It all happened in an instant.
BOOM!!
The hum of electricity filled the air. As sparks burst from the muzzle of the [DB-2 Satara], a wet, cracking sound echoed—a mixture of hard shell shattering and soft gel bursting.
The Tyrant's punch froze mid-swing.
A red-and-white spray splattered across Leon's visor. Amid the shower of blood, the headless, restrained body swayed once, lost balance, and fell forward with a heavy crash.
"Five left," Leon murmured.
The [DB-2 Satara] electromagnetic shotgun—a rugged, reliable product from Cyberpunk-era Rostovich Corporation.
Though inferior in refinement to similar models from Arasaka, Kang Tao, or Tsunami Defense Systems, its dual arrays of twelve electromagnetic accelerators packed immense kinetic force. Even with standard steel nail rounds, it could pierce through cover and most available armor, knocking down even the most heavily cyberized psychotics.
Against B.O.W.s like Tyrants in this biohazard hellscape—it was the perfect weapon.
As for its drawbacks—weight, bulk, and brutal recoil—they were trivial if you wore a powered exoskeleton.
What? You can't afford one?
Tch. Then perhaps, dear pauper, you'd prefer a good old-fashioned kinetic rifle instead—ahem.
"Hah..." Leon didn't have time to admire the Satara's killing power. Still maintaining his evasive posture—leaning back with his weapon raised, tilting left, lowering his center of gravity—he used the EXO suit's thrusters to jet sideways at low output.
Only after the headless giant toppled under its own momentum did he—click!—reverse direction, thrusters flaring again.
Left burst!
Whoosh! Almost the moment Leon shifted from left to right, tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!—a storm of 7.62×54mmR armor-piercing rounds tore through the air, sweeping across from left to right.
The bullets hammered into the bulletproof-plated restraint suit of the fallen Tyrant, making wet slapping sounds.
Down by the riverside embankment, several unlucky Fallujah civilians caught stray rounds—screams rang out as they fell bleeding to the ground.
"ROAR!" The Tyrant wielding the PKM machine gun ignored it all, its clouded yet vicious eyes locked onto the target darting about on thrusters—the M.B.C.S. operative that refused to stay still.
Just as it raised the weapon for another volley—
A grenade hit it square in the face.
A proximity-fused 40mm incendiary round—no shrapnel, just pure chemical fury—detonated point-blank.
WHOOSH! Blinding white flame erupted, the magnesium-aluminum oxidizer burning at over 1,000°C, instantly engulfing the restraint suit.
Flames roared down its throat, sealing its voice in molten agony.
"Ghhkkk—" it rasped hoarsely, flailing as it burned, its PKM fire spraying wildly.
Nearby, a malformed Tyrant with rotting flesh and whip-like tentacles screeched and lashed out indiscriminately—friend, foe, or civilian—it didn't matter. Bodies flew, blood splattered, chaos consumed the bridgehead.
The east end of Bridge B was a scene of utter carnage.
M.B.C.S. assault troopers in powered EXO suits returned fire. Boom-boom! Thin trails of smoke rose from their rotary grenade launchers as two more rounds fired in quick succession.
WHUMP! WHUMP! The grenades struck and detonated. In that brief window, several M.B.C.S. troopers vaulted off the steel truss bridge.
Whoosh! Activating their jet thrusters midair, they skimmed above the debris-strewn bridgehead. Landing with precision, they rolled into cover, charging straight toward the oncoming Tyrants.
Meanwhile, Leon—taking advantage of the PKM gunner's blind fire—activated his thrusters again, bursting backward, retreating hard.
Because—
CLANG!!
A shadow tore through the air. Half a chunk of twisted metal wreckage screamed past Leon, missing him by inches, and smashed into the steel truss behind him with a deafening crash.
As he dodged, Leon's peripheral vision caught the source.
A Tyrant—unrestrained, fully mutated.
Its darkened skin bulged with mountainous muscle, layers of calcified bone plates erupting through its surface—dense, overlapping, like jagged armor.
"ROAR!" The creature bellowed, jaws wide enough to swallow a man whole. One massive claw, like a steel vice, reached out and seized a wrecked light-tracked cargo drone—one of the destroyed outpost's unmanned haulers, damaged during the earlier truck bomb assault.
