There were civilians in the streets. Smoke thickened the air as alarms screamed through cities across the globe. Our evacuation protocols—painstakingly designed for every nation—had already been activated. Drones and robots swarmed through alleyways and marketplaces, guiding citizens to shelter with blaring voices and mechanical precision.
Still, it wasn't enough.
Major cities in Africa, Europe, Asia, and the Americas were under direct assault. Structures collapsed like paper, flames swallowed skylines, and the Rikapud had arrived with brutal efficiency. Casualties were reported in waves—categorized from minimal to catastrophic.
We had one rule now: break the chaos down, step by step.
My team was deployed across the globe. Each of them—elite in skill, nearly planetary-level forces on their own—had been assigned to the most severe locations. With the bond we'd formed through shared simulation, they moved like shadows and storms, extinguishing threats city by city.
I had chosen a different mission.
Africa's capital—our continent's political heart—was under siege. I had to protect the world leaders assembled there.
Why, you ask?
Because morale matters. And while I could inspire on the battlefield, the world needed symbols. Survivors needed faces to believe in. It wasn't just about defending the strong—it was about preserving hope.
As I entered the city, I saw it: a warship the size of a floating mountain hovering above the skyline. Titan-class Rikapud robots stomped through city blocks, their mechanical roars echoing across rooftops. Soldiers in augmented suits flowed like a black tide through the streets.
Buildings exploded. Civilians ran in every direction. Screams cracked the air like gunfire.
"Suit, activate: 100%," I ordered.
The systems surged to life, but at this level, I couldn't even perceive time normally. Some movements ran automatically, guided by the AI's predictive matrix. I hadn't mastered high-speed perception yet. The risk of brain hemorrhage, blackouts, or sudden cardiac arrest was very real.
But this wasn't about safety.
This was about now.
At max capacity, my limbs moved at Mach 10. My flight speed varied between Mach 15 and 20 depending on air density. I became a blur—too fast for most eyes to follow.
Swooping low through flame and debris, I pulled civilians from burning buildings, shielded those caught beneath rubble, delivered them to the robotic transports, and dashed back into the fire before the smoke cleared.
But I had to move faster.
I knew the Rikapud would soon locate the presidential residence. If they took the leadership out now, global unity would fracture. I couldn't allow that.
The titans were relentless. I avoided direct engagements where possible, disabling joints or ripping out cores only when absolutely necessary. Each blow drained my suit's reserves and strained my nerves.
Then the distress signal came.
From the president's security unit.
They were being annihilated.
Only fragments came through the comms—"...one of them... a soldier... no, something worse... we can't see it... it moves—" static "—he's at the door—" static "—God, help us—"
I pushed beyond safety limits, my suit's warning alarms screaming in my ear.
I arrived too late.
Inside the presidential bunker, the floor was painted with blood. Bodies—both robotic and human—lay in mangled heaps. Smoke rose from bullet holes and blast craters. The lights flickered.
The president was on his knees, defiant to the last.
Then—
A Rikapud cloaked in black metal stepped forward and slit his throat.
My vision narrowed.
I didn't speak. I didn't scream.
I launched forward, air cracking behind me, every muscle on the verge of collapse. The culprit was fast—faster than I expected. But I had speed. I had fury. And I had one goal:
Take him down.
Before my suit collapses.
Before my body fails.
Before hope dies with me.