The closure was not an abrupt event, but an inevitable consequence of the point the external pressure had reached; the reinforced steel doors did not descend as a desperate reaction, but as a decision executed at the exact moment when the facility’s internal calculation determined that containment had to shift from dynamic to absolute. The sound of the metal moving did not dominate the environment, but it did pass through it with a density that marked a before and an after, sealing the entrance that minutes earlier had been the point of greatest tension. On the inner surface of those doors, the energy shields activated without unnecessary display, forming a layer that did not shine constantly, but remained contained, stable, as if its function were not to be shown, but to endure.

The echo of the external combat did not disappear completely; it became distant, filtered, turned into a vibration that no longer demanded immediate reaction, but that reminded that the threat had not been eliminated, only separated.

Inside, the upper space of the facility was not silent, but it was different. The intensity had not disappeared; it had changed form. The units that remained standing did not celebrate the closure nor lower their guard; their postures remained firm, the weapons still held with the same discipline as seconds before, but now their attention was not directed toward the sealed entrance, but toward what they had brought with them.

The wounded did not occupy the center by chance; they had been placed there, not as an emotional priority, but as a structural necessity. The shotgun combatants were not motionless bodies abandoned to their fate, but neither could they sustain themselves with the same firmness as before; their breathing did not follow a uniform rhythm, some broken, others deep, forced by systems that still functioned within the damaged suits. The metallic surfaces that covered them were not destroyed, but they were marked, deformed at points where the impacts had exceeded the initial absorption, generating failures that were not visible to the naked eye, but that manifested in the way their bodies reacted to the attempt to move.

No one shouted.

No one asked for help, but the urgency was present in every contained gesture of those who held them. The hands that supported them did not tremble, but they were not indifferent either; they adjusted the weight with precision, avoiding unnecessary movements that could worsen what was already compromised. There was no panic, but there was an internal pressure that could not be ignored, a clear awareness that the combat had not ended and that the time they had just gained had to be used without waste.

The voice emerged without rising, not as a human order, but as an activated function. —Deployment of medical and repair units— it announced, without emotion or artificial urgency—. Priority on stabilization of compromised units.

There was no verbal response; it was not necessary.

The elevator did not descend with violence nor with a dominant noise, but its arrival was felt in the space as a clear transition between two phases of the same conflict. The doors opened with a precision that left no room for doubt, and from within, the units emerged without pause, not running nor hurrying, but not losing a single second in adapting to the environment either.

There were ten. Five of them did not have a form that could be confused with something human in function, their multiple bodies extending into mechanical arms that did not move erratically, but with an internal coordination that eliminated the need for visible sequence, each tool positioning itself before being used. The other five were different, their surfaces smooth, white, without unnecessary marks or design that distracted from their purpose, only a red cross at the center that was not a symbol, but a functional identification.

They did not evaluate from a distance nor observe without acting; they integrated.

The repair ones approached first, not to the bodies, but to the armors that covered them, their tools activating with a low and controlled sound, penetrating the damaged surfaces not with brute force, but with measured precision. They did not tear out pieces nor destroy complete sections, they identified points of tension, compromised zones and began to release those parts without affecting what still maintained the integrity of the user.

The process was not instantaneous, it could not be. Each removed segment required adjustment, each joint had to be separated without generating an internal collapse that would worsen the situation, and while that occurred, the soldiers who held the wounded did not interfere nor attempt to accelerate the procedure; they understood that speed without control could be more damaging than waiting.

Time became dense, not slow.

Heavy.

When the most critical sections of the armors were removed, the bodies underneath were partially exposed, not in a state that could be described as destroyed, but marked by the recent combat, with clear signs of impact, burns contained by the equipment and embedded fragments that had not penetrated completely, but had reached enough to compromise stability.

It was at that moment when the medical units advanced. They did not position themselves chaotically, they aligned, each one in front of a body. Their surfaces did not change, but their functions did. From the central area of each unit, where the red cross marked their purpose, the internal structures that had not been visible until that point deployed, extending in the form of platforms that did not need external support to hold weight.

