went peacefully—didn't even have time to scream.

"Quick! Get the Manticore Tank out!" Scarface roared, grabbing the communicator and screaming into it.

Soon, a rumble came from the underground passage. Two gang members drove the Manticore missile tank charging out.

But quickly, they found a thorny problem.

"Which one do we shoot?" one of them asked.

This Manticore missile tank was the gang's trump card. The boss usually treated it like a treasure and wouldn't bring it out unless absolutely necessary.

But the problem was—only four missiles!

How many drones were on the Auspex?

Four missiles couldn't do shit!

Even if it had a heavy bolter mounted, it'd be useless.

The two gang members exchanged a glance and made the wisest decision: run.

As for the gang's valuable property... well, that was the gang's. Their lives were their own.

On the other side, Scarface never saw the anti-air missiles he'd been hoping for, nor did he hear any report.

Just as he was wondering, the communicator crackled:

"Boss! The enemy's in the sky! All small aircraft! Too many! We can't hold much longer!"

Soon, only harsh static and continuous explosions came through the communicator, not even a single reply.

Scarface wanted to curse in frustration, but then he saw a dull gray drone diving down, crashing into a crowd not far away.

All twelve watchtowers were blown up. The rooftop laser cannon was scrap metal. The heavy gunners were either dead or fleeing.

The remaining underlings were either stunned by the drones, cowering behind cover and trembling, or running around like mad, with no will to fight left.

Occasionally, a few laser beams shot toward the bridge, hitting the armored vehicles, only sparking a little—not even leaving a mark.

The next second, more drones dove in, targeting the few remaining firing points that dared to resist, snuffing out the last embers of defiance.

Scarface slumped to the ground, staring at the drones swarming the sky, at the armored convoy crossing the bridge, at the burning corpses and rubble around him. His eyes were hollow.

"It's over. All over..." he muttered, his gaze vacant.

Suddenly, another drone dove down. He didn't dodge. He didn't even close his eyes.

The drone crashed at his feet. A violent explosion sent him flying. The searing pain of a broken leg hit him.

He didn't die, but it was worse than death. He could only lie on the ground, watching his territory get utterly crushed.

Fleeing gang members surged past. Someone stepped on his hand. Someone trampled his shin. No one spared him a glance.

Finally, a chunk of blasted concrete slab fell onto his back. Scarface's wail cut short, swallowed entirely by the chaos.

In the factory's main control room, Iron Hand Gang boss "Iron Fist" Jack Norton slammed his fist onto the console.

The metal panel dented inward.

Jack Norton looked up at the surveillance monitors, his face ashen.

He grabbed another communicator, connecting directly to Silverthorn House.

It connected, but the only response was a disdainful voice: "Worthless. You must hold the factory. If you don't, you know the consequences."

The line cut.

"Fuck!" Jack Norton threw the communicator to the floor.

"Boss, what now?" his second-in-command asked.

Jack Norton stared at the screen for a long moment, then gritted his teeth and gave the order:

"Pull everyone back into the factory floor. There's enough space in there for us to fight them again."

"What about the walls..."

"Forget them." Jack Norton clenched his jaw. "I don't believe they won't send someone in to clean up!"

"The Promethium Factory is enormous inside, with wide roads, but nowhere near enough for drones to fly freely."

"Once we drag them into street fighting, these regulars' armored vehicles and drones will lose most of their combat effectiveness."

Yet Jack Norton overlooked one thing: what he could think of, Fu Haoran could think of too.

At the bridgehead, Wade gripped the steering wheel, staring at the factory ahead with wide eyes.

One moment he was still debating whether to order an assault, the next, watchtowers inside the factory were blowing up one after another, lascannon explosions lighting up the rooftops, drones swarming like a hive, diving, exploding, flames staining half the sky red.

The soldiers exchanged glances. No one spoke, but their eyes all held the same question: This is the signal the governor mentioned?

Wade had wondered before why Fu Haoran didn't explain what the signal would be. Now he understood why the governor hadn't elaborated.

This signal—even a blind man could see it.

He took a deep breath, pressed the comms button, and roared: "What are you all staring at! Everyone ready, follow me in!"

Leading the charge were five Bison heavy armored personnel carriers, followed by fifty-two modified Humvees.

Though, to be precise, only the Humvee chassis remained; Fu Haoran had long since reprinted a new set of armor using the STC.

So even though the Humvee was a "primitive" 2K-era technology, fitted with Plasteel armor, it could easily withstand direct fire from low-power Lasguns.

The bridge was wide open. No machine-gun fire, no lascannon bombardment, not even token resistance.

Wade caught sight of gang members on the roadside trying to set up a man-portable rocket launcher. The moment half a head popped up, two drones dove in.

One smashed into the launcher, the other slammed directly into the man. The exploding fragments sent the surrounding gang members flying.

"Melta Cannon, prepare!" Wade screamed.

The lead Bison armored vehicle was equipped with a Melta Cannon. The moment it neared the gate, it fired.

The searing heat melted straight through the Plasteel gate, which was then smashed open.

The vehicle didn't slow down. It charged straight into the factory, tracks grinding over discarded guns and bodies with a screeching rasp.

The mounted bolters opened fire first, shells punching through concrete barricades. The gang members hiding behind were blown apart, wall and all, blood splattering across the surface.

Twin-linked Heavy Bolters swept across the area. Anyone hit was instantly blasted into chunks; not even a complete corpse could be found.

A minor gang leader hid behind a thick iron door, clutching a Lasgun and trembling, thinking he might survive.

Then the Bison vehicle crashed straight through the iron door, its tracks rolling over him. The crisp snap of breaking bones mixed with the roar of the vehicle, gone in an instant.

Inside the factory was chaos. Gang members ran around like headless flies, wailing, screaming. Some tried to organize a counterattack. The moment three of them gathered, three to five drones dove from above, saturating the area with explosions, turning them into meat paste.

But soon, Wade noticed something off.

"Why are there fewer people? Did they all run?"

He got his answer quickly.

"Colonel, the remnants of the Iron Hand Gang have all holed up inside the factory floor. What do we do?"

Wade's face turned grim.

The factory floor could easily hold over a hundred thousand people. With their numbers, pushing deep inside would give them no advantage—it might even be a suicide mission. What now?