Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 144277 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 721(@200wpm)___ 577(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144277 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 721(@200wpm)___ 577(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
Because the only ‘friendly’ in this place, is me.
The world bends back. A few moments of inhuman screamin’. Bodies thumpin’ to the ground far below. Then… silence.
NON-SIGNAL ENTITIES: PURGED.
I breathe out. Relaxin’. Smilin’. Workin’.
I’ve missed it.
So what comes next, is kind of a bonus. With no holster for the Versi, I grab the platform railing with one hand and swing down a level. The scaffolding’s not much—just a janky weave of rebar and rusted plating, the kind of patchwork shit you’d find in a halfway-collapsed mining rig back in the Outlands. Gaps everywhere. Welding marks like scars. Parts of it groan when I land, flexin’ under my weight, like they weren’t built to hold a Sweep-class anything.
But that’s fine. I’m not here to ask permission.
I drop again. One level, then two. I grip a support pipe, slide down fast, boots sparkin’ off the friction. Metal shudders. My shoulder clips a crossbeam, rattles my teeth. I land hard on a grated walkway—knee bent, Versi still hummin’ in my hand like it’s buzzin’ for round two.
From here I can see the ground—just a few more levels down.
Dead mutants below. Twisted bodies. Wings torn, limbs bent at angles no god ever intended.
But somewhere deeper in this place… Epsilon’s runnin’.
Good.
Let him.
Chasin’s the part I like.
Blood squelches under my boots when I drop to the arena floor. It’s everywhere—slick, congealed, steamin’. Mutant limbs twitch in piles, wings still flutterin’ like they don’t know they’re dead. I keep the Versi at high-ready, barrel smokin’, nerves buzzin’ from overload, ears ringin’ from the last scream that hasn’t quite faded yet.
This is cleanup, not victory.
I breathe out, a low growl in my throat. Confidence isn’t peace—it’s pressure, coiled tight. I scan the bodies one last time. Then turn, find the nearest tunnel mouth—black, gapin’, stinkin’ of metal and meat.
And I walk in without lookin’ back.
It’s cold in here. Damp, too. Metal pipes above are drippin’ and hissin’. The whole place stinks of rot and stale coolant. I pause at the first corner, shoulder to the wall, eyes scanning the dark. Nothing moves.
OK. They ran. That’s fine. I’m gonna clean them up no matter where they try and hide. Then I’m gonna hunt down Epsilon and we’re out.
Easy.
Blinkin’, I trigger the PhaseTether on my data display so the plan I’ve been concoctin’ in my head the last few days can play out.
Time to end this shit.
But instead of the usual data flash tellin’ me it’s online, I get a flicker and a message…
UPDATE REQUIRED: It has been 2972 days since your last update.
UPDATING MOD...
STAND BY.
I lower my Versi—lookin’ at it. “Really? You’re gonna do this to me now?”
1%...
“This is not cool.”
PREPARING PROMOTIONAL PACKAGE…
Oh no.
No no no—
As if to mock me, the speaker on the Versi comes to life, emulating a carnival-barker-like pitch, tryin’ to sell me a newer version.
“Step right up, step right up! Feast your eyes on the crown jewel of forbidden warfare, the myth, the menace, the PhaseTether 7.77!”
“For fuck’s sake!” I shake the weapon, hopin’ the gyro might kick in and knock the update offline.
Doesn’t work.
“Not your daddy’s bullet, no sir—this little beauty doesn’t kill the enemy, it unhooks 'em from reality!”
5%...
Why me?
“Pull the trigger—watch 'em vanish! One twitch and your target’s shakin’ in limbo, slippin’ sideways into a dimension so unstable, even death won’t follow.”
9%...
“Contain 'em! Banish 'em! Torment 'em, if that’s your fancy! We don’t ask questions—we just displace.”
“Yeah, yeah, torment 'em, got it—just fuckin’ load already.”
12%...
“PhaseTether: Because dead is too easy. WARNING! Highly unstable! Side effects may include spontaneous howling, spatial screaming, and cosmic regret!”
15%...
Of course there’s muzak. I hum along like a jackass, because of course I know the tune. Everyone who’s ever bled in the Outlands does.
Fuckin’ Myra. She was the one who loved the mods.
Don’t think about that shit now, Tyse. Focus. You don’t need to wait for the update! You’re a goddamned Sweep Augment!
Right.
Let’s go. No more sales pitch. No more spark miracles. Just me, my hands, and the shit left over.
I move through the tunnels like I was built for it—low light, close quarters, blood in the air. My boots splash through standing water and streaks of something thicker. Every few steps, a mutant lunges from the dark.
One gets a blade through the throat—flesh parts like wet paper.
Another drops from the ceiling—I grab its jaw mid-roar and snap it sideways.
Crack. Toss. Step.
I don’t breathe hard. Don’t break rhythm. This is muscle memory.
This is me.
Shoulderin’ a corner, I spot him before he sees me. He’s hunched over, limp in his gait, hauling a couple of packs like they weigh more than he does.
My fuckin’ rucks.
Every instinct goes quiet. No rage, no nerves, just target lock.
Luther.
That wired-up psychopath lived. And not just lived—he’s draggin’ both of my Versi ammo rucks like they’re trophies.
He stumbles forward, muttering to himself, “We unspooled her, didn’t we? We did, we did…”