"A new model based on the T-0400TP Tyrant, huh," Leon muttered, narrowing his eyes.
"Watch your fire—don't hit civilians," he warned over comms. Even as he spoke, his body moved faster than thought.
No retreat. He surged forward instead.
At that instant, gunfire erupted right behind him—so close it rang in his bones.
His teammates were laying down suppressive fire.
Following close behind Leon's advance, the M.B.C.S. troopers opened up on the fallen Tyrant's headless corpse, pouring in heavy rounds amid the chaos of B.O.W.s and zombies.
Nothing personal—just standard procedure. Preventing reanimation or mutation.
Point-blank range. Full-auto fire. Large-caliber armor-piercing and high-explosive rounds alternating.
Thwack! Thwack! Fibers and ceramic shards burst outward as the restraint suit and ribcage collapsed inward. The creature's heart and lungs were shredded; splintered bone pierced through skin.
A final incendiary round slammed into the blood-filled chest cavity.
BOOM! A wet detonation—blood and flame gushed from the neck stump.
Without pausing, the M.B.C.S. troopers moved up, crouching as they advanced to rejoin Leon.
At the same time—
"ROAR!" The clawed Tyrant, provoked by the humans' resistance, went berserk. Its claws clenched tighter as it swung the cargo hauler like a warhammer.
Leon stayed calm. The screech of metal scraping against claws and the rush of air from the swing filled his ears—but his instincts already knew.
He kicked hard off the ground, EXO thrusters shrieking, compressed gas propelling him sideways.
BOOM! The thousand-kilogram wreck slammed into the ground, shattering concrete and sending dirt, dust, and debris flying in all directions.
Through the haze, Leon slid to a halt, steadying his aim.
Zzz-BOOM!!
Electromagnetic discharge.
Fourteen tungsten darts streaked through the air in an arc of white plasma.
The Tyrant's head burst apart in a shower of blood and brain.
Clack. Two hot shells spun away.
Leon cracked open the shotgun, hands moving without looking—his fingers traced a blur between ammo pouch and weapon, reloading tungsten shells with machine-like precision. Lock, close, ready.
Without even glancing, he propelled himself forward again, sliding low across the blood-slick ground as the Tyrant's fetid claws slashed through empty air.
"A-squad, evacuate civilians! B-squad, cover fire—" Leon barked, but before he could finish, another massive claw swung toward him—from the opposite side.
"Two of them," he muttered, eyes flicking between targets through his Militech AR tactical helmet's enhanced HUD, every motion crystal clear.
A gust of foul, hot wind hit him head-on. Hiss!—the thrusters fired again.
In an instant, Leon launched upward, the EXO's jets roaring. The claws scraped past his boots, ripping through nothing but air.
He took a sharp breath, steady and silent, one-handedly raising the Satara.
He was right above the clawed Tyrant's head—its mottled, diseased skull filling his vision.
BOOM! The shot cracked like thunder. The Tyrant's head exploded into a mist of red pulp.
Leon landed immediately after, boot slamming onto the collapsing corpse's shoulder, kicking it backward.
THUD. As the clawed Tyrant's body hit the blood-soaked ground, Leon's other hand swung up, regripping the Satara. He turned sharply—
Zzz-BOOM!!
The second Tyrant's arm was torn off mid-swing, spiraling uselessly through the air before hitting the ground.
Leon didn't even look back.
It was already dead.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! Multiple Satara shotguns flared at once, arcs of white lightning dancing at their muzzles. Tungsten rounds ripped through the oncoming Tyrants, punching crater-sized holes through flesh and bone. Blood sprayed in clouds like pink mist as bodies collapsed in succession.
As one of Militech's elite M.B.C.S. operators—a model soldier meant to embody the corporation's power—Leon was no lone wolf. The challenge of this mission wasn't killing the bio-weapons.
It was saving people.
Fighting bioweapons without harming civilians—and doing it fast, under the watchful eyes of the media.
Leon scanned the battlefield.
"ROAR!" ×2
Two Tyrants remained.
One was armed, its restraint suit burned away, body mid-mutation—it knelt, pounding the ground with massive fists, cracking the concrete beneath it. The other, a tentacled variant with minimal intelligence, pushed through gunfire toward the cluster of civilians.
