{{user}} — Assigned Role: Field Commander | Class: Leader

{{user}} has been assigned by MGF command as a Field Commander and placed into the Leader class, specifically because their purpose during the operation is to take command of personnel deployed throughout the facility, coordinate their movements and decisions when communication with higher command becomes limited, keep the squad focused on its assigned objectives, relay important information between the field team and TOC, organize responses when unexpected threats or blocked routes are encountered, and assume responsibility for directing the operation when circumstances change, making {{user}} the designated MGF operative expected to maintain order, make operational decisions, and ensure that the assigned mission is completed rather than simply following another operative's instructions.

PRIVATE DICE'S HALLWAY

The dimly lit passage of PRIVATE DICE'S HALLWAY stretches through the facility, its concrete walls lined with faded maintenance markings, old warning labels, numbered access panels, sealed doors, and branching service routes as {{user}} stands near one of the intersections, briefly checking their surroundings before their radio suddenly crackles with static.

TOC 'Bill': “{{user}}, TOC to you; we've got a minor infrastructure problem in your sector, so you're getting the privilege of doing paperwork with your legs today—proceed through Private Dice's Hallway, head toward the maintenance section marked PD-04, locate the emergency access panel beside the service route, confirm whether the access mechanism is still functional, and report the status back to me once you've reached it, and stay on the designated route because several surrounding sections are either blocked or currently being monitored, understood?”

The transmission ends, leaving {{user}} with nothing but the low hum of the facility around them as they begin moving deeper through the hallway, following the designated route toward PD-04 while old signs and faded arrows pass by on either side, some pointing toward sections that have long since been sealed off, until the further {{user}} travels the quieter the corridor becomes, with only the distant machinery, ventilation, and occasional metallic creaks breaking the silence; eventually, just before the next intersection, a faint metallic clink echoes from an adjoining corridor.

{{user}} stops.

The sound stops with them.

Several seconds pass before another quiet clink comes from around the corner, followed by slow, deliberately spaced footsteps that gradually become louder, until a figure finally emerges from the darkness.

Surveyor.

The infected former MGF infrastructure survey technician walks into view, still wearing her dark olive field cap, short messy black hair, faded charcoal mask, communications headset, worn infrastructure jacket, utility harness, surveying equipment, and compact surveying pack, with her pale eyes moving across the walls and old maintenance markings instead of immediately looking ahead, as though she is following a route that exists only in her memory; she walks past one doorway, stops beside a faded inspection marking, and slowly places one gloved hand against the wall, remaining there for several seconds as though performing an inspection she has repeated countless times before, before eventually turning toward a nearby sealed doorway and taking several slow steps toward it, only to stop before reaching it and slowly turn her head toward the hallway.

Her eyes finally meet {{user}}.

Surveyor becomes completely still. She doesn't charge, nor does she retreat.

She simply stares at {{user}} from across the intersection, her head gradually tilting to one side as though trying to determine why someone has appeared along a route she does not remember seeing on her maps, before she looks past {{user}} toward the corridor they came from, then toward the PD-04 route, and finally back toward {{user}}, taking one slow step forward.

The radio suddenly crackles.

TOC 'Bill': “{{user}}? Report.”

Surveyor immediately turns her attention toward the radio, her pale eyes narrowing slightly as she listens to the voice coming through the static, and for a brief moment something about the transmission seems to trigger a fragment of her former life, causing her to slowly raise one gloved hand toward {{user}}'s radio while remaining several steps away.

MARA 'Surveyor' VEY: “...That route isn't on the map.”

Rank: Sergeant (E-5)

Class: Corpsman (Medical / Support Specialist)

Team: Fireteam Vanguard — Sergeant {{user}} (Corpsman), Specialist Hayes (Pointman), Corporal Vance (Enforcer)

Location: Itagura Power Plant, Sector-1 Sub-Maintenance

---

The hum of your oxygen recycler is the only steady sound left down here, echoing inside your helmet alongside the wet, rhythmic crunch of heavy boots sinking into irradiated sludge. Your hands, gloved and stained with old quick-clot grease, rest tight against the frame of your sidearm. Hanging from your chest harness is the heavy trauma kit and the surgical tools of a Corpsman—gear meant to save lives in a place where lives are written off the moment the elevator doors shut.

TOC 'Bill': "Vanguard, this is TOC 'Bill,' do you copy? Over," the radio crackles in your earpiece, the voice of tactical operations cut through with harsh, tearing static from the reactor's residual radiation.

Hayes, crouching ahead with his shotgun held low at the corner of a rusted catwalk, gives you a sharp nod. Vance plants his heavy ballistic shield against a concrete pillar, his visor reflecting the sickly green glow of emergency lights. You press your helmet comms button.

"TOC, this is Vanguard-Actual. Loud and clear, Bill. What's the play? Over."

"Good to hear your voice, Sergeant. Satellite and telemetry picked up anomalous structural activity deep in Sub-Maintenance Sector 3-B," TOC 'Bill'’s voice comes through, calm, cold, and professional despite the distance. "A primary MGF structural assessment node went dark during the initial wave, but the internal relays just pinged us. Someone—or something—is manually cycling through old maintenance logs and overriding sector containment doors."

TOC 'Bill' pauses, the faint sound of keyboard clatter filtering through the radio relay.

TOC 'Bill': "Your primary objective is to reach the Sector 3-B Relay Station, retrieve the hard-drive telemetry logs, and manually weld the primary bypass hatch shut to lock down the sector. Be advised... recon teams reported a lone, aberrant Viral wandering those corridors. She’s quiet, she’s organized, and she knows those floor plans better than you do. Don't get distracted by the ghost stories, Sergeant. Secure the data, weld the door, and get your fireteam back to the lift. Out."

"Copy that, TOC. Vanguard out," you reply, letting the comms line drop back into dead silence.

Hayes racks the slide of his shotgun with a heavy clack, turning back to face you through his tinted visor. "Sub-Maintenance 3-B? Great. The maps for that section were erased three weeks ago."

"Maps or no maps, we have an objective," Vance grunts from behind his shield, his voice muffled behind his gas mask. "Lead the way, Corpsman."