The stretchers were not external, they were part of them.

The bodies were transferred with care, not with unnecessary delicacy, but with a controlled firmness that avoided abrupt movements, and once positioned, the next step was not announced, it was executed.

The needles did not emerge slowly nor violently, they deployed with precision, inserting themselves into specific points where the suit system had marked the most compromised zones, not seeking to generate pain, but direct intervention. The contact was not prolonged in uncertainty, it was immediate, and the reaction of the bodies was not of rejection, but of progressive release.

The breathing stabilized, the internal tensions began to give way, not by complete recovery, but by control. The eyes that still remained open did not close from exhaustion, but by induction, consciousness reducing to a state where the body could be treated without involuntary resistance.

There were no words of comfort, they were not necessary, the process did not depend on them.

When the initial stabilization was completed, the units did not stop to evaluate results in a visible way, they integrated that information into their own system and began the next movement without unnecessary transition.

The stretchers partially retracted, enough to allow transport.

The elevators did not wait for a new order.

They responded. The doors opened again, and one by one the bodies were transferred inside, descending to levels where the combat could not reach them in the same way, where repair would cease to be provisional to become complete intervention.

Above, the area did not remain empty, it became quieter, but not safe. The units that remained standing did not relax their posture nor stop looking toward the sealed doors, because although the interior had been contained, no one assumed that it would be enough.

The room did not change when the combat outside escalated again; there was no visible vibration in the walls nor lights flickering as dramatic warning, but the air inside did become denser, not due to lack of oxygen, but because of the information that began to accumulate on the screens, each one showing a different fragment of the same pressure that was rebuilding outside. Reichel had not moved from his position in front of the system, his back barely resting, one leg bent over the chair, his posture relaxed in appearance, but his hands were not, moving with continuous precision over the keyboard integrated into the wall, responding to each change in the images without the need to react with visible urgency.

Selena did not occupy the space like someone who needed to get closer to understand, she observed from where she was, and that was enough.

The external cameras did not show disorganized chaos, they showed persistence. The heavy machine guns on the roof of the installation continued operating, but no longer with the same dominant cadence of minutes before; their bursts were more spaced, more measured, not by voluntary strategy, but because the resource that sustained that type of fire was beginning to run out, and even so, each shot remained directed toward the heights where the enemy snipers attempted to reposition themselves, forcing them not to stabilize completely.

But that was not the main problem. Selena’s attention did not remain on what resisted, but on what advanced.

On the street, the figures that had survived the previous exchanges no longer moved without direction, they were reorganizing again, not in a rigid formation, but in a concentrated pressure toward the entrance of the installation, as if they had accepted that the only way to end that confrontation was to go through that point, regardless of the cost. They did not run in a desperate way nor shout orders, but their advance did not stop, step by step, using every remaining piece of cover available to shorten the distance.

And behind them, the armored vehicle. It did not advance quickly, it did not need to, it pushed. The remains of the destroyed vehicle that previously blocked the access were not a permanent obstacle, and under the constant pressure of its structure, those fragments began to move, scraping the ground, generating a rough sound that did not dominate the scene, but that clearly indicated that time was working against the installation.

Each push reduced the distance. Each movement brought the point of impact closer.

And when the front line opened enough, the mounted weapon activated again, its shots directed toward the sealed entrance, not expecting to break it in a single exchange, but accumulating impact.

Selena did not avert her gaze nor react with surprise. —They are going to concentrate everything on the entrance— she said, her voice low and steady, without the need to rise to impose itself—. They are not looking to flank... they want to break through.

Reichel smiled slightly, without stopping observing the screens, his tone light, but not empty. —Yes... it is quite evident— he responded, as if the development of the combat were a confirmation rather than a threat—. It is not a bad decision.

