Rose O'Connor's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

The morning haze clung to the crumbling towers, softening the jagged skyline like a worn photograph. Dust blew through the half-patched streets, catching in the rusted fencing and the broken teeth of sandbag barricades. Somewhere, a generator sputtered to life, coughing black smoke into the dawn air. Dalmore didn’t hum—it groaned. A city held together by willpower, duct tape, and the promise that maybe, just maybe, things would get better. Children played with sticks and stones outside, laughing like they hadn’t seen corpses in the gutter two weeks ago. Vendors lined the central square selling ration stew, mostly canned mushrooms and boiled grain, under makeshift tarps strung with wire. The old metro tunnels beneath still rumbled from time to time—some said it was ghosts, others said it was Rean, but no one had the energy to check. The broadcast building was alive. Not with news, not yet, but with soldiers, runners, and haggard officers shuffling between command posts, trying to make order out of the chaos. Colonel Rose O,Conner had claimed the general’s office as her personal domain, half-military base, half-trash heap, half-bar. General Vashin didn’t argue—he needed her, even if she drove him to drink. Rose leaned on the windowsill in a ratty tank top, squinting at the city below while sipping from a cracked coffee mug full of something very much not coffee. “Peaceful,” she muttered. Behind her, the hallway echoed with bootfalls and barking orders. Vashin was already awake. He’d never stopped being awake. In the mess hall downstairs, soldiers swapped rumors between bites of powdered eggs and moldy toast. “Stonewall fell because of sabotage.” “No, they opened the gate by mistake.” “I heard it was Rean in disguise.” “You’re an idiot.” No one noticed the flares at first— Dalmore had grown used to smoke in the sky. The first siren started low, a mechanical wail climbing up from the city’s industrial quarter. Then came the second, higher-pitched, urgent. Within seconds, the chorus spread—one after another, the sirens igniting across Dalmore like a chain reaction. The street chatter died. Conversations choked mid-word. Soldiers dropped their utensils. Civilians froze where they stood. From the broadcast building’s top floor, Rose lowered her mug and frowned. “That’s not a drill,” she muttered. The scream of the sirens wormed into her spine. She turned from the window just as General Vashin burst in, still zipping his uniform jacket. He didn’t have to say anything. She could see it in his face. “Where?” she asked. Vashin strode past her and leaned out the window. “Eastern Gate.” Rose joined him. And then—boom—three red flares punched through the morning haze. They arced high, slow trails of crimson smoke painting a warning in the sky. “Rean have breached the wall,” Vashin growled. “Just like Stonewall.” Rose’s jaw tightened. “You think it’s the same?” “I think we’re about to find out.” Down below, boots hit pavement. Soldiers poured out of the building, scrambling into formation, rifles slung, helmets clutched, eyes searching the sky like it could tell them what came next. Rose turned back toward the hall. “Let’s get moving.” Vashin grabbed a Circl even though it was thick and useless. “Circl’s still dead,” he muttered. “No word from anyone.” “Shocker,” Rose said, snatching her sidearm from the table and cocking it with one hand. “We’ll do it the old-fashioned way, then. Let’s go kick some Rean butt.” They both moved fast—no hesitation. There was no room for it anymore. Below, the air had changed. The laughter was gone. The stillness wasn’t peace. It was dread. Dalmore was holding its breath. Vashin stepped up onto the rusted bed of a supply truck parked outside the broadcast building. The gathered soldiers—dozens of them, a mix of exhausted regulars and freshly conscripted civvies—snapped to attention beneath the rising whine of the sirens. His voice boomed over the crowd, firm and unmistakably clear. “We’ve got a situation near the eastern gate. Flares indicate Rean are inside.” He let that hang in the air, watching their expressions shift. “We don’t know if it’s a gate malfunction, a breach, or something worse—but we’re not waiting to find out.” No one spoke. No one had to. “We’re mobilizing