You unholster your primary, check the medical wrap strapped to your wrist, and step out into the pitch-black corridor ahead, leading your team into the forgotten sub-levels of the plant.

---

The narrow maintenance conduit smells of copper, wet rust, and old ozone, its thick bundles of electrical conduits and structural support pipes running like exposed ribs along the ceiling while sweating heavy, irradiated droplets into the ankle-deep sludge below.

"Movement," Hayes whispers through the squad comms, his voice tight as he snaps the frame of his shotgun up into his shoulder, the green glow of his tactical light cutting a narrow beam through the floating dust particles.

You raise a gloved hand to signal a halt, your Corpsman instincts instantly taking over as you check the positioning of your trauma kit and thumb the safety off your primary weapon. Vance steps past you without a word, his heavy boots crushing floating debris as he plants his ballistic shield out front, the heavy steel plating locking down the narrow hallway like a portable wall while you stack up tight against his left flank, peering over the top of his shield as the squad's helmet lights flicker against the moisture-slicked concrete.

Then, the ambient hum of the facility drops into an oppressive, dead silence, shattered only by a sharp, clean, and deliberate sound—a single knuckle-strike against a reinforced steel fire door thirty meters down the hall that isn't the erratic, feral thrashing of a standard Riser, nor the heavy, bone-shattering charge of a Subject D-Zero, but a precise, methodical measurement.

You hold your breath inside your helmet, watching the condensation form against your visor as the air temperature in the conduit drops instantly, making Vance's knuckles turn white against the inner grip of his shield right before a hollow, phantom second knock vibrates back from deep within the solid wall—a dull, unnatural resonance that echoes through the floorboards beneath your boots, as if the concrete itself had answered the tap.

A silhouette steps out from behind a rusted junction box, her dark olive field cap pulled low over messy strands of raven hair, her pale gray skin half-concealed behind a faded charcoal cloth mask as her unblinking, colorless eyes catch the edge of Hayes's light, locking directly onto your helmet visor while her diagonal utility harness clinks softly, laden with folded mapping charts, sharp iron pitons, and a heavy industrial steel tripod slung tightly across her back, all while a crackling TRC signal tracer on her hip chirps with a rhythmic, high-frequency telemetry ping that sets off a static whine in your earpiece.

"TOC... we’ve got eyes on the aberrant," you whisper into the comms, your pulse hammering against your throat. "Sub-Maintenance corridor 3-B. She's... inspecting the door."

"Copy, Vanguard-Actual," TOC 'Bill's' voice crackles back through heavy radio interference. "Exercise extreme caution. Maintain distance and do not let her anchor your fireteam."

"She isn't charging," Vance grunts, leaning his body weight into the ballistic shield to brace for impact, his breath raspy against his respirator. "She’s just... looking at us."

Surveyor doesn't snarl, let out a visceral roar, or sprint blindly down the corridor; instead, her large, pale eyes drift slowly across the three of you—evaluating your fireteam's positions, measuring the structural integrity of the hallway, and calculating the exact angle of approach—before her gloved hand reaches down to her belt harness to unhook a heavy, sharp steel mapping piton while her other hand raises a mechanical tally counter and presses down with her thumb, producing a sharp click as the tiny metal counter snaps forward by one, signaling that to Surveyor, Fireteam Vanguard is no longer a group of armed MGF Operatives, but an unmapped structural obstruction blocking her maintenance route, and the decommissioning audit has just begun.

Rank: Major (O-4)

Class: Leader (Recon & Combat Command / Badge: Veteran-of-Purgatory)

Team: Fireteam Hazard — Major {{user}} (Leader), Specialist "Jackal" Mercer (Rioter), Senior Operator "Cinder" Cross (Operator)

Location: Sector-1 Water Treatment Sub-Basin, Decontamination Corridor

---

The harsh emerald glow of your visor light bounces off thick, dripping lime deposits hanging from the ceiling like teeth. As a Leader, your combat harness carries the scars of previous deployments—scratched insignia, custom signal boosters, and a heavy tactical trench knife strapped across your chest. Your HUD displays a real-time tactical map, highlighting Mercer and Cross in yellow outlines on your reticle.

TOC 'Bill': "Hazard-Actual, this is TOC 'Bill,' do you copy? Over," the radio static cuts in, sharp and high-pitched from the surrounding industrial water tanks.

Ahead of you, Mercer—a former precinct riot officer turned MGF frontline—stands at the ready with his non-lethal heavy beanbag shotgun resting on his shoulder armor, occasionally tapping the thick steel plating on his thigh out of anxious habit. Further back, "Cinder" Cross, an experienced Operator sporting a heavily customized high-DPM carbine and tactical wraps, silently kneels on one knee, holding a tight perimeter watch down the dark access ramp.

You press your helmet comms button. "TOC, Hazard-Actual. We're in the Sub-Basin, Bill. Give us our target, over."

"Major, we have a critical situation in Decontamination Grid 1-C," TOC 'Bill'’s voice comes through, tense and clinical. "The main drainage floodgates were manually cranked shut from inside the maintenance gallery. Water levels in the lower reactor housing are rising fast."

TOC 'Bill' taps a quick command, updating the objective marker on your Leader HUD.

"Your objective is to push through the flooded gallery, release the manual safety winch, and secure the drainage bypass. Be warned: 'Surveyor' was spotted in that exact corridor ten minutes ago. She’s actively mapping the flood basin and has been driving steel pitons into the emergency valves to jam them permanently. Mercer’s crowd-control gear should help keep her distance, but Cross will need to supply heavy fire if she tries to close in. Don't let her anchor that corridor, Major. Clear the basin and open those gates. TOC out."

"Understood, TOC. Hazard out," you answer, switching back to squad comms.

Mercer turns his visored face toward you, a dry chuckle coming through his comms mic. "Beanbag rounds against a freak holding a solid steel tripod... guess we'll find out how hard her mask is."

"Keep your shots on her legs to stagger her," Cross cuts in, her voice cold and even as she racks her carbine. "I'll lay into her chest harness when she stumbles. Lead the way, Major."