The images changed without either of them asking for it. The interior camera opened on another monitor, showing the upper level where the combat units had regrouped after the withdrawal. The wounded were no longer there, the space had been cleared with an efficiency that left no unnecessary traces, and the remaining combatants were not at rest, they were positioned, distributed at points where each one could cover specific sectors without overlapping. They did not speak nor move more than necessary, but they were waiting.

Selena did not need to observe longer. —Do you have access to the security codes for heavy weapon deployment?— she asked. It was not a doubt, it was a prior confirmation to a decision.

Reichel tilted her head slightly, a more visible smile now, but without losing the control that defined her, her tone maintaining that light nuance that did not interfere with her precision. —Of course— she responded—. And not only that... I have access to much more interesting things.

She did not say it to boast, she said it because it was true.

Selena did not react to the implication. —Then deploy prototype ten— she said without pause—. XM556 Microgun equipment for the active units. She did not explain the weapon, it was not necessary. —They will take care of those advancing... and of those remaining at height— she added—. The external machine guns will not hold coverage for much longer.

Reichel let out a small laugh through her nose, not mocking, closer to a contained satisfaction. —I did not expect you to want to use that in this situation— she commented, while her fingers were already beginning to move—. But it makes sense.

Selena did not change her expression. —It is the most efficient.

There was nothing more to discuss.

The keyboard responded to Reichel’s touch with a sequence that was not rushed nor chaotic, each command entered with precision, unlocking layers of the system that were not available for conventional use. On the monitors, new interfaces deployed, not as visual warnings, but as internal confirmations that access had been granted.

—Deployment authorized— murmured Reichel, more to herself than to Selena—. Let’s see how they react.

She pressed the last key, and the system responded.

On the screen that showed the upper level, the robotic voice did not rise, but it spread clearly throughout the space. —Prepare for heavy weapon equipment— it announced, without emotion—. Formation required for high lethality fire opening.

The units did not react with surprise, there was no exchange of glances nor doubt. Their postures adjusted slightly, enough to adapt to what was coming, and in that instant the environment itself began to respond: sections of the floor and walls activated, releasing compartments that had not been visible until that moment.

The combat had not ended, but it was about to change again.

The silence inside the room was not absence of sound, but a deliberate containment of everything that had occurred minutes before, a structured pause where the installation itself seemed to reorganize its function before allowing the next movement to be executed. The walls did not vibrate, the lights did not fluctuate, but the pressure from outside remained present, striking the sealed door with an insistence that did not seek to break it in a single impact, but to wear it down, to repeat the attempt until finding a failure.

The combatants did not respond to that sound, they did not turn nor speak. Their bodies remained aligned against the edges of the room, leaving the central space completely clear, not by verbal order, but because all of them knew that what was about to emerge needed that space without interference.

The cover walls that had previously defined the internal defense did not disappear with a crash, they retracted into the floor with the same precision with which they had emerged, integrating again into the structure as if they had never been there, eliminating any obstacle that could interfere with what followed.

The center of the room did not explode into movement, it descended. The platform began to lower in a stable manner, without abrupt vibrations, as if the weight it carried with it were perfectly calculated not to alter the surrounding structure. It was not a fast or slow descent, it was exact, and during that process the external sound continued striking the door, closer now, more insistent, as if the enemy perceived that something was changing on the other side.

No one moved, no one spoke. They waited.

Time did not feel long, it felt necessary.

When the platform reached its lower point, the sound disappeared for an instant, not because the exterior had ceased, but because the structure itself had absorbed that noise in its entirety, and when the movement inverted, when the platform began to ascend again, what it brought with it was not improvised.

It was designed.

The crates appeared first, there were not many, but they were enough, arranged around a central structure that did not need presentation to impose itself. The machine did not have a humanoid form nor did it seek to imitate something alive in appearance, but its configuration was not random: four thick legs, firm, anchored to the base of the platform with a stability that did not depend on active balance, but on mass and distribution. Its surface was opaque, without unnecessary details, without lights that indicated external functioning, and on it, the main element.

