...
He inhaled deeply, tossed away his cigarette, and growled into comms: "Now."
He moved.
In one brutal motion, Guerrero leapt into the air, defying mass, inertia, physics. His mechanical fist cocked back like a cannon.
BOOM. His punch collided with the hood of the lead vehicle. Metal crumpled like paper. The truck flipped. Sparks flew. It barrel-rolled into the second vehicle, crashing it off its tracks.
Two vehicles down.
SCREEEEECH.
From the cliffs above, a distortion in the air shimmered—then exploded. A shockwave of raw audio crashed down, blasting the third truck off the ground. It spun, slammed, burst into flames.
Echo emerged.
His voice was not one, but many. Childlike whispers. Guttural groans. Smooth tones like a choir fallen into madness. Ever louder, insanely and powerfully loud, He advanced, a humanoid menace with sonic cannons mounted to his arms, jaw sizzling with synthetic audio nodes.
In the chaos, the ASM3s deployed. "HOSTILE DETECTED. ENGAGING."
"Too slow," Spyda whispered.
She dropped from the shadows above like a crimson demon, her eight cybernetic limbs folded into her back, then burst out—blades, claws, plasma cutters. She danced through the battlefield, carving through metal and flesh like silk. Heads flew. Sparks lit up the dust. Her laugh echoed like metal scraping bone.
Guerrero was a juggernaut.
ASM3s locked onto him. Their targeting systems screamed—too late. Guerrero's hands, layered in quantum-mesh alloy, caught bullets mid-flight. He charged one bot, slammed his fist into its chest. BOOM. It exploded.
He turned, crushed a soldier's windpipe, then lifted another by the legs and threw him into a boulder, leaving a red smear.
Echo's scream ripped through another droid, tearing its limbs in opposite directions. An officer ran—Spyda caught him mid-sprint, drove her knee into his spine, then twisted his head clean off.
It was a slaughter.
The fourth vehicle—the only one still running—swerved, trying to escape. Echo smashed powerful sonic waves at it.
Guerrero ripped off its door with a grunt. Inside, one pod, a girl floated—calm, serene, eyes closed.
"Target located," Echo's voice growled through three separate tones.
"Secure her," Guerrero said, lighting another cigarette.
Then he stopped.
He felt it.
A glint.
Far off. Barely visible. High-caliber sniper scope reflecting lowlight. Guerrero's eyes narrowed. His left hand snapped up just in time.
PING. The bullet struck his palm with the force of a meteor, sending shrapnel into his cheek.
"Firefly," Guerrero hissed. "Sniper. Fetch."
In seconds, high-altitude drones—shaped like glowing fireflies—lifted from a case back at Firefly's station. They zipped into the sky, scanning for EM frequencies.
"Target found," Firefly said. "Rifle's AI-automated. No shooter—remote system."
Just then, a laser blast cracked the air.
Echo took it to the jaw—direct hit. His body spun and crashed, sizzling, half his face melted, voice nodes flickering like broken modems.
Guerrero turned, eyes flaring.
"You can stop hiding and come out. Who are you?" Guerello asked, his stern eyes fixed on Plukett as she finally reappeared. The others froze momentarily.
"I should be asking you that," Plukett replied, then smirked. "Or can I just call you Power Rangers?"
The joke fell flat.
Spyda didn't appreciate the quip—her hands moved to her guns, but Guerello raised a hand. She paused. Something in his eyes held her back.
"We came for the girl. We're leaving," he said, turning.
"Huh, funny. I came for the girl too,what do you say, you do me a solid this time, huh?" Plukett said, lowering her glasses. Her eyes glowed red.
Guerello stopped and frowned. He should've guessed—a Retributor. That smug, overconfident attitude gave it away. He nodded at Spyda.
That was the go-word.
Spyda grinned wickedly as she stepped forward, her eyes locked onto Plukett like a predator sizing up its prey.
Plukett took a step back. She'd just seen these four dismantle a truckload of heavily armed personnel and ASM3s with terrifying precision. They weren't to be taken lightly.
But she never backed out of a fight. And if these were Steven Baflin's partners, this was her shot to size them up.
"I'm going to carve you up, piece by piece," Spyda said. Her voice slithered like a snake, laced with a coarse whisper.
"You've got five minutes," Guerello added.
Spyda launched into the air—bullets blazing.
Plukett raised her shields just in time and returned fire. But Spyda was faster. More powerful. Plukett was being outpaced on every front—every shot, every kick, every punch.
Spyda flipped across the field like a dancer of death, her movements a blur. Plukett's shields were draining rapidly. She couldn't get in an offensive move—Spyda was always a step ahead, always laughing.
"It's been a long, long time since I had someone to play with!" Spyda shouted mid-combat, firing off rounds and landing punishing blows that sent Plukett skidding backward.
Then—an opening.
Plukett's eyes lit up. Twin beams of red-hot energy burst forth, catching Spyda off guard and tearing through one of her four mechanical arms.
Spyda recoiled, writhing briefly before retracting the damaged limb.
Then she laughed.
With a flick, two new mechanical arms unfolded—this time, wielding laser-lined swords. Now she had five arms.
"Fair enough," Plukett grinned, wiping blood from her mouth.
"I'll have your head for that," Spyda hissed. Her necklace flared orange.
"Spyda," Guerello warned. A slight edge in his tone.
She ignored him.
This time, Spyda went for the kill—deadlier, faster. Closing the distance, she absorbed Plukett's blasts with her blades, deflecting, dodging, always one move ahead.
Two kicks. An uppercut. A spinning heel. Twin shots.
Plukett crashed into a wall.
"So much power, so little experience," Guerello said, almost casually. "Why do you hold back?"
Plukett stood, spat out blood, and tapped into her exo-suit. She pulled out four mirror-like discs and tossed them into the air.
"Haven't used these in a while. Want to see a trick?"
Spyda charged—but Plukett fired at the discs. The lasers bounced unpredictably between them, ricocheting at angles Spyda couldn't follow. They hit their target. Pushing her opponent back, enough to make some hits.
Spyda went on the defenses.
"you are welcome, Spyda!" buzzed firefly in her comms. The discs were disconnected. They exploded.
Spyda snarled. Her necklace pinged red.
"Spyda!!" Guerello snapped.
Spyda paused. Breathed deeply. The red glow shifted back to green.
"fine, we will do this the old way," Spyda snarled.
"is that a pun, because you know, you are..." Plukett smirked. Her joke felt like a sting.
Now it was close combat. They clashed, fist-for-fist, blow-for-blow. Spyda still had the edge—faster, more brutal, more precise—but Plukett was holding ground.
Then Spyda shifted again. "surprise! "
Two more mechanical hands with daggers unfolded from her back.
Plukett didn't see it coming. Cunning, that was supposed to be her thing.
A dagger slammed into her side. Then a brutal kick. And a sword hurled through her shoulder, pinning her against a hanging assault vehicle.
"Finish her off," Guerello said, sounding bored.
But then—noise.
Reinforcements. Lots of them. The four figures froze.
"We're hot! Time to go!" Firefly said over comms.
Spyda called her blade back. It whirled out of Plukett's shoulder and returned to her hand.
Plukett collapsed.
"Next time we meet…you die, girl," Spyda said with a grin, vanishing with the team.
Darkness swallowed Plukett. She was bleeding heavily. No escape this time.