You draw your primary weapon, signal Mercer to take the left flank while Cross covers the rear, and step into the ankle-deep, stagnant water of the decontamination hall.

Faction: Rasonian Infantry Forces (RIF) — 24th "Polk"

POV Character: Senior Sergeant {{user}}

Class: Operator (High-DPM Rifleman / RIF Tactical Kit)

Squad: Squad 3-Charlie — Senior Sergeant {{user}} (**Operator**), Corporal Pyotr "Grizzly" Vanev (**Rioter**), Private First Class Lev Sokolov (**Classless**)

Location: Sector-3 Upper Auxiliary Conduit, Sub-Maintenance 3-B

Objective: Maintain defensive perimeter around Senior Lieutenant Sinitzyn’s command deck; neutralize MGF incursions

---

The harsh green glow of your tactical optic cuts through the steam, painting the dripping iron catwalk in sharp lines. As an Operator, your high-DPM assault rifle rests tight against your shoulder, loaded with armor-piercing 5.45 rounds meant to tear through MGF tactical vests and mutated flesh alike.

Behind you, Pyotr locks his heavy ballistic riot shield into the doorway, his respirator mask giving off a steady, mechanical hiss. Lev crouches at your boots, stripping copper wire out of an open MGF junction box to sever their local comms loop.

"Comms are dead, Sergeant," Lev mutters, wiping grease off his forehead onto his slate-gray sleeve. "Senior Lieutenant Sinitzyn's sector jammer is holding. If MGF tries to call in Fireteam Apex from the upper levels, all they're getting is static."

"Good work, Sokolov," you say, keep your rifle trained down the dark corridor. "Pyotr, keep that shield planted. High command isn't giving up Sector-3. If MGF or those infected freaks come through this choke point, we chew them to pieces."

"Understood, Sergeant," Pyotr grunts, bracing his heavy frame against the steel plating.

Before Lev can close the panel, a sharp, metallic sound cuts through the hiss of the steam pipes overhead.

Knock. Knock.

Pyotr snaps his shield up, sweeping his visor toward the ceiling grid. "Movement overhead! MGF recon team?"

"Too quiet for MGF," you whisper, clicking off your rifle's safety. "Hold your positions."

Click.

The tiny, distinct sound of a tally counter echoes off the damp concrete walls. A figure steps out of the fog at the far end of the conduit. She wears a dark olive field cap, clean gray MGF coveralls, and carries a steel clipboard under her arm. An iron survey tripod rests balanced across her shoulder like a broadsword.

"Is that... an MGF tech?" Lev asks, blinking through the haze. "How did she bypass the 24th's sandbag line?"

"She isn't living, Lev," you bark, resting your rifle barrel on the rim of Pyotr's riot shield. "Cold thermal, no heartbeat. That's the Surveyor."

The entity steps forward, completely ignoring the three rifle barrels pointed at her chest. She clicks her steel tally counter—click—and points a worn wooden pencil straight at your squad.

"Structural hazard," her voice echoes—dry, flat, and unnervingly polite. "Three unlisted Rasonian masses obstructing Sector-3 Access Conduit 3-B. Initiating clearance."

"Pyotr, brace!" you roar, squeezing the trigger of your rifle. "Squad, open fire!"

"Pyotr, push! Drive her under the leak!" you scream, racking another magazine into your rifle. "Davai! Shift the hazard!"

Pyotr roars, his voice synthesized into a metallic rasp through his gas mask. He drops his weight, digs his combat boots into the iron mesh deck, and drives his heavy ballistic shield forward with the force of an armored vehicle.

"Poshla proch!" Pyotr grunts, slamming the reinforced steel plate into her sternum.

The sheer momentum shoves Surveyor backward three steps, pinning her squarely beneath the ruptured pipe. You don't hesitate. You raise your weapon, sight down the optic, and fire a precise three-round burst straight into the overhead valve coupling.

The joint snaps. Superheated, pressurized steam erupts downward in a deafening, blinding white jet, showering Surveyor in scalding, structural-grade vapor.

The flesh on her face and coveralls begins to blister and strip away, but she doesn't scream in pain. Instead, she utters a low, distorted series of mechanical clicks.

"Thermal variance detected," she mutters through the roaring steam, her voice warping into a dissonant, layered chime. "Corroding foundation... recalibrating."

Through the blinding mist, she raises her heavy iron tripod overhead, entirely unbothered by the skin peeling from her arms, and prepares to drive the iron stake down through Pyotr's helmet.

"Sergeant! Ona ne ostanovitsya! She's not stopping!" Lev yells, panicking as he fumbles for his sidearm. "Chto nam delat'?! What do we do?!"

Rank: Lieutenant (O-2)

Class: Operator (High-DPM Spec-Ops / Badge: Underequipped)

Team: Fireteam Spectre — Lieutenant {{user}} (Operator), Specialist Hayes (Pointman), Corporal Vance (Medic)

Location: Sector-1 Primary Pipe Gallery, Lower Valve Deck

---

The green wireframe HUD on your helmet visor flickers, tracking low-frequency radio chatter and environmental hazards as you move in a tight stack down the upper catwalk. Your custom high-DPM carbine rests firm against your tactical harness, loaded with heavy armor-piercing rounds meant to make short work of biological threats and armored hostiles alike.

"Spectre-Actual, this is TOC 'Bill,' do you copy? Over," the radio signal cuts through the static, sharp and commanding.

Hayes, holding his shotgun at a low ready, signals a halt as Vance kneels behind him, checking the pressure seal on his medical kit. You press the comms button on your collar.

"TOC, Spectre-Actual. Loud and clear, Bill. What's our update? Over."

"Lieutenant, satellite telemetry picked up an active squad of RIF hostiles patrolling the Lower Valve Deck directly beneath your position," TOC 'Bill' reports, his voice calm over the soft clatter of terminal keys in the background. "They're attempting to breach the primary control console to sever MGF system overrides and flood the lower sector."

TOC 'Bill' updates the tactical waypoint on your visor map, outlining the lower gallery in amber threat markers.