The cannon was not long by excess, but compact in proportion to its power, its circular output completely aligned forward, without deviation, as if its entire structure were built in function of that single purpose. Above it, the rectangular compartment did not remain inert, it emitted a low, almost imperceptible vibration, as if inside that section something were being prepared before being released.

The platform stopped, and with it, the waiting time.

The combatants did not hesitate. Their current weapons were not abandoned out of carelessness, they were set down with intention, placed on the ground without generating unnecessary noise, as if that gesture were part of the same process they were executing. The crates opened without difficulty, not by force, but by recognition, releasing their contents immediately.

The XM556 Microguns were not light, they were not designed to be, but in the hands of those who wore the heavy suits, their weight did not alter posture, only function. Each unit took theirs without haste, adjusting the grip with a precision that did not require testing, as if that type of weaponry had already been anticipated in their training.

There was no exchange of words nor verbal validation, all of them knew what it implied.

They positioned themselves, not in an open line, but behind the machine, as if they recognized that what was about to happen did not need multiple directions of attack, but an initial opening that would break the structure of the confrontation.

The voice emerged again, not louder, but more definitive. —External coverage insufficient— it announced—. Assigned units must assume suppression of targets at height. Remaining units will proceed to total elimination of hostile forces. Sector cleared. No civilian presence.

There was no emotional reaction to that confirmation, they did not need it, the combat had already stopped considering that variable.

—Shield inactive— the voice continued—. Prepare opening.

The air did not change.

But the tension did. The machine did not move immediately, its legs did not adjust; it was the upper compartment that reacted first, emitting a more defined sound, not loud, but constant, a vibration that indicated accumulation, not of visible energy, but of something that did not need to be shown to be understood.

The shot had no visual warning. There was no prior light nor visible charge. The projectile came out, not like a conventional bullet nor like an explosion, but as a compressed release, a direct trajectory that did not deviate a single millimeter from the point of origin to its destination.

The reinforced steel door did not resist, not because it was weak, but because that did not seek to break it through superficial impact. It went through it, without stopping, and what was behind did not have time to react.

The armored vehicle, positioned in front of the entrance, was not pushed nor displaced, it was perforated. The projectile passed through it as if its structure did not offer significant resistance, generating a line of destruction that did not expand into a chaotic explosion, but into a clean and direct trajectory, where the metal opened and burned in the same instant.

The buildings behind did not collapse completely, but the line that the projectile passed through compromised them. The structures gave way along that trajectory, fragmenting in a progressive fall that was not instantaneous, but inevitable.

The dust did not cover everything, but enough.

And in that instant, the opening was made.

The combatants did not wait for confirmation, they did not need it. They advanced, they did not run, they moved out. The Microguns did not activate with isolated shots, they released a continuous, heavy flow.

The enemy figures were not completely caught off guard; some attempted to respond, others sought cover, but the rhythm no longer belonged to them. The shots were not short bursts, they were sustained pressure that did not allow reorganization, that gave no margin to stabilize.

The snipers, now exposed by the destruction of the structures that had concealed them, did not have the same response time as before; their positions were compromised by the collapse of the environment that supported them, and when they attempted to relocate, they were already within range. The elimination was not slow nor chaotic, it was systematic.

And while the combat shifted once again toward the exterior, leaving behind containment to become offensive, what had been a structured defense transformed into something different: not a victory, not yet, but a shift in control that could not be ignored.

The exit was not an uncontrolled burst of violence, but the direct continuation of a pressure that had already reached its breaking point, where the shot from the prototype had opened a line that could not be closed again in the same way. The combatants of the installation, now positioned at the threshold between interior and exterior, did not advance with haste, but neither with doubt; the Microguns released a continuous flow that did not seek individual precision, but absolute dominance of the immediate space, a current of sustained impact that turned every meter in front of them into a zone where remaining standing required more than basic resistance.