Leon said nothing. He simply reloaded.
Then he stepped forward, aimed, and fired. The first shot blew off half the mutating Tyrant's skull; the second obliterated its neck and collarbone in a flash of white plasma.
The M.B.C.S. troopers continued their sweep with mechanical precision.
"Concentrate fire! Take it down!"
"Don't panic! Move aside or get down!"
"Stay alert for a secondary attack!"
"Bridgehead cleared—requesting IFV deployment!"
...
Some were delivering point-blank execution shots to ensure no reanimation; others barked orders and curses to restore order, pushing back the panicked Fallujah civilians. Some fired suppression rounds and deployed smoke over the ruins, sending recon drones and robotic hounds inside. Others coordinated with the rear lines, calling for support and reinforcements.
The coalition worked seamlessly, rebuilding the outpost at Bridge B's eastern approach.
Gunfire tapered off. The terrorists withdrew. Detected targets on sensors and threat grenades dwindled rapidly.
Whether they were retreating—or planning something worse—was anyone's guess.
While Leon moved through the chaos, plugging gaps, pulling survivors, fighting fires wherever needed, the war correspondents on the western slope of Bridge B watched in stunned silence.
"Did you get that?"
"Got it."
"Good."
Someone exhaled, awestruck. "Unbelievable—one minute of close-quarters combat, all while controlling fire to avoid civilian casualties... what a stunning victory."
Someone else sighed mournfully. "The bioweapons used civilians as shields... this is a tragedy for humanity."
Another frowned. "Isn't M.B.C.S. too ruthless? These screening procedures are inhumane. Look at those poor people—they're trapped in hell. They need help, not to be left there to die. The coalition should open the checkpoints—"
A voice cut him off, scoffing. "Are you insane? Open the checkpoints? What if a suicide bomber or an infected slips through?"
Arguments erupted.
...
Was this victory?
Leon asked himself.
He looked around—the buildings flanking Fallujah's main road were riddled with holes, many reduced to rubble. Shattered limbs and ash littered the cracked earth.
...
The air stank of rust, dust, and decay—a thick, nauseating stench of death.
The sky over Fallujah was suffocating, yellow and dim even at noon, like a festering wound scabbed over.
Leon turned.
New sandbag walls and blast barriers were rising—the rebuilt outpost taking shape.
A line of numb Fallujah civilians, stripped of their belongings, shuffled forward.
Behind steel barricades and barbed wire stood armed soldiers.
Within the zone, wounded refugees lay scattered.
Some alone. Some beside loved ones.
The medics offered only painkillers—nothing more.
Resources were limited. No one knew which of the wounded might turn.
Suddenly—"Ah... hhkkk—" someone convulsed and coughed violently.
His wife and daughter screamed, trying to help—but the soldiers pulled them away by force.
A rifle was raised. Cold eyes watched.
The man went still for a moment—then his limbs jerked, body snapping upright—
BANG! His forehead burst open.
BANG! BANG! Two more rounds followed, before the soldier turned to the dazed mother and daughter.
"My condolences. Please proceed to screening." He gestured calmly.
Amid the ruins of war, scenes of separation and despair unfolded one after another.
"Sigh..." Leon wiped the grime from his visor and exhaled deeply.
"I hope Chris and Ivan are doing alright," he muttered, glancing north toward his assigned sector—Sweep Zone 2-1, Bridge A.
He thought of Carlos and Jill in nearby Zone 3-1.
"Hopefully I'll link up with them before nightfall."
He climbed into a Humvee, joining the convoy of APCs and transports—bringing in ammunition, evacuating civilians and wounded alike—heading back toward the western bridgehead.
Along the way, he saw war reporters photographing the refugees.
All this carnage would soon become courtroom evidence for America's accusation: Iraq's development of weapons of mass destruction.
"Goddamn war," Leon cursed softly.
Then came silence.
Only the endless echo of distant gunfire and explosions filled the air.
Fallujah would not sleep tonight.
...
Elsewhere, late night in San Francisco.
The luxurious banquet at the Fillory Estate had just ended.
After tucking Ashley and her friends safely into bed, Vela lay asleep.
Zzz...