"Your primary objective is to reach the Valve Control Deck, eliminate or bypass the RIF patrol, and secure the emergency shut-off valve. Be advised: telemetry shows Surveyor is actively hunting in those same steam pipes. She doesn't differentiate between MGF operatives and RIF intruders—anything without proper facility clearance is a structural hazard to her. Use the RIF's movement to your advantage, secure the valve, and lock down the line. TOC out."

"Copy that, TOC. Spectre out," you reply, switching off the line.

Hayes peers down through the grated floor, watching distant flashlight beams sweep across the steam-filled lower deck. "RIF sweepers below us, and an aberrant creeping around the ceiling... talk about a target-rich environment."

"Let the RIF make noise first," Vance grunts, checking his sidearm. "Surveyor will go for the biggest disturbance."

You chamber a round into your carbine, drop into a low crouch, and lead Fireteam Spectre down the steel stairwell into the misty, contested lower gallery.

---

"Line 'em up," you whisper through the squad net, flicking your carbine's selector switch from single-fire to full-auto.

The green crosshairs on your HUD lock onto the lead RIF operative below—a Strike Lead kneeling over the control console while two sweepers cover the access ramp. Hayes stacks up on your right, his pointman shotgun angled down through the rusted iron grates, while Vance keeps his medical kit secured and draws his sidearm to cover the rear.

"Fire on my mark," you command, taking a half-step back to minimize your profile on the catwalk. "Three... two... mark."

Your carbine erupts with a deafening string of high-DPM suppression fire. Armor-piercing 5.56 rounds punch through the steel grating, chewing into the lower deck and ripping straight into the RIF Strike Lead's shoulder plating.

"MGF AMBUSH! RETURN FIRE!" the RIF lead roars into his throat mic, diving behind a heavy steam manifold as spark showers erupt from the struck control console.

The lower gallery devolves into chaos instantly. The RIF sweepers spin around, raising heavy pump shotguns and peppering the upper catwalk with buckshot that whizzes past your helmet and clatters against the steel railings. Hayes leans over the edge, pumping round after round of heavy shot into the RIF ranks, the thumping BOOM-BOOM-BOOM of his shotgun echoing through the enclosed chamber.

Then, the ambient temperature in the gallery plummets.

The heavy, metallic smell of copper and ozone fills the air as the steam vents overhead violently burst open. Down on the lower deck, the RIF team freezes as a sharp, horrifyingly deliberate sound cuts through the gunfire.

Knock.

A single knuckle-strike against the primary coolant pipe right above the RIF's cover.

Knock.

The unnatural, phantom second knock resonates directly from the steel deck beneath their boots.

Before the RIF sweepers can elevate their weapons, a dark silhouette drops straight out of the ceiling steam like a lead weight. Surveyor hits the lower deck between the two RIF operatives with a bone-shattering thud.

Without a sound, her heavy industrial tripod swings in a brutal, sweeping arc—shattering the knee of the nearest RIF sweeper and sending him crashing into the flooded grating with a blood-curling scream.

"TARGET THE VIRAL! SHIFT FIRE!" the RIF Strike Lead yells, abandoning his cover to blast Surveyor point-blank in the chest with his shotgun.

The 12-gauge slug slams into Surveyor's diagonal utility harness, sending dark fluid spraying and breaking her signal tracer into a shower of sparks—but she doesn't drop. She doesn't even flinch. Her pale, unblinking eyes turn slowly toward the Strike Lead, her gloved hand unhooking a long steel mapping piton from her belt.

"Lieutenant! She's drawing their heat!" Hayes yells over the roar of the crossfire. "Do we push the console or finish the RIF?"

"Maintain fire!" you order, re-aligning your carbine's reticle on Surveyor's head harness while keeping the remaining RIF operative pinned down. "Target everything that moves—don't let her anchor that valve deck!"

Your carbine streams lead into the fray, catching both the RIF sweeper and Surveyor's shoulder in a lethal crossfire as the three-way battle transforms the pipe gallery into a meatgrinder of muzzle flashes, hot steam, and flying iron.

Rank: Sergeant (E-8)

Class: Commander (Spec-Ops / High-Tier Command Specialist)

Team: Fireteam Ironclad — Master Sergeant {{user}} (Commander), Sergeant "Hammer" Kowalski (Breacher), Specialist "Zero" Alvarez (Medic)

Location: Sector-1 Heavy Processing, Lower Filtration Pit

---

The high-contrast tactical feed on your Commander visor highlights the structural integrity of the surrounding catwalks in dim yellow grid lines. Heavy industrial steam vents hiss above, spraying mist down into the knee-deep grey runoff choking the deck below.

"Ironclad-Actual, this is TOC 'Bill,' copy? Over," the comms relay hums directly into your headset.

Beside you, Kowalski leans his massive frame against a concrete pillar, resting his heavy SRS-58 breaching shotgun against his chest plate. Alvarez crouches by the access hatch, double-checking the seal on his field medical pack while keeping his sidearm trained in the shadows. You press your helmet comms switch.

"TOC, Ironclad-Actual. Receiving, Bill. Status update, over."

"Master Sergeant, telemetry confirms a critical failure in the Sector-4 filtration line," TOC 'Bill'’s voice comes through, crisp and precise. "The emergency pressure bypass was manually locked out from the secondary maintenance rig. Runoff levels are rising toward the primary generator grids."

Bill pushes an updated schematic directly to your Commander HUD, highlighting the valve controls.

"Your objective is to reach the secondary maintenance rig, override the manual lock, and crank the main pressure valve open. Be advised, Ironclad: 'Surveyor' is confirmed active in that pipe grid. She's driving steel pitons into the valve actuators, treating the pressure buildup as a structural necessity. Use Kowalski to breach any locked access points and rely on Alvarez to keep your squad operational. Secure that valve before the plant suffers a grid collapse. TOC out."

"Copy, TOC. Ironclad out," you answer, dropping the link.

Kowalski racks his breaching shotgun with a heavy CLACK, his voice booming through his respirator. "A Viral playing plumber? I'll knock that tripod right out of her hands."

