Los Angeles

  Amelie ran as fast as her legs could carry her. Dark clouds churned overhead and blotted out the light of the sun, casting the city into a gray darkness that turned the day into night. They swirled in an unnatural spiral, centered on the cities tallest spire. Rain fell in thick sheets. It carried a gray substance inside of it, a similar consistency to volcanic ash or industrial pollutants. It stained her boots and jacket, and coated every surface as the storm encompassed the entire metropolis.

  Gunshots rang out in the distance from multiple directions in lazy bursts. The entire city had fallen, again. This time in a matter of hours.

  The Stormriders raid had failed. Amelie watched from ground level as Foxhound after Foxhound was shot out of the sky and crashed down into the city. She spent the past day running from one crash site to the next looking for survivors. She never found any. The cultists always got to them first.

  She rounded a corner into an alleyway with her compact handgun raised. She flicked on the underbarrel flashlight. The wreck of a Foxhound filled the road. The aircraft was shattered and twisted. It had hit the ground and rolled several times, coming to a stop on its side. Its winglets and tail had been ripped off, and the cockpit was caved in. But the troop compartment appeared intact. She rushed to search for survivors.

  She had to work fast. If the roving vampiric-aligned patrols found her she was dead.; along with anyone she hoped to save.

  She crawled onto the fuselage and worked to force the door open. She had to resort to kicking it with all her might just for it budge enough for her to stick her torso through. The spy leaned in and shined the light.

  The bore of a pistol was shoved in her face. She froze.

  "Friend." She declared herself, a lump forming in her throat.

  The figure holding the pistol slowly lowered it.

  "Good. I'm out of bullets anyway." Commander Whitaker said. He tossed the pistol aside. He was still strapped into his seat, which had been torn from its mountings and now lay against the opposite door on its back.

  "Is anyone else alive?" Amelie asked, wriggling her way in.

  "I'm the last one." he said solemnly.

  Amelie dropped down into the fuselage and began working to free him from the wreckage.

  "I'm going to get you out of here. Are you hurt?"

  "Collar bone and left leg are definitely broken."

  She cut his harness loose and began to drag him through a hole in the belly of the compartment. Whitaker winced, but never shouted, enduring the pain. Once he was out. She gave him a hit of morphine and got him on his feet. The commander had to drape his arm over her and lean on her to remain standing. Slowly, they began to limp away from the wreckage.

  "Did you see this coming?" Whitaker asked her.

  "Sort of, but not like this." She explained, "It was inevitable, the vampires were going to figure something out and it was going to catch the Vanguard by surprise. I told Tambor this would happen. This is how any conflict that drags on long enough develops. I recommended postponing the global offensive because of this. They've coalesced their resources and learned to fight as a unit instead of a horde. Doctrine is the most dangerous tool an army can wield. And the vampires have found it."

  "In our defense, we didn't think they'd have lasers," He said. "... and that dragon thing." he added.

  "Yes, that was a surprise." She admitted.

  As they worked their way down the side of the road, she glanced up at the spire that dominated the city's skyline. A large dark shape could be seen crawling across its surface. At the same time, a red light pulsed outward from the top of the spire, like a beacon. It started at the same time that the Vanguard attack failed. It was accompanied by a low rumbling that infrequently shook the city.

  "That rumbling is ominous." Whitaker pointed out. "Is another one of those Vorrkoth's coming ashore?"

  "I don't know. We're in a comms blackout. Last intel drop reported that the team sent to take their control ship had landed. I don't know if they succeeded."

  She continued dragging the injured soldier. A voice shouted at them from behind. "HEY!"

  There was a man standing a block behind them wearing cult regalia. He was holding a gun.

  "Shit!" Amelie spurred Whitaker to hobble faster. She fumbled with her pistol, trying to draw it with her free hand.

  A burst of automatic fire rang out.

  She flinched, expecting to be gunned down in a hail of bullets. To her surprise, none came. Behind them, the man with the gun was lying in a pool of his own blood, slowing being soaked in the rain.

  A police car rolled up beside them. The Ford Crown Vic belonged to the cities new police force, but had been up-armored with steel plates placed over the windshield and doors. It was a slap and dash job, like something out of a post-apocalypse setting. Such protection measures had become necessary in the violent wake of the first battle of Los Angeles. But there wasn’t the time nor resources for the force to procure proper armored vehicles.

  An officer in tactical gear stuck his out of the passenger window while the rear passenger door swung open. He cradled a submachinegun in his lap.

