Kamcy
I started laughing.
Not a chuckle.
Not a breathy exhale.
Laughter.
Mad laughter—raw, ugly, and born from a place so deep it felt like something had finally cracked open inside my chest. It tore out of me in sharp, broken bursts until my sides burned and my vision blurred. I doubled over, hands braced on my knees, shoulders shaking as the sound echoed through the empty training hall.
Ten minutes.
Ten minutes to die.
Over and over and over again.
I wiped my eyes and straightened slowly, breath hitching as the laughter bled away into something colder. Something steadier.
"Enough," I muttered.
I'd been playing their game.
Charging in. Adapting on the fly. Learning. Improving.
And still dying anyway.
But during my last run, a thought hit me—simple, obvious, almost insulting in hindsight.
They never said I had a limit on the number of weapons I could access.
They only said I could pick my weapons.
I turned slowly toward the armory section.
"Requesting a bag," I said.
The specialized unit paused for half a second.
Then a heavy-duty tactical duffel materialized at my feet.
I smiled.
"Another."
A second bag appeared.
"And another."
By the time I was done, four reinforced duffels lay open before me like waiting mouths.
I packed them carefully.
Explosives came first.
Grenades—frag and concussion. Shaped charges. Fragmentation mines. Trip wires. Pressure triggers. Remote detonators. Blocks of gunpowder wrapped tight and sealed against moisture. Enough explosives that, with a beard and a manifesto, I could've made history for all the wrong reasons.
Firearms came next.
Assault rifles. A shotgun. Two pistols. Spare magazines stacked until the bags strained at the seams. I didn't bother counting ammo. I just kept loading.
Cold weapons last.
A spear.
An axe.
Throwing knives—too many to reasonably justify.
When I was finished, I zipped the bags shut and dragged them across the floor, muscles screaming as fabric scraped against polished metal.
One by one, I shoved them through the black door.
Then I followed.
The forest greeted me again.
Still. Quiet. Mocking.
I didn't admire it.
I butchered it.
The first tree came down with a groan, bark splitting as my axe bit deep at an angle. I hacked with purpose, sweat rolling down my spine, cutting just enough that gravity would finish the job when tension was applied.
Deadfall trap.
I moved on.
I dug pits with my bare hands until my nails cracked and my palms bled. Sharpened stakes from fallen branches, hammering them downward with stones until they stood like waiting teeth. I tested the depth twice before covering them lightly with leaves and soil.
I split bamboo, packed it with gunpowder and metal scraps, rigged crude firing pins with wire and tension plates.
Ugly.
Inelegant.
But still effective.
Trip wires came next—low enough to catch boots, high enough to snag torsos. Each wire led to something unpleasant. A falling tree. A fragmentation charge. A spike trap. Some led to nothing at all—decoys meant to freeze movement and spread fear.
Land mines went in last.
I placed them carefully, memorizing each step, each safe route. I walked the paths again and again until my feet moved without thought.
By the time I was done, the forest wasn't a forest anymore.
It was a weapon.
I sat against a tree, breathing hard, and muttered,
"If Muhammad won't come to the mountain, then the mountain will come to Muhammad… or is it the other way around?"
I snorted.
"Well. Whatever."
I waited.
Night fell.
The manor lit up like a beacon—floodlights slicing through the darkness, patrol patterns shifting as guards grew more alert.
Perfect.
I fired the first grenade launcher round into the right side of the outer wall.
Stone exploded. Fire bloomed. Alarms screamed.
I didn't wait.
I ran.
Not toward the compound.
Away from it.
Boots hit dirt as I moved through my forest of death, stepping only where I knew was safe.
Behind me, chaos erupted.
Response Team One came first—six guards, spread wide, rifles raised.
The lead man tripped the wire.
The tree fell.
He rolled forward quickly—but that seemed to be the intended plan, because by doing so he fell into a pit lined with spikes, ending his life instantly.
The rest scattered in fear.
Another group of two advanced cautiously.
The ground vanished beneath one of them.
He fell screaming into the pit.
The bamboo charge detonated.
Shrapnel shredded the second man's chest.
The forest came alive, fighting the men as they spread out in search of me.