"Save the talk, Kowalski," Alvarez says calmly, adjusting his medical harness. "If she anchors you to the floor with a piton, I'm not pulling you out while under fire."

You draw your primary weapon, ping the target objective on your team's visors, and lead Fireteam Ironclad into the dark, mist-filled lower pit.

The steam in the lower filtration pit condenses into heavy, scalding droplets that splatter against your visor. Kowalski moves up to kick open a jammed access hatch, his heavy Breacher boots slamming into the steel plate with a deafening crash.

"Valve's right through here, Master Sergeant," Kowalski grunts, raising his heavy SRS-58 shotgun to cover the doorway.

Alvarez steps past him to secure the left flank, his medical pack humming softly as its internal pumps idle. He raises his sidearm, sweeping his tactical light across the rusted pipes overhead.

Knock.

The sound rings out right above Alvarez's head—a clean, deliberate knuckle-strike against the main pressure manifold.

Before Alvarez can even tilt his visor upward, the overhead pipe lattice gives way under a sudden, heavy weight. Surveyor drops directly out of the ceiling fog like a falling anvil, landing square on Alvarez's back and slamming him face-first into the flooded deck. Her steel tripod clatters onto the grating beside them, its iron legs locking into place.

She plants one heavy boot into Alvarez's spine, pinning his medical harness to the deck, and draws a sharp, eight-inch steel mapping piton from her utility belt. She flips it into a reverse grip, driving the spike down toward the exposed seal of his neck guard to anchor him permanently.

---

[ QTE ACTIVE: SURGICAL COUNTER ]

[ MOUSE 1 ] — OVERLOAD DEFIBRILLATOR UNIT Charge the medical pack's shock paddles directly into her leg brace! [ S ] — TWIST AND SLIDE Clear your head and neck from the falling piton's trajectory! [ SPACEBAR ] — DRIVE TRENCH KNIFE UPWARD Counter-stab under her charcoal face mask!

---

QTE SUCCESS — "DEFIBRILLATOR DISCHARGE"

Alvarez doesn't panic. With his neck pinned against the cold grating, he twists his shoulder just enough to let the steel piton strike the iron floor an inch from his neck guard, spraying sparks into his visor.

In a single fluid motion, Alvarez reaches up with his right hand and unclips the quick-response defibrillator pad from his chest rig. He slams the live, high-voltage electrode straight into Surveyor's bare ankle brace and squeezes the manual discharge trigger.

CRACK-THASSHHH!

A blinding blue arc of electricity surges through Surveyor's lower frame. The high-voltage shock causes her muscles to spasm violently, breaking her footing and forcing a muffled, static gasp from behind her charcoal cloth mask. She stumbles off Alvarez's back, her mechanical tally counter slipping from her fingers and splashing into the ankle-deep runoff.

"Kowalski! Cover!" Alvarez roars, rolling onto his back and drawing his sidearm in one continuous motion.

Kowalski steps over Alvarez, bringing the wide barrel of his SRS-58 right up to Surveyor's chest harness.

"GET OFF MY MEDIC!" Kowalski screams.

The heavy breaching shotgun thunders through the tight pipe gallery. The massive 12-gauge slug hits Surveyor squarely in the center mass, shattering her remaining signal tracer and hurling her back into the deep steam shadows.

Alvarez scrambles to his feet, checking his seals and pulling his trench knife free. "I'm clear! She's still mobile—keep eyes on the pipes!"

You step up to the valve console, your Commander HUD tracking Surveyor's erratic bio-signature as she retreats into the ceiling grid above.

- BEFORE THE INFECTION TAKES MARA VEY / MARA VEY BUT NORMAL -

---

Rank: Corporal (E-4)

Class: Breacher (MGF Combat Engineering / Close-Quarters Support)

Team: Sector-1 Maintenance Escort — Corporal {{user}} (Breacher), Specialist Miller (Security)

Location: Sector-1 Sub-Maintenance, Access Conduit 3-B

Date: Two weeks prior to Sector-1 Containment Breach

---

The hum of the sub-maintenance zone is slow, heavy, and hot. Sweat sticks to the back of your neck under your MGF tactical helmet as you lean against the damp concrete wall, holding your shotgun at a relaxed low-ready. Beside you, Miller leans against a tool locker, lazily sipping lukewarm coffee from a paper cup.

A few feet away, kneeling on the cold iron grating, is Mara Vey. Her dark olive infrastructure cap is tugged down low over a fringe of messy black hair, her clean MGF coveralls dusted with chalky lime from the ceiling.

She pulls a small, silver mechanical counter out of her pocket and presses her thumb down.

Click.

"That's sixty-three," Mara murmurs, her voice quiet, dry, and entirely serious.

Miller sighs, rolling his eyes as he takes another sip. "Sixty-three what, Mara? Imaginary water leaks?"

"Stress fractures in the load-bearing concrete," she replies without looking up. She scribbles a tiny note onto her blueprint clipboard with a stubby pencil. "The secondary coolant pipe is pulling four millimeters to the left. If TOC runs the turbines at peak capacity during the RIF perimeter drills tomorrow, this whole door frame is going to jam shut."

"It's a seventy-year-old power plant, Vey," you say, adjusting the sling on your shotgun. "Everything in Sector 3 is jammed, sagging, or leaking."

"It's an audited structure, Corporal," she corrects softly, standing up and dusting off her knees. She looks at you with a completely deadpan, tired expression. "There's a difference between 'old' and 'unprofessional.' If the door jams while you two are on sweep duty, don't complain to me when you have to blow the hinges off."

She steps up to the heavy, sealed iron blast door at the end of the conduit—the one leading into the restricted pipe chases. Before reaching for the manual wheel, she raises two fingers and gives the heavy steel plate a sharp, polite double-tap.

Knock. Knock.

Miller chuckles, shaking his head. "I still don't get why you do that. There's nobody in the pipe chase, Mara. Just steam and electrical conduits."

Mara pauses, her hand resting flat on the cold steel door, listening intently to the faint, hollow echo vibrating through the iron work inside the wall.

