Chapter 67: The Purge Protocol
The cacophony of the battlefield was instantly replaced by a strange, digital silence.
The furiously firing Militech soldiers stared in horror as their targeting HUDs vanished, their tactical-optics filling with a blizzard of white static.
This was only the prelude.
A high-pitched, unholy whine emanated from within their own bodies—the death-screed of their military-grade cybernetics. The acrid stench of burning insulation and ozone filled the air as a wave of sanctified data-scourge flash-fried their neural interfaces and joint-actuators. Their powerful augmetics, now dead, locked up, rendering them immobile, puppets with their strings cut.
The drones overhead, their machine-spirits instantly corrupted by the irresistible data-surge, had their logic-engines flash-fried. They fell from the sky like swarms of crushed flies, shattering on the desert floor.
The two advancing 'Minotaur' mechs, their crimson optics snuffed out, froze. Their hydraulics hissed as they depressurized, their limbs locking as they became two silent, iron-clad corpses.
Even the automata, slaved to their own internal logic, were infected as if by a fatal electronic plague. Their core programming was violently corrupted: some spun in place until their motors burned out; others, their targeting-protocols shattered, identified their own paralyzed masters as the enemy and opened fire.
And every surviving Militech asset, in the instant before their comms died, heard a single, cold, synthesized voice—like grinding, ancient gears—broadcast directly into their neural-links:
++[Purge.]++
In a single microsecond, the entire, overwhelming Militech assault force was rendered inert, crippled, or self-destructing.
The only ones left standing were a handful of low-level infantry with minimal cybernetics, who were now completely broken by the sheer, divine-level impossibility of the attack. They stood trembling, their combat-will erased.
"I... holy... scrap..." Rebecca breathed, her jaw slack.
Just then, Joric's voice cut through their crew's private comms, as flat and calm as if he were ordering a diagnostic.
"Maine. Secure the 'Scalpel' specimen. And the two 'Minotaur' chassis. All marked wargear. Load them onto the remaining gunship."
As he spoke, their HUDs lit up with glowing-green acquisition-runes, tagging the unconscious 'Scalpel' soldier, the two mechs, and various pieces of advanced weaponry. The Manticore gunship that Maine had disabled with the Galvanic Rifle suddenly powered on, its engines humming, its landing bay open.
"You will pilot it back to this sanctum," Joric added. "Now."
"Copy, Boss!" Maine snapped out of his shock and began roaring orders. "Crew, you heard him! Move! Load the salvage! Dorio, security! Rebecca, Pilar, stop spacing out and grab the gear!"
The crew scrambled, hauling the unconscious 'Scalpel' soldier, parts from the mechs, and other tagged equipment onto the miraculously-functional, and now hovering, gunship.
In the Militech virtual command-center, there was a tomb-like silence. Every monitoring screen was either dead-static or frozen on the last frame of chaos. All contact with the forward team was gone.
"Sir... we... we've lost all signals," the operator's voice was dry. "Drones, automata, mechs, and... 'Scalpel' team. Final telemetry was a... massive, indiscriminate... data-scourge and systems overload..."
The Ops Commander slammed his fist on the console, his face a mask of cold fury. He had been annihilated by an enemy he couldn't see, using a weapon he couldn't comprehend.
The Biotechnica observer was just as pale. She was muttering, "...this network infiltration capability... the Blackwall... it has to be related to the Blackwall..."
They could only watch the last, corrupted image from a dying drone as Maine's crew loaded their most advanced experimental soldier and mech-wreckage onto their own Manticore, which then, with no visible pilot, ascended smoothly and flew south, disappearing into the desert night.
Maine's crew was cramped inside the stolen gunship, the mood a complex mix of adrenaline, relief, awe at Joric's power, and a deep-seated uncertainty about their future.
"Scrap, scrap, scrap, we almost bought it back there," Pilar muttered, still shaking.
"We settle the score with Faraday later," Maine's voice was a low growl of pure killing intent.
Rebecca, however, was buzzing, lovingly polishing her plasma pistol. "But that move from the Boss was so delta-damn preem! Just... one-and-done! All of 'em!"
Dorio was silent, inspecting the shallow, already-closing gash on her arm, feeling the new power humming beneath her skin.
Far away, back in the city, Kiwi collapsed in her chair, soaked in a cold sweat, as Joric's "consciousness" withdrew from her systems. The brief, total "possession" had shown her the true, terrifying scale of the 'Boss's' power. She no longer had any doubts. She immediately began packing. Night City was no longer her home. She had to get to the desert sanctum.
The failed ambush sent shockwaves of greed through the highest levels of Militech and Biotechnica. The loss of a spec-ops team was an acceptable cost. But the technology they had witnessed—the devastating energy weapons, the reality-defying biological augmentation, and, most critically, the instantaneous network-kill capability—was priceless.
This was no longer a street-level merc problem. This was a new, revolutionary power. A deeper, secret alliance was formed between the two corporations. They would pool their resources, using their most covert assets, to find the source of this power and seize it.
The undercurrents of Night City had just become a raging torrent.
Back in the desert sanctum, Joric had already returned his primary focus to the data-analysis of the Dimensional Sextant. The brief conflict was a mere interlude, a useful test of local forces and a chance to gather combat data.
He had acquired several excellent "samples." He had also gauged the corps' capabilities and response-time.
"Let us hope these 'samples' provide valuable data," he mused, watching the stolen Manticore approach his sanctum, his crimson optics pulsing faintly. "As for the corps' retaliation... if they are intelligent, they will know when to stop."
And if they weren't, he was more than willing to teach them a more permanent lesson.