The enemy did not collapse immediately in a visible way, not all at the same time, but the structure that sustained them ceased to exist as a functional whole. Their attempts to respond did not disappear, but they became fragmented, interrupted by the constant pressure that did not allow them to reorganize. Some bodies fell before completing a movement; others attempted to maintain cover behind the remains of metal and concrete, but those points no longer offered the same protection, not because they were nonexistent, but because the intensity of the fire turned them into temporary shelters that could not be sustained for more than a few seconds.

The armored vehicle, which minutes before had represented the enemy’s most solid advance, no longer fulfilled that function: its structure, pierced and marked by the trajectory of the initial shot, remained standing, but without real capacity to sustain an effective offensive, becoming a static obstacle rather than an active tool. Around it, the figures that had attempted to maintain pressure began to diminish, not by explicit surrender, but because the environment ceased to allow them to operate under the same logic they had used up to that point.

The flow of the Microguns did not stop nor diminish immediately, but it did change. It was not necessary to maintain the same density when the enemy no longer sustained the same structure, and that adjustment was not ordered aloud, it was understood by those executing the fire, reducing the pressure enough not to waste resources, but maintaining superiority in the space.

It was at that moment when the survivors defined themselves, not as an organized group, but as fragments that could still move. Two, perhaps one more hidden outside the immediate field, but visible, operational, only two. They were not intact, their movements were not clean, each step carried a slight instability that did not come from lack of training, but from accumulated damage that could no longer be ignored, and even so they did not stop to attempt a final offensive, they chose to retreat.

There was no prior signal nor shout of command. One of them threw the first device to the ground with a movement that did not seek millimetric precision, followed by the second in an almost simultaneous sequence, and upon impact they did not generate explosion nor immediate smoke, but an alteration in the air that expanded in a controlled radius.

The distortion was not completely visible, but it was there. The space deformed enough for the trajectory of the bullets to cease being completely direct, not stopping them abruptly, but diverting their course, dissipating part of their energy before reaching the final point. The next layer was the smoke, released with greater density, not spreading without control, but concentrating around that distortion, creating a cover that was not absolute, but sufficient to break visual continuity.

The combatants of the installation did not stop firing, but the effect was no longer the same. The trajectories were lost.

The impacts did not connect with the same certainty, and within that reduced margin the two survivors took advantage of every second, not running in a disordered way, but moving toward the angles where the natural cover of the environment combined with the artificial one they had just generated. They did not disappear nor fade, but they ceased to be within direct range.

The smoke did not remain indefinitely, the distortion was not permanent, and when both effects began to dissipate, what remained was not the continuation of the combat, it was its absence.

The Microguns reduced their flow until stopping completely, not because there were no possible targets, but because there were no longer clear targets within immediate range, and maintaining fire without direction did not correspond to the logic under which they operated.

The silence did not arrive suddenly, it was built. First with the decrease of impacts, then with the absence of response, until the only thing that remained was the residual sound of the environment: fragments falling, structures adjusting after the tension they had endured, and the air itself recovering a stability that was not calm, but transition.

The street was no longer an active field of confrontation, it was the result of what had occurred. The remains of the armored vehicle remained where they had been pierced, its structure still hot at specific points, the metal deformed without having completely collapsed. The nearby buildings were not intact, their surfaces marked by trajectories that had not been designed to impact architecture, but that had done so nonetheless, leaving visible signs of a confrontation that could not be mistaken for something minor.

The combatants did not advance beyond what was necessary, they did not pursue nor break formation, they remained at the limit, observing, evaluating, with their weapons still in position, not due to immediate expectation of attack, but because the state of alert had not been lifted.

No one spoke, it was not necessary to confirm what was evident.

The robotic voice returned, not as a triumphant conclusion, but as a record. —Immediate threat withdrawn— it indicated—. Sector under operational control.

There was no emotional response to that statement, they did not invalidate it, but neither did they celebrate it, because the control was not absolute, only sufficient. 𝙧𝙚𝙚𝔀𝒆𝓫𝓷𝙤𝓿𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝙤𝓶

And in that space where the combat had ended without being completely resolved, where victory did not feel like closure but like a pause, something remained implicit in the way everyone maintained their posture.