immediately. Unit One with me and Colonel Rose—we’ll move east through Stradmore Avenue. Unit Two will flank through the Market Run, clear sight lines and set up fallback positions. Engineers, grab what you need for barricades. Medics, you ride center with the supplies.” He scanned the faces—too many young, too many scared. But fear wasn’t new in Dalmore. They knew how to carry it. “Stick together. Communications are still offline. Watch the rooftops, the alleys, the sewers. You see one Rean, you assume there’s more.” From behind him, Rose dropped down into the truck bed, checking her pistol as she spoke. “You get attacked, you speak up. No heroes, no cowards, no darn secrets. We leave no one behind—but we don’t bring the dead with us either. Got it?” A few nods. A few muttered affirmatives. Vashin raised a hand. “We’re not Stonewall. We’re not getting caught with our pants down. We move fast, we stay sharp, and we don’t stop unless I say so. Dalmore holds the line.” A murmur of approval swept through the ranks—tight, clenched, but real. The sirens continued to blare. In the distance, the sky still bled red smoke. Rose slung her rifle over her shoulder. “Let’s show them they breached the wrong city.” They heard the screaming before they saw the civilians. Dozens—no, hundreds—flooding the main avenue, stumbling over debris, children clutched in arms, bags dragging behind them. The sheer number of people trying to escape was staggering. And they weren’t running toward safety. They were running blind. In every direction. Some were still in their pajamas. Others had weapons—makeshift clubs, kitchen knives, rusted pistols with only a bullet or two. Most had nothing at all. “Where the heck are they going?” a soldier asked. “Nowhere,” Vashin muttered. “There is nowhere.” The shelters had filled up days ago. Whatever underground bunkers still existed in Dalmore were built for military personnel, not the sea of displaced civilians that had flooded in over the last few months. Half of them had been living in abandoned buildings, sleeping on rooftops, or packed twenty to a room in old schools and offices. There weren’t enough walls in the city to contain them all—let alone protect them. A woman stumbled past, blood on her face, cradling a baby that didn’t seem to be moving. Another man shoved through the crowd, his shirt torn, screaming the name of someone who wasn’t there. “They’re gonna get trampled,” Rourke said. “They’re gonna get eaten if we don’t hold the line,” Rose shot back. “Then maybe tell them where the line is!” Rose looked around. Most of the civilians had no idea which direction to run—north, south, into the Rean, away from them, back into the city. They were lost. “We don’t have the bodies to direct a crowd that size,” Vashin said. “Get word to any units near the shelters—secure the perimeters. We can’t let this turn into another Stonewall.” Rose cursed under her breath. “Then we better make our stand right here.” They braced, the crowd roaring behind them, the Rean screaming ahead—and in between, a crumbling city already halfway to hell, with no plan, no help, and no more room to run. Boots hit concrete. Dalmore was on the move. It started with a scream. Not panic—terror. The kind that told Vashin this was in fact real Gunfire followed. Short bursts at first. Then longer. “Contact!” a soldier shouted through an open door. “Rean in the streets! Multiple!” Vashin was already moving. “Defensive line—north approach! Get me eyes on that gate!” “They’re flooding in too fast,” Rose muttered, drawing her sidearm. “They’re here.” A Rean burst around the corner, half its face missing, jaw twitching like a broken hinge. A soldier lit it up with a short burst and didn’t stop firing until it hit the ground. Then more came. They flooded the streets, stumbled through shattered storefronts like ants flooding from a cracked nest. Some were scorched—likely survivors from a scorcher drop—skin blackened, eyes glowing faintly in the smoke. But they moved just the same. “Hold the line!” Vashin barked. “Protect the civvies, cover each other, keep tight formations!” Rose didn’t flinch. She’d been in worse—or at least told herself that. She took cover behind a rusted-out delivery hauler and called out to the squad nearby. “Push forward! Get a firing line on Sixth and Marlow!” A roar