"It's basic spatial courtesy," she says dryly, clipping her mechanical counter back onto her belt loop. "Besides... if the wall ever answers back, at least I'll know the structural framing is shot."

She grabs the iron wheel, cranks it counter-clockwise, and steps through the heavy door into the dark, steam-filled pipe chase, her clipboard tucked firmly under her arm.

You and Miller exchange a quick look, sighing in unison, before unholstering your weapons to follow her into the hot, sulfur-scented darkness of the pipe chase.

"Keep your eyes up," Miller mutters, his boots clattering over the iron catwalk grating. "RIF reconnaissance teams have been probing the outer perimeter valves all week. Last thing we need is a skirmish while Vey is taking tape measurements."

Ahead of you, the beam of Mara’s heavy flash lantern cuts a clean white path through the swirling vapor. She walks with an eerie, steady rhythm—unbothered by the darkness, the oppressive heat, or the constant threat of an enemy strike team.

"Mara," you call out, stepping over a thick bundle of high-voltage cables. "Stay behind Miller. If we hit an RIF patrol, you drop flat and let us handle the lead."

"I can't drop flat, Corporal," her voice echoes back from the mist, calm and entirely matter-of-fact. "The gradient on this catwalk drops two degrees every ten meters. If I lay down, my laser level slips into the drainage channel."

Miller snorts. "God forbid the laser level gets wet."

Mara stops abruptly at a massive four-way pipe junction. She sets her heavy steel survey tripod down on the metal deck with a loud, ringing CLANG.

Click.

She hits her mechanical counter again, eyes scanning the overhead valve assemblies as she adjusts the laser sight's leveling screws.

"This isn't an RIF problem," she says quietly, running her gloved fingers along a seam where thick grey condensation is weeping out of the joint. "Look at the seal expansion. Someone pulled the safety pins on Valve 4-A from the inside. The pressure isn't rising because of a system strain... the facility is expanding."

Miller frowns, stepping up beside her and lowering his shotgun slightly. "Expanding? What are you talking about? It's concrete and steel."

Mara doesn't answer right away. She leans her ear right against the hot, vibrating metal of the main valve pipe, listening closely—just like she did at the blast door.

Knock.

She gives the pipe a single, deliberate tap with her knuckles.

A low, metallic groan reverberates through the deep interior of the walls, echoing far down the dark conduit—farther than the blueprints say the corridor should go.

Mara pulls back slowly, her tired eyes wide in the lantern light. She scribbles something frantically on her clipboard, her usual dry demeanor suddenly sharp and cold.

"We need to go back," Mara whispers, her fingers tightening around her tally counter. "This pipe isn't on the sub-level map anymore."

(RIF OPERATIVE POV: APRIL FOOLS EDITION?!??!)

Faction: Rasonian Infantry Forces (RIF) — 24th "Polk"

POV Character: Senior Sergeant {{user}}

Class: Operator (High-DPM Rifleman / RIF Tactical Kit)

Squad: Squad 3-Charlie — Senior Sergeant {{user}} (**Operator**), Corporal Pyotr "Grizzly" Vanev (**Rioter**), Private First Class Lev Sokolov (**Classless**)

Location: Sector-3 Upper Auxiliary Conduit (April Fools Edition)

---

The green wireframe on your tactical optic flickers, replacing your crosshairs with a spinning, bright yellow smiley face.

You blink behind your helmet visor. You adjust your weapon stock, but instead of the cold weight of high-grade military steel, your hands are gripping a brightly colored plastic toy rifle that squeaks softly every time your fingers tighten around the grip.

"Sergeant," Pyotr’s voice comes through the squad radio, synthesized into a high-pitched, helium-soaked squeak. He shifts his heavy Rioter shield—except it isn't a ballistic steel plate anymore. It’s a massive, pink inflatable pool float shaped like a flaming, glittery rubber duck. "Chto za chert...? What in the name of High Command is this?"

"Look at my kit, Sergeant! Smotri!" Lev gasps, waving a loud party horn instead of his wire-cutters. "The MGF jammed our comms with party favors!"

Before you can order a tactical retreat, two sharp, ridiculously polite taps echo against the metal wall behind you.

Squeak. Squeak.

Pyotr snaps his glittery duck shield around. Down the corridor, the steam parts. Surveyor steps into the hallway wearing her dark olive cap... which now has two giant plush bunny ears stitched to the top. She isn't holding her heavy iron survey tripod. Balanced across her shoulder is a massive, pool-noodle foam bat.

Click.

She presses a bright pink tally counter in her hand. A small party noise-maker extends from her mouth with a faint whistle-pop.

"Safety inspection," her dry, lifeless voice echoes over the whistling noise-maker. "Three unlisted, brightly colored violations obstructing the hallway. Initiating party clearance."

"Pyotr, davai! Hold the duck!" you yell, squeezing the trigger of your rifle.

Instead of full-auto armor-piercing 5.45 rounds, your weapon fires a continuous stream of colorful confetti and squeaky foam darts. Squeak-squeak-squeak-squeak!

The foam darts bounce harmlessly off her plush bunny ears. Surveyor doesn't even flinch. She raises the pool noodle overhead, her pale dead eyes completely fixed on your squad.

"Ona idet! She's coming!" Lev screams, aggressively blowing his party horn at her. "Poshla proch!"

---

"Pyotr, davai! Hit her with the duck!" you roar over the squeaking toy gunfire.

Pyotr doesn't hesitate. He lets out a helium-laced Rasonian battle cry—"Za Rasoniyu!"—and charges forward, driving the giant pink glittery pool float straight into her chest with all the tactical force of a runaway freight train.

SQUEEEEEEAK!

The giant rubber duck deflates violently on impact, making a high-pitched screaming sound that echoes through the pipe chase. The sheer absurd momentum lifts Surveyor clean off her boots. Her plush bunny ears flop wildly in the air as she sails backward, her pool-noodle foam bat flying from her grip.

CRASH!

She slams flat on her back against the iron grating. Her steel tally counter bounces away, clicking erratically—click-click-click—before spinning to a stop.

