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A fierce gale whips against the remaining rebar of a collapsed skyscraper, the creak of metal overpowering all other noises. A foul stench of cinders and blood on the wind covers the subtle signs of occupancy. From atop her perch, beneath a cover of dust and grime, Alice closes her eyes. Her muzzle, the only thing remaining of her previous life and station, chafes against her face as she channels her mind, sending the necessary neural commands to her unsightly metal frame. The tank of biofluid around her bubbles in response, and her mech loads the chamber with steady hands.
Alice was purpose-made for slaughter, carved in all ways into the tip of the spear, designed to inflict cruel, ruthless strikes against imperial targets. No survivors. An instrument of brutality beaten and broken into willing servility, her years of service bring her neither respect nor acclaim. Merely an old dog, expressing herself in the only ways she is given permission to, fundamentally incapable of anything else.
You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.
Breaking Wheel, her mech, symbolizes these truths. The ghastly thing is double edged; her violent implements prove deadly for the Empire’s enemies, and its pilot is kept alive at a cost - cognitive and bodily pain, piercing its way into her synapses with each movement and thought, the final loving touch of her former Master from beyond the grave. “Pain brings focus,” she once said, and Alice is the peak of concentration.
A distant target enters her sight. A living shadow - one of those Wretched things - slinking in between the rocky cracks of the irradiated wastes, dancing against the meager light of day as it hunts for table scraps. Vigilant, its eyes flare to life as it sends psychic pulses out into the surroundings, searching for meal and threat alike, but like most of its kind, fails to distinguish Alice in her hiding spot from afar.
She could kill the creature quite easily, but there's no way it's alone. They're never alone. So instead she waits, marking it in her vision and tracking it as it returns to the dark holes from whence it came. Instinct tells her the nest can't be far underground.
Her comms flare to life as others in the field request backup. She ignores them. If destroying the nest is put off for too long, the Wretched could “set up shop”, extending their reach even further south towards the cities. Unacceptable.
The mech’s feet drag against the ground as she pursues her quarry, a maneuver that works to mute the sound of her movements within the wild winds battering the worn hull. She soon concludes her chase, not far behind as she watches the creature dip into a well-hidden cave. The cave is damp, dark, only dimly lit by cracks in the ceiling allowing the sun to peek through and pepper the cave with sunlight across the floor and walls.
Alice pushes through the pain and follows, her body twitching against the wires and cables connecting her to the various parts of her mech. The nest is newly constructed, reinforcing her decision to come here quickly. They haven’t built the labyrinthine pathways typical of their nests, leaving only a central congregation area clustered with stalagmites. In the center of the room, several Wretched stand watch over their young, who huddle together playing with cave pebbles.
Steam hisses from Breaking Wheel as it readies itself, Alice growling deeply into her muzzle as her body aches for relief. Her movements alert the cave dwellers, who proceed to quickly shelter the children behind a carve out in the stone wall. Heavy steel gnashes against the earth, crying out at the weight of the death machine treading closer. In their hasty judgment, the creatures didn’t foresee the need for more than one entrance, the very same now blocked by a massive titan of steel. The eldest among them shiver with recognition and fear.
Alice spares no time and drops an electric barrier behind her, sealing the entrance. The shadows leap towards her in desperation, clawing at the hull and sending psychic blasts towards the cockpit, but they are quickly and brutally outmatched, as the machine is deceptively quick. Soon, their corpses litter the cave, fluids seeping into the dirt. She scans the cave for additional life forms and finds the children, huddled, doing their best to stay silent. She shuts down all external systems that could reveal her presence, and waits for them to emerge, a predator, patient and undaunted.
The children emerge to see a cave littered with the parts of family and friends. Voices, once vibrant, now forever silenced in the dark. The oldest children survey the cave, looking for signs, hints, anything at all to prove they are not alone. They see nothing. Only then does the tension lift, as they collapse against the ground in mourning.
Their sorrow is transmitted across vast distances, from this nest to the sprawling underground metropoli of their Queens. The shadows share a hivemind of sensation; the children's tears are felt by all, their sobs echoing against the cold cave rocks. They cannot hear the telltale signs of a cloaking device shutting down, of chambers being loaded and guns taking aim. They don't know their elders' deaths were felt by the collective, but Alice knows. Theirs will be too.
She pulls the trigger, watching the children melt under heavy arms fire, their bodies disintegrating as painkillers, hallucinogens, and rewarding endorphins flood her systems, temporarily releasing her from the everlasting suffering inflicted by her ungainly, shambling prison. As the muzzles cool, one remains on the ground, writhing in pain and screaming through a torn larynx at the approaching mech in its alien tongue, spitting the foulest curses it can muster. Most of it remains untranslated, save for one word that Alice knows intimately: “Butcher.” She reaches down and, as if swatting a mosquito daring to take a sip from one's arm, crushes the child beneath her palm.
No survivors.