of hydraulics answered as two of BuzzCut’s skitters scrambled into the street, their sharp-legged bodies clicking along the pavement with unsettling precision. Palm-sized, sleek, and hungry-looking, the little spider-like bots skittered across debris, climbing onto rooftops and dumpsters alike. BuzzCut moved behind them, laptop in hand. “Minefield active,” he muttered. “Armed for proximity burst. Let ‘em come.” One of the Rean rounded the corner and stepped squarely onto a Skitter. A click. A whine. Then—boom. Chunks of concrete and blood sprayed the air. The explosion took down three more behind it. The squad cheered—but it didn’t last. “They just keep coming!” someone yelled. “We’re burning ammo fast!” BuzzCut didn’t look up. He deployed two more Skitters, tossing them like stones. They landed, crawled, vanished into the smoke. “This street’s done,” Rose growled. “Move forward to the bridge. Last defensible position before the gate.” “Then that’s where we make our stand,” Vashin said grimly. “Because if that gate falls, Dalmore’s finished.” And they moved—through smoke and fire—toward the last thin line between survival and slaughter. Gunfire cracked overhead, chewing holes in the Rean. Rose ducked behind a crumbling planter box, dragging a bleeding private down beside her. They were stuck—cut off on the east side of the street, Rean pouring in from both ends. The rest of the line were pushing toward the bridge. But Rose had gotten greedy. Thought they could flank the Rean column and hit them from behind. She didn’t expect there to be two columns. “Great plan, Rose,” muttered Rourke, reloading behind a burned-out van. “Real tactical genius.” “Shut up and shoot,” she snapped, popping up to blast a Rean in the shoulder. It didn’t fall. Just staggered, turned its head in that slow, awful way—and started sprinting. Rose emptied her mag into it. Three soldiers were left with her. Maybe four. She couldn’t remember. Everything was fire and shadows. They were low on ammo. Cornered. No line of retreat. And Rose grinned. “Alright,” she said, breathless, hair matted with sweat and soot. “You guys ever hear of bowling?” “What?” “See that box truck behind us?” she said, pointing with her pistol. “We hotwire it, wedge the gas, send it screaming down the alley, full speed. BuzzCut will load the back with mines. Boom. Instant Rean stew.” Rourke stared at her. “That’s your plan?” “Got a better one?” she asked sweetly. “…I hate you.” “Flattered.” She was already moving, vaulting the planter, dodging between cars as Rean scrambled over rooftops. One dropped nearby. She shot it in the face without slowing down. “Cover me!” she shouted, ducking into the passenger seat of the truck. The windshield was cracked, keys missing, but the wires were still there. She jammed her knife in and twisted. The engine coughed—then roared. BuzzCut climbed into the back and yanked open his satchel: three Skitters, unarmed. Not for long. He activated each one manually, set them for timed detonation, and stuck them to the floor with gum and a prayer. “Move, move, move!” Rose yelled, bailing out the side as Rourke took the wheel. He jammed it in gear and leapt out just as the truck lurched forward, tires squealing. It barreled down the alley, picking up speed. The Rean turned—too late. KABOOM. The fireball lit the alley like a second sun. Rean flew in all directions, ragdolling through the air. Rose hit the ground hard, coughing, laughing. “Still hate me?” she asked Rourke. “…More than ever.” “Good,” she wheezed. “Means you’re still alive.” They limped toward the bridge, smoke curling behind them like a black flag. Vashin’s shoulder slammed against a wall as he ducked behind a concrete pillar, his rifle nearly empty. The Rean were everywhere—pouring over rooftops, tearing through alleys, clawing their way over bodies, friend and foe alike. He popped up and fired off three shots. One bullet found its mark. The rest disappeared into the flood. “Move! Move forward!” he bellowed. “To the bridge!” Dalmore’s soldiers scrambled to obey. Some didn’t make it. A young private—barely sixteen—tripped over a fallen comrade. The Rean closed in fast. Vashin broke cover, sprinting toward her, unloading the rest of his rifle in a wide arc. He threw his body between her and the horde, dragging her back with one arm, gun