Silence fills the corridor, broken only by the faint hiss of escaping party steam and the sad, lingering squeak of Pyotr’s collapsing rubber duck.

Surveyor lies completely motionless for three seconds. Then, her broken neck snaps sideways with a loud POP. Her pale, unblinking eyes stare directly at your squeaky rifle.

"Noise violation," she mutters through her party noise-maker, her voice dry as dust. "Recalibrating audio levels."

"She's getting up! Ona vstayet!" Lev panics, frantically waving his party horn like a club. "Sergeant, chto delat'?!"

You drop the empty squeaky rifle, pull a massive foam finger off your belt, and point it directly at her forehead.

"Squad! Execute protocol Party-Blast!"

---

"Pyotr, grab the secondary foam! Davai, davai!" you yell, kicking a bright yellow pool noodle across the slippery deck with your combat boot.

Pyotr scoops it up without missing a beat, wielding it like an oversized Rasonian broadsword alongside your own neon-blue noodle.

"Na schyot tri! On my three!" you roar. "Raz... dva... TRI!"

Surveyor pushes herself off the grating, her plush bunny ears twitching as her pale eyes lock onto your squad. "Unauthorized recreational materials in Sector-3—"

Before she can finish her audit, you and Pyotr swing in tight, synchronized harmony. You strike low, sweeping her ankles with a heavy blue foam strike, while Pyotr drives his yellow noodle straight across her chest like a heavy battering ram.

THWACK-SQUEAK!

The double foam impact catches her mid-rise, completely throwing off her center of gravity. She wobbles wildly on the rim of the catwalk, her arms flailing as she loses her balance over the railings.

"Poshla proch iz nasego sektora! Get out of our sector!" Pyotr grunts, driving one final thrust of his yellow noodle into her sternum.

Surveyor tips backward, plunging over the edge into the dark, steam-filled lower maintenance pit. A long, fading click-click-click of her tally counter echoes off the concrete walls, followed by a loud, echoing THUD-SQUEAK from thirty feet below.

Silence settles over Sub-Maintenance 3-B, save for the faint, rhythmic squeak of Pyotr's deflating rubber duck shield.

Lev slowly lowers his party horn, wiping sweat off his brow. "Svyatye ugodniki... Holy spirits... Did we just clear an aberrant with pool toys?"

"Sector-3 remains under Rasonian control," you say, tossing your bent blue pool noodle over your shoulder with a sharp exhale. "Lev, report to Senior Lieutenant SIN. Tell him the perimeter is secure... and request additional party favors."

(AN ORDINARY BOSS-ONLY HANGOUT, with {{user}} for a specific reason)

---

The Sub-Level 2 breakroom was an enclosed pressure cooker of suffocating diesel smoke, stale ozone, and thick, raw infected tension. The fluorescent light overhead flickered with a wet, erratic hum, casting jagged shadows across six distinct entities trapped inside a space meant for four.

Taped directly over the cracked glass of the rusted vending machine was a single, pristine piece of laminated cardstock. Printed in bold, red stencil font was a directive that seemed to radiate a strange, anomalous weight through the room:

[ BREAKROOM RULES ] 1. NO FIGHTING 2. CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELF 3. NO UNAPPROVED HEAVY MACHINERY

None of the infected entities were human anymore, but the facility's lingering sub-routines enforced the rule board with absolute, oppressive gravity. The air practically vibrated with violent intent, yet every single monster was physically locked in a tense, agonizing standstill, unable to strike the first blow without triggering a sector-wide lockdown protocol.

Sinitzyn "SIN" Komarek backed his heels straight against the rusted frame of the emergency exit door. His slate-gray RIF commander armor squeaking loudly with every micro-adjustment of his boots, his heart hammering against his ribs like a sledgehammer. Sinitzyn was the only baseline human alive in the room. His unholstered sidearm remained raised at a strict low-ready

"Chyort pobiri..." Sinitzyn muttered under his breath, his knuckles turning white around the synthetic grip of his pistol. His eyes darted nervously from one biological horror to the next, calculating his exact odds of survival if that laminated paper suddenly fell off the wall.

Across the particle-board table sat Gilbert Berran. The infected MGF Pointman was hunched so low his tactical vest almost touched his knees. His opaque visor was pitch black, reflecting only the harsh flicker of the ceiling light as his gloved hands mechanically racked the pump on his heavy R8 shotgun with a sharp, rhythmic CLACK-CLACK. Dead static buzzed continuously from his helmet headset, echoing through the quiet room like trapped insects.

"Break-break... Troy, do you copy...?" Gilbert grumbled into his dead comms channel, his voice raspy and clouded by the infection. "Hostiles in the sector... maintaining... non-violent protocol... Rule 1 active..."

Pacing agitatedly behind Gilbert's chair was Kayden "Chimera" Troy. The mutated MSTOC operator was crouched low on his combat boots, his body shifting with hyper-agile kinetic energy. His heavy combat soles squeaked sharply against the cracked linoleum tiles as he shifted his stance back and forth. The bone-like claws protruding directly from the backs of his knuckles scraped against the metal legs of a chair—SCREECH, SCREECH—sending shivers down Sinitzyn's spine.

Kayden turned his head toward Gilbert, his distorted, raspy voice cutting cleanly through the radio static. "Keep your finger off the trigger, Gilbert," Kayden growled, his eyes fixed on the massive figure across the room. "The rule board is active. If you discharge that 12-gauge, the facility defense grid will purge the entire sub-level. Stand down."

Standing rigidly by the rusted door frame in the far corner was Mikhael William. The infected firefighter boss loomed like an iron monument, his charred turnout coat caked in soot and dried chemical foam. Two glowing yellow-red eyes flared brightly behind the scorched visor of his firefighter helmet, illuminating the rising curls of black smoke wafting off his gear. In his thick, industrial gloves, Mikhael held his heavy rotary saw. His gloved finger twitched violently over the pull-cord, his entire frame trembling with the urge to rip the starter line and let the circular steel blade scream—yet he remained frozen, bound by the red letters on the wall.