  "Get in!"

  Amelie hesitated, unsure if she could trust them, but didn't have many other options with the vampires closing in. She helped Whitaker into the back seat and climbed in.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  She pointed her pistol at the back of the driver's head. He didn't flinch, he simply glanced back at her calmly, undaunted. He was a young deputy, but his expression told the story of someone who had stared down the muzzle of a gun too many times.

  The other officer, a sergeant, made a hand motion like "I'll handle it." and another that meant "drive!". The driver stepped on the gas.

  Then the sergeant held out his hands to Amelie. "We're friendlies. You can put it down. We're the real LAPD. You aren't the only ones we've picked up. We didn't abandon our post when the traitor legion took it and I'm not about to start now."

  Apprehensively, she lowered the pistol. 'What's going on?"

  The officer explained, "Cultists are out in force. After your flyboys poked the hornet's nest, they started coming out of the wood work. We don't have control of the city anymore. The military has been shot out of downtown and there's a wide open shooting war between us and the cult in Long Beach. We're evacuating the city. Getting as many civilians out as possible."

  "You're leaving?"

  "No!" He sounded offended. "We're not abandoning our city. But I've met your guys.” He glanced at Whitaker. “I know they don't take defeat well. They'll be back and they're gonna be angry as hell. Best we keep the streets clear of civilians, no?"

  He was interrupted by a burst of radio traffic. Units under fire and calling for help. Despite their dire situation, they sounded collected and professional.

  "Ya, we're not abandoning our city." The officer muttered to himself.

  NYX Dynamics Headquarters/Wilshire Grand/tallest Building in Los Angeles

  The building had undergone many renovations since its acquisition by NYX Dynamics. Preston Krate sought to make it a monument to their corporate empire. The structure was almost unrecognizable from the original architect’s vision. Red and obsidian black trim was fitted to the external windows. A huge stylized Letter “N” in bright crimson adorned the side of the building, watching over the rest of the skyline from a dominant angle.

  The interior was fully gutted and redone. The bottom floors were reserved for office space and research laboratories, with each successive floor dedicated to personnel or projects of increasing stature.

  At the highest level, filling the top six floors was the observation deck. Previously it had housed several restaurants and a large event stage. It was open and expansive enough to accommodate a throneroom. Which was exactly the change that Persephone had made when she chose the building as her seat of power.

  The large sky dome spanned the entire ceiling and tiered levels of balconies were constructed along the walls, creating a grand court. At the middle was an opulent throne of velvet and gold, raised up by a flight of stairs, giving its occupant a domineering and authoritative position from which to look down upon their subjects. Which is what Queen Persephone did. Her legs crossed and surrounded by high advisors and guards of the most loyal proving.

  Agamemmon entered into the expansive throneroom from a side entrance, surrounded by his most trustworthy apprentices.

  He was a servant of the Queen, but appearances were important. He was sure never to approach from the front along the red carpet that trailed from the main entrance all the way up to the base of the throne. This implied subservience. He was indeed a servant, but he did not see it that way. He would maintain as much of his pride as he could.

  It was a lamentable situation for him. He was ancient, more so than human records could reliably account for. He was chosen first by the Black Sun to do its will. To be its herald. For centuries he was put on ice. Now here he was, playing second fiddle to a young Queen. This Queen, less than a decade into her vampiracy, was in charge of the combined might of what was left of the vampire clans. What was left after the humans had ravaged the vampiric infrastructure and reduced its force numbers to nil, beyond what he now commanded within the city itself.

  It was a situation he detested. He was a great conqueror in his time. The humans even told stories portraying him as the boogie man of the ancient Sumerians. He wanted nothing more than to usurp this foolish play-Queen. But he himself was not a fool. He knew the accuracy with which Persephone had manipulated events to her own benefit. Indeed, she had manipulated her own Executor into a betrayal that nullified the Council of Equals and as far as he could tell, she really could talk to the Black Sun. If she was to be its new emissary, after thousands of years of dormancy, then he could not simply take what he believed belonged to him.

  A permanent scowl of dissatisfaction was etched upon his face. Not helped by the new arrival into the throne room, and likely also into Persephone’s court; the detestable Artificial Intelligence.

  Shock troopers of the Ruthvenian Order, fitted with the best tactical gear money could buy as a gift of Nyx Dynamics R&D stockpiles, came to attention as the doors opened.