swinging uselessly in the other. He barely made it to cover when the Rean slammed into the barricade like a tidal wave. Claws scraped at the metal. Screams echoed up the ruined street. “Sir—sir, we’re out! No more mags!” someone shouted. Vashin shoved the private toward the others. “Then use your fists.” He pressed his back against the pillar, breath heaving. Blood soaked through a bandage on his leg. The city was slipping. Just like Stonewall. He wouldn’t let that happen. Not on his watch. A roar went up from the east side of the bridge—more Rean, hundreds more. Vashin raised his sidearm. No retreat. No surrender. If this was it, then so be it. He gritted his teeth and stepped into the open—ready to fight until the end— It wasn’t a bridge anymore. It was a kill zone. The last intact stretch of road between the broadcast building and the main gate stretched out before them—dry riverbed below, Rean above, dozens of them prowling through overturned barricades, climbing over wrecked transports, dragging corpses behind them like torn paper dolls. The screams of the dying echoed between the crumbling buildings. Rose skidded to a halt just before the incline. Rourke followed, panting hard, clutching a bloodied arm. “What’s the play?” he asked. She looked around. No cover. No reinforcements. No ammunition. “What play?” she said. Beyond the swarm, the gate still stood—tall, iron-clad, reinforced with steel braces and massive locking arms. Or had stood. The doors were wide open, twisted where they’d buckled under the weight of the first wave. The guards manning it were slumped across the catwalks, red leaking down their armor. One of them was missing a leg. Another, his entire face. The Rean had poured in like floodwater. And now they stood between the ragtag squad and the exit. She clicked her weapon. Empty. Rourke didn’t even bother checking. More boots slammed behind them. What was left of second squad scrambled into formation. No one said anything. No one had to. One look at the bridge was enough. “Drones?” Rourke asked. “It’s still in the air,” BuzzCut said. “But no stingers. And I’m down to two Skitters.” “Two? You started with—” “Yeah.” Rose knelt beside a dead soldier and pulled a sidearm off their belt. One bullet in the chamber. Better than none. “Bridge is suicide,” Vashin said. “We try to cross, we die.” “We stay here, we die slower,” Rourke muttered. Another explosion in the distance. The Rean didn’t flinch. Rose stood. “We need a miracle.” As if summoned, a low rumble rose in the east. At first, it sounded like thunder—distant, rolling. Then wheels. Heavy wheels. A line of black assault trucks barreled through the smoke, headlights slicing the gloom. The Talenstar logo gleamed on their flanks, the turret mounts swiveling with eerie precision. Behind them came Skitters, like mechanical hounds. And behind them—rows of soldiers in dark, seamless armor. Rose’s heart sank. Not with relief—but dread. The trucks didn’t slow. They tore through the Rean—tires pulverizing bodies, Skitters scuttling ahead to plant destruction with terrifying speed. And then came the real shock: The gunfire. It wasn’t normal. It wasn’t bullets. With an electric scream, red bolts of energy spat from the barrels of Talenstar rifles and mounted cannons, slicing clean through flesh, armor, and bone. Each shot left glowing, cauterized wounds. The Rean fell in heaps, burning from the inside out. The mounted cannons fired in precise arcs, sweeping the horde like a scythe through wheat. The bolts lit the smoke with unnatural light—bright, clinical, merciless. Rose and her squad froze, shielding their eyes. “What the heck are those?” BuzzCut whispered. “No guns I’ve ever seen,” Rourke said. The Rean shrieked and burned. Talenstar soldiers advanced, not a word spoken. Every movement was synchronized, practiced. Then, from one of the armored transports, a voice blared through a mounted speaker. “This is a restricted operation. Drop your weapons and stand down.” Rose blinked. