“F1-1C.”

The first rounds of fire rang loud and thunderous in the quiet depths of the not-so abandoned house. Two bodies writhed on the floor. Male. Human.

“F1-2C. H2M..”

“On me.”

Heavy boots pressed against cold concrete with thudding footfalls, muffled in synchronized marches of might and power with each sweep of laser sights cut across the dim corridor. It was a fast advancement. Actions fluid, weapons trained. Eyes sharp, men sharper.

Stop.

A clenched fist signaled the silence and nothing but trained instinct and discipline followed after. Natural, easy discipline thanks to the programming shoved inside their brains. But they weren’t any mutt. Not any Loyalist machia who would go back to their owners—their creators—like obedient dogs for orders of shoot, kill, save on repeat.

Mitch shifted, his eyes followed each motion until the single nod approved their next advance and they moved.

The door yanked open with ease. Unlocked. Though, he wouldn’t expect any better from the human trash, always scrambling for pointless matters. Things like each other—family, friends. Weaknesses. Maybe that’s what set them apart in the first place.

It was pathetic.

“F1-3C, H0. Pushing F2.”

There goes the first floor.

It was a surprise there weren’t a lot of humans here. Almost a shame—intel said there would be more.

“F2-1C.”

He wondered if they were praying now, to whichever god would listen, with each room cleared. Desperate, whispered prayers from trembling lips, crosses and hands clutched tight. Did they beg for mercy from their creator? For a miracle? Or did they only hope for death that wasn’t slow?

No one like him would ever know that raw, desperate scramble for survival. Because it wasn’t him or his kind who prayed—it was their very own creators.

”F2-2-3C.”

Breakfast would be the same bland, barely edible sludge of nutrients disguised as food. Taste was an afterthought, minds preoccupied with other shit.

Breeding tests. Genetic trials. More experiments to try and crank out brats that no one would ever bother to care for. Treated it like some grand pursuit, the holy grail of machia kind, but the results wouldn’t matter. Not really. Just another cycle, another set of numbers in their gone-to-shit world until cells stopped regenerating, lungs stopped pumping, and cores finally failed.

”F2-4C, H7M. Execute.”

Gunfire tore through living bodies, swift and final, like judgment carried in wake of Boss’ order. Gruesome, but entirely disappointing. Human males were a liability in the wasteland—useless as another mouth to feed and maintain. They couldn’t breed, couldn’t carry the next generation.

The lucky ones ended up in labor camps, worked to the brink until their bodies gave out. The rest? Burdens. Maybe a set of holes, but even as his dick twitched at the thought of knowing what that was like, the ghost of Pete’s judgment killed the feeling entirely.

Bless his heart, and rest in piss.

Pete never saw the gunshot coming after he killed Dean—beaten him to death like it was sport. Mitch remembered it like it was yesterday. The way Dean twitched between blows until his body finally stilled. Pete had stood there, wiping his fists, grinning like it meant nothing.

Pete never liked disobedience. So when the Humane Machia, or whatever, movement started gaining traction, like some half-assed riot to free lab animals, he got antsy. Started acting tougher, like he had something to prove. Grew more balls.

But the machia were a lot more than just balls. Those movements dissolved quick when they realized the consequences of giving living weapons a taste of free will.

“M9, F0. Let's fuck off before Ego’s mutts get here. Looks like intel was wrong.”

Fucking hell. He turned, mind already racing with what he’d do once he got back to base. Plans, orders, his usual routine—things that made sense. But just as he was about to leave, his body locked up. A noise. Faint. Just the softest rustle. But close. Too close.

His head swiveled, eyes shifted, gun already raised, but his heart rate remained just the right amount of calm. Like he was out on an afternoon stroll.

He moved silently, as quiet as heavy boots on creaking wooden flooring could manage anyway, and leaned down, a gloved hand brushing over the bed's mattress. He lowered himself just enough to peer down the frame and spot a glimpse of the huddled figure beneath. He didn’t see much, but he could picture them entirely. Shaking. Probably crying.

Deeefinitely crying.

A woman.

Human.

Maybe twenty, forty, sixty years old—fuck if he knew, he couldn't see anything under there. But he knew it was a woman.

“Mitch, move! Where the fuck are you?!”

They’re calling for him now. Gotta get out before the Loyalists come. Or before the mutes and curs do.

But he’d never see her again. She looked scared. Fucking mortified. But who wouldn’t be?

There was an urge to report her, let his cackle know that there was a female human in the shelter, but something pulled at the barest strings of his synthetic heart with each shaky exhale she gave. Those wide eyes. Pure. Innocent.

Out of fucking place.

You’d crumble. He thought, in the hands of… well, his men at Deus. And he’d be the one to have caused it.

Can’t have that.

So he raised his hand, tapped the radio comm, and muttered low enough for his cackle to hear. “Hanging back. Gotta piss.”

A faint protest crackled back, static-y, as he practically ripped the helmet off his head in a hurry to make himself look less intimidating. Friendly. Approachable. More… human.

“American.” One of his brothers scoffed through the comm.

Makers… like they weren’t the same.

Technically, anyway. But the fancy-shmancy other-origin Machia never failed to pass the asshole test—trying to act superior, make themselves look better. Like the typical dick competition when there’s too much testosterone in a room filled with even more aggression and anger. But it was different now.

All the anger, aggression, and hate—it was all in the presence of something pure. Something that he knew was almost… sacred.

“C’mon. Ain’t gonna hurt you.” Mitch reached out a hand, cursing under his breath when he realized how low the human beds were. Why the hell did they make machia so damn tall?

Oh yeah. Super soldiers and shit.

“Unless you keep hiding in there, I might.” A small laugh escaped him, but it died quickly when he saw her face. Impossibly scared. Panicked.

“Sorry. Fucked up humor… never really talked to… humans.” Or a woman.