  In walked the hulking mech. It stood almost twice as high as a man. Its frame was painted obsidian black, clearly a freshcoat to erase its previous Terra Vanguard markings. The markings of its previous loyalty. Of those it had betrayed. Despite the rush job, it was applied with expert precision.

  It was equipped for war. Hardpoints on its shoulders mounted racks of miniature missile launchers. In its forearms were integrated automatic rifles and its reverse-kneed legs ended in grippers with four-bladed appendages. Its exuded a menacing and deadly aura. In its wake were a cadre of eight Kilo-class combat frames. The autonomous war machines marched in perfect synchronicity behind their leader, their weapons lowered and their sensor pods inclined like the most confident of human warriors.

  The honor guard stopped while the AI continued to approach the throne. It stopped at the first step that lead to Persephone. The Queen remained still, but an upturned corner of her mouth revealed her pleasure at receiving the robot.

  “Greetings, Sovereign of all vampires, the Dark Royal, Queen Persephone.” Periscope articulated perfectly from his voice transmitter in his deep and digital tone.

  Persephone interlaced her fingers across her lap. “Greetings.”

  She watched the machine with fascination. It was the nature of vampires to admire corrupted things. To revel in the defilement and perversion of original purpose. This machine was one of the Vanguard’s most powerful tools. Now it would be turned against them.

  “Our deal stands.” She told the AI.

  Periscope inclined his head. “The deal must be altered.”

  The vampire’s eyes narrowed on the subject of her fascination with sudden dissatisfaction.

  Periscope explained, “The Vanguard marches on this city.”

  Agamemnon rolled his eyes in contempt. Any idiot could have told them that.

  The deadly machine continued, “Your cause is no longer tenable. Despite my efforts, you have failed. Your global forces have been diminished to null.”

  Agamemnon took offense, “You dare lay this at my-our feet? Your nuke failed to detonate. Failed to kill their sharpest units. And despite your sabotage of their communications, they are clearly still operating with high coordination. This is your failure, machine.” he spat the word with contempt, “I-”

  Persephone held up a hand, silencing him. The ancient conqueror vampire sneered and backed off.

  “Was this not taken into account when we first met? I told you that the slaves of light are very creative; that we may have to plan for unknown contingencies. You assured me that your… algorithms are as sure as my clairvoyance.” She said. “And as far as I am aware, the Centurion continues to play his role.”

  Periscope responded. “The Vanguard is bigger than the Leader-Commander. It is illogical. It will pursue whatever path leads it to victory while still maintaining their code and moral programming. I have to come to you because my processes have purged such weaknesses. If humanity is to survive, then it must evolve. You are its best chance to negotiate with the approaching entity.” he spoke of the Black Sun. “If humanity is to survive, then it must embrace the cold. No matter how challenging that obstacle is.”

  The words of the calculating machine would have been ice cold to any human. But he was not surrounded by anything with a warm heart, a pulse or a conscious. It was ice amongst the snow.

  He continued, “The deal must be altered. The forces you have gathered are considerable. But I calculate a 65% chance of vanguard victory if they choose to siege this city. Which I determine with 100% certainty that they will.”

  Once again Agamemnon moved to cut in and defend his plan

  Once again, Persephone silenced him. “Your proposal?”

  “In the contingency of success, I will be given full control of military matters.”

  “Done.” Persephone said

  Agamemnon could be silenced no longer. His temper burst.

  “I am in command here! If my plan succeeds, then I should retain my position!”

  Persephone saw the perfect opportunity for politics.

  “How many warriors do you bring?” She asked Periscope.

  “Superior autonomous soldiers.” He gestured to his honor guard. “One battalion in strength.”

  Agamemnon scoffed.

  “Then it is clear. Whoever shall defend this city AND slay more enemy slaves will be elevated.”

  “Done.” Periscope said.

  Agamemnon wished to object, but held his tongue, lest it be ripped from his head. His Queen had spoken, and therefore his opinion was forfeit. He turned on his heel and gestured angrily for his lieutenants to follow him.

  He growled to himself as they stormed out. “They want a bloodbath, I’ll give them a bloodbath.”

  Persephone watched him leave with a sideways glance. The allowed herself a small smirk. The general would be a threat for her to manage in the future. Thankfully, soon, there wouldn’t be one.

  “I have one additional demand.” Periscope added.

  She raised an eyebrow, caught off guard yet intrigued. “Oh? What might that be?”