Gunfire erupted blindly into the dark.
I was already gone.
I circled wide and fired a portable rocket launcher into a watchtower.
Yes. I carried one with me.
The tower collapsed in fire and debris.
They thought I was still outside.
Good.
I slipped into the maintenance tunnel.
Inside the manor, panic ruled.
Guards ran past hallways I hid in, shouting into radios, tripping over each other. I moved when they moved, froze when they froze.
When I found the target, I didn't hesitate.
One strike with the rifle butt.
Out cold.
I shoved them into a duffel and dragged them behind me.
On the way out—just as I left the tunnel after dragging my victi—mhmm, I meant target—out through the small exit hole, my enemies were waiting for me once more.
Dogs.
Four of them.
Taking a deep breath, I prepared myself, pulling out my combat knife.
The first latched onto my arm.
I slammed it into the wall and crushed its skull with my knee.
The second went for my leg.
I drove the knife into its throat and twisted.
The third tackled me.
Teeth sank into my shoulder.
I screamed and fired point-blank.
The fourth fled—
Then guards arrived, drawn by the chaos.
I opened two flash grenades and tossed them toward the sound, having spotted them first. Closing my eyes, the grenades went off and I heard them yell.
I rushed forward, tackled one, maneuvered my legs around his outstretched arm, flipped him, took his gun, and shot him in the head—then turned and shot the other.
Footsteps approached from a distance, rushing toward my location.
I ran, dragging the bag, and took cover behind a tree.
Gunfire tore through the forest.
Opening the bag, I found my target already awake. I shoved his head back inside and grabbed the shotgun beside him, smacking him unconscious once more.
Checking the time again—I had six minutes left.
Hearing no more gunfire, I knew they were probably reloading.
So I returned fire with the shotgun, each blast ripping flesh apart at close range.
A surprise round caught my side.
Another grazed my thigh.
I dragged the bag anyway.
Blood soaked the ground.
Every step burned.
Near the exit, Response Team Three waited.
Two guards.
Their weapons were trained on me, and mine on them. I took a subconscious glance at the timer once more.
Four minutes left. Four enemy soldiers left. Huh.
We fired.
Click.
Empty.
Silence.
They pulled out their weapons—one a combat knife, the other a small machete.
My knife was gone.
Looking around, I spotted a spear I had installed nearby.
They saw where I was looking and rushed to stop me.
The first swung the machete. I sidestepped and drove an open palm into his throat, staggering him backward.
The other came from the side with a slash. I narrowly dodged, grabbed his wrist, and slammed my fist into his elbow, snapping it.
He screamed as his teammate rushed to support him—but I deftly rolled past, grabbed the spear.
Two minutes.
They rushed me, pushing past the pain.
I met them halfway.
The spear punched through the first man's throat. His arm hung uselessly at his side as he stood wide-eyed, life leaving him.
The second slashed my ribs.
I roared and kicked him back, retrieved the spear, spun it, and took a stance.
I had the reach advantage now.
We sized each other up.
Then—just to piss me off—the target poked his head out of the bag, catching my opponent's attention.
He rushed to try and take a hostage.
I stepped forward and lunged, intercepting him. He dodged with a quick side slash, and I took the opportunity to grab a rock nearby and throw it, knocking him out.
Turning my attention back, I engaged my remaining opponent fully.
After multiple lacerations, he made a wide, desperate slash.
I drove the spear forward.
Pinned him to a tree.
The tip burst through his spine.
He dropped.
I staggered toward the bag.
I was about to drag my target when I noticed something.
Something that made me almost rip my hair out as I stood there, staring.
The timer ran out.
Black.
I woke up screaming.
I had mistakenly killed my target with the rock to the head.
"FUCK!"
Ms. Destiny
I watched Subject 1004's feed in silence.
He had emptied nearly the entire armory.
At first, I assumed madness.
Then I saw the pattern.
The layered traps.
The segmented enemy responses.
The deliberate manipulation of chaos.
The calm beneath the violence.
He had nearly succeeded.
Nearly.
I exhaled softly.
Then another notification appeared.
[Mission Complete — Subject 070.]
My eyes narrowed.
Interesting.