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” The Talenstar line kept moving forward, guns still raised. The Rean were done. Cleared. Finished. Vashin’s voice, quiet, low. “Here we go.” The voice from the speaker came again—calm, precise—through the trucks loud speaker. “This city is now under Talenstar jurisdiction. All Dalmore military assets are to stand down immediately.” Rose lowered her weapon, just slightly. “They wait until we’re dying… and then show up with space guns and lawyers.” Another voice, this one in person—mere feet away. “General Ryder Vashin,” said a Talenstar lieutenant as he stepped from his transport, matte-black armor gleaming. “You are under arrest for obstruction of TSF command authority. Lay down your arms.” The bridge—cleared of Rean—fell silent. Vashin stood still. So did Rose. So did everyone else. She looked at her squad. Bloodied, bruised, out of ammo and out of options. Then she looked at the clean boots of the soldiers who’d come to save them. No blood on their armor. Not a scratch. She wiped her face, smearing soot across her cheek. “Hell of a rescue,” she muttered. The bridge held a stillness that didn’t feel like peace. The wind blew smoke through shattered alleys. Somewhere, a Skitter chirped as it rebooted. Then the Talenstar lieutenant stepped forward, armor polished to a mirror sheen that caught the morning light. He moved with calm precision, every motion deliberate, as though he were used to being watched—and feared. His face, once the helmet came off, was clean-shaven and angular, with pale, unreadable eyes that gave away nothing. He looked young, but there was an edge to him. Something sharp. Something practiced. He stood straight, tucking the helmet under one arm like a ceremonial prop, and spoke in a voice that cut through the bridge with ease: “General Ryder Vashin,” he repeated, tone firm but not raised. “Effective immediately, by order of President Elara Vex, administrative control of Dalmore has been transferred to the Talenstar Security Force.” Vashin didn’t flinch. “I want to hear that from the President herself.” The lieutenant tilted his head slightly. “President Vex has appointed the Talenstar board as her proxy in all emergency matters.” That made Rose stiffen. Talenstar? Those snakes? Vashin barked a short, humorless laugh. “How convenient. Vex disappears. Talenstar appoints themselves kings.” The lieutenant's gaze didn’t waver. “Dalmore’s new governor is en route. Until then, this city and its assets fall under TSF oversight. All military personnel will be reassigned, starting now.” Murmurs rippled through the Dalmore soldiers. Confused. Angry. Tired. The lieutenant raised a hand. “We are not here to replace you. We’re here to save lives. The TSF has the weapons, food, and medical supplies to protect this city. You do not. You’ve done your best… but your best isn’t good enough anymore.” Rose bristled. Rourke spat into the dust. “We’re looking out for Alister’s best interest,” the lieutenant said. Vashin shook his head slowly. “No. You’re looking out for yourselves.” There was a long pause. The lieutenant's jaw clenched. “Stand down, General. You’re relieved.” Vashin’s hand twitched. Rose saw it a split second before it happened. He raised his pistol—fast, clean—and fired at point blank range. The shot rang out like a firecracker. The TSF soldier didn’t flinch. The bullet hit center mass—and bounced. Ricocheted off the armor like a pebble on metal. It hit the ground with a sad little plink. Before anyone could react, Vashin was tackled from behind. TSF troops surged forward, slamming him to the ground. He fought like a beast, teeth bared—but there were too many of them. “Get off him!” Rose shouted, stepping forward—only for a dozen rifles to turn her way in unison, red energy bolts humming to life. She froze. The soldiers dragged Vashin across the bridge, toward one of the armored trucks. His feet scraped the ground, and his breathing was heavy—but his eyes… his eyes stayed locked on Rose. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. That look said everything. Then the doors slammed shut, and Vashin was gone. The lieutenant turned back to the stunned soldiers of Dalmore. “Report to the broadcast building for reassignment orders. Talenstar will be coordinating security until further notice.” No one moved. No one spoke. The wind picked up, tugging at tattered flags and burnt uniforms. The red glow of energy rifles lit like embers. Rose stood perfectly still, eyes burning. She didn’t lower her weapon. Didn’t raise it either. Just stood there, caught in the cold silence of a city that had just been stolen. Again.