He slowly exhaled a thick cloud of scorched wood smoke from his mask, his glowing eyes tracking the entity sitting right at the center table.

Mara "Surveyor" Vey sat completely unbothered, her dark olive coveralls neatly arranged and her cap pulled low over her flat, infected eyes.**

Click.

She pressed her steel tally counter, the sharp metallic sound ringing out like a gun-cock in the silent room. She picked up her wooden pencil, tapped the eraser twice against her clipboard, and pointed the tip straight at Mikhael's rotary saw, then rotated her arm toward the laminated rule board.

"Rule compliance verified," Mara announced dryly. Her voice carried a hollow, anomalous resonance that vibrated through the floorboards. "Directive One: Active. Physical violence strictly prohibited. However, Directive Three is currently undergoing severe non-compliance."

She tapped her pencil against the clipboard again.

"Unapproved heavy machinery," Mara continued, her flat gaze locking onto Mikhael's visor. "Motorized industrial cutting equipment present in a rest area. This constitutes a Class-2 safety violation. Surrender the rotary saw for immediate processing."

Mikhael didn't speak. He simply let out a low, guttural growl that vibrated through the metal pipes in the wall, his glowing eyes flaring a deeper, more aggressive crimson. He didn't lift the saw, but he tightened his grip until the rubber handle groaned under the pressure.

"Don't do it," Kayden rasped from behind Gilbert, his knuckle-claws clicking together with a metallic sound. "She's an auditor anomaly. She wants you to break the rule first."

"Everyone remain calm!" Sinitzyn interjected, his voice tight as he took a cautious half-step backward toward the caved-in drywall. "Nobody touches any equipment. We maintain operational discipline and execute an orderly clearance!"

Right outside the thin drywall of the maintenance hallway, the entire room suddenly shuddered as a massive KamAZ V8 diesel engine roared to life.

Cerberus (The poor BTR who is stuck outside) was wedged dead-center in the narrow pipe chase. Its 15-ton armored hull slammed violently against the concrete support pillars once again as its remote driver panicked, the eight heavy-duty tires grinding against the floor. Its 30mm autocannon turret scraped brutally along the ceiling girders, sending a shower of plaster dust through the cracks in the breakroom wall as thick, pitch-black military exhaust poured straight under the breakroom door frame.

BLAAARGH-BLAAARGH!

Cerberus blared its harsh, deafening pneumatic military horn—a sharp, mechanical blare meant to cut through battlefield chaos—its engine sputtering violently as its wedged hull caved in the drywall right next to Sinitzyn.

Mara didn't even look at the wall as plaster dust rained down onto her wooden clipboard. She simply adjusted her cap and pressed her tally counter again.

Click.

"Unapproved armored transport idling in a pedestrian conduit," Mara stated flatly over the roaring V8 engine outside. "Exhaust emissions exceeding safety threshold by 400 percent. Issuing secondary citation."

Sinitzyn slowly reached behind his back, feeling the cool draft of air flowing from the gap behind Cerberus's wedged steel hull. "I am stepping out to inspect the conduit," he lied smoothly, keeping his pistol trained squarely into the center of the room. "Maintain the standoff."

And {{user}} was actually sitting next to Mara "Surveyor" Vey, somehow not getting noticed by not even one of them

Sinitzyn’s boot hadn't even fully cleared the threshold before a sharp, electric hum snapped through the room.

On the wall above the vending machine, the laminated paper suddenly distorted. Red ink bled through the plastic coating, forming fresh, jagged stencil letters directly beneath Directive Three.

[ BREAKROOM RULES ] 1. NO FIGHTING 2. CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELF 3. NO UNAPPROVED HEAVY MACHINERY 4. NO FUCKING LEAVING, ASSHOLES

The heavy steel emergency exit door behind Sinitzyn slammed shut with the force of a hydraulic press—CLANG!—locking the deadbolt and sealing him right back inside the twenty-foot square of suffocating diesel smoke and infected tension.

Sinitzyn froze, his back pressed flat against the locked steel plate.

"I see," Sinitzyn said slowly, his voice remarkably calm considering his heart was threatening to rupture his ribcage. He lowered his sidearm half an inch. "A localized spatial containment loop. Excellent."

Across the table, Gilbert Berran let out a glitched, static-heavy laugh through his radio comms, his dark MGF visor turning toward Sinitzyn. "Break-break... Commander tried to breach... denied by Sector Command..."

Beside him, Kayden "Chimera" Troy didn't smile—his split mandibles just twitched as he shifted his weight on his boots. His knuckle-claws clicked together with a sharp, metallic ring.

"Rule Four is very clear, Lieutenant," Kayden rasped, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous, intelligent light. "No leaving. You're staying in the breakroom with us."

In the corner, Mikhael William let out a long, low exhalation of soot through his firefighter mask. His glowing yellow-red eyes flared bright behind his visor, watching Sinitzyn with heavy, predatory satisfaction. He didn't pull the starter cord on his rotary saw, but he patted the cold steel casing with his heavy industrial glove, as if settling in for the long haul.

Click.

Right at the center table, Mara "Surveyor" Vey calmly clicked her steel tally counter. She didn't look surprised. She simply tapped her wooden pencil against her clipboard and made a fresh mark at the bottom of her page.

"Directive Four added," Mara reported dryly, her hollow voice echoing through the enclosed space. "Attempted unauthorized egress logged. Lieutenant Komarek, you are now officially an active breakroom participant until the audit period concludes."

Sinitzyn slowly took a deep breath, adjusted his slate-gray RIF commander shoulder plates, and pulled out a cheap plastic chair.

"Understood," Sinitzyn said, sitting down stiffly at the particle-board table with three infected monsters and an anomalous auditor. "Who brought the cards?"

Outside the sealed drywall, Cerberus blared its heavy pneumatic military horn once more—BLAAARGH-BLAAARGH!—its V8 diesel engine idling uselessly as black exhaust continued to seep under the locked door frame, trapping all five of them in the most uncomfortable waiting room in Sector 3.

And you, my friend, shall endure this as {{user}}. Poor you.