It had not ended, it had only changed form. The Veil did not appear as a violent rupture of space, but as a superposition that had already been there before being perceived, extending over reality like a deeper layer where the consequences did not disperse, but remained, dense, accumulated within a radius that did not need to be measured to understand its scope. The buildings were not simply damaged; their structures were opened, pierced, broken from the inside out, as if the force that had impacted them had not sought to destroy them on the surface, but to break the logic that sustained them, leaving suspended fragments, impossible inclinations, walls that were no longer support, but remnants of something that had ceased to fulfill its function.

At the center of that deformation, where the destruction was not uniform but concentrated, Narka stood in his complete form, his mineral shell reflecting the absence of light more than its presence, the incandescent cracks between his plates breathing slowly as if the earth itself pulsed within him. His weight did not only rest on the ground, it defined it, generating a constant pressure that kept the space under control, and on his shell, without the need to adjust his posture, Sebastián remained standing.

There was no visible tension in his body nor apparent wear, but in his right hand there was something that did not belong to that plane. The bionic eye was not clean, it had not been extracted with care nor separated with surgical precision; the cables that emerged from its rear were not ordered, they hung in different directions, some still wet, others tense, as if they had been torn out with the same force with which the rest of the confrontation had been defined. Sebastián held it without excessive firmness, without squeezing it, turning it between his fingers with a slowness that did not correspond to curiosity, but to a total absence of emotional interest in what he had in his hand: he moved it, let it fall slightly within his own palm, lifted it again, as if it were nothing more than an object without real weight.

Beneath him, immobilized without possibility of resistance, the man’s body was not contained by an external structure nor by a device that restrained him. It was Narka who kept him in place, his front left leg resting directly over what remained of his torso, not crushing him completely, but enough to eliminate any margin of movement.

His condition did not require interpretation. The upper part of his body did not preserve functional integrity, his abdomen exposed, pierced by an impact that had not been superficial, a clear perforation on the left side of the chest where the force had not only penetrated, but had disorganized what was inside, and even so, there was no total collapse. His right shoulder was not complete; what remained of it did not correspond to a recognizable joint, but to an irregular rupture where the continuity of the arm had ceased to exist, and below that point, both upper limbs ended abruptly at elbow height, not cleanly nor uniformly, but torn off with a violence that had left no margin for immediate reconstruction.

The legs did not support his weight, they could not. From the knees downward there was no functional structure; what remained of them did not respond to a natural alignment, the bones visible where the skin no longer covered them, fragmented, deviated, crossing at angles that did not correspond to any viable posture, and even so, there was no convulsion nor uncontrolled reaction.

The blood did not flow freely, it accumulated, it remained, controlled by something that was not visible from the outside.

His face was not intact, not completely. One of his eyes was no longer there, the other was, and with it... the expression.

He smiled, not in a wide nor exaggerated way, but he did. The blood in his mouth did not prevent him from speaking.

—Truly... it is not my day— he murmured, his voice was not strong, but neither broken—. To encounter monsters like you... in a job that was supposed to be simple...

He did not finish the sentence as a complaint, he let it fall as a fact.

Sebastián did not stop moving the eye in his hand, he did not react immediately.

—Stop wasting time— he finally responded, his tone flat, without variation—. Say who sent you.

There was no threat in the form, but there was in the content.

—Or you will lose what remains.

The man let out a small laugh that did not expand.

—I do not feel pain— he responded, spitting blood to one side without managing to move it much—. My body... is prepared for this.

There was no pride in his words, only information.

Sebastián observed him, one second more, two, then he lifted his gaze.

The sky of the Veil was not a sky in the conventional sense, it had no visible depth nor clear reference points, but even so his gaze remained there, as if he found something that was not on the ground, as if that moment was not being occupied by the enemy beneath his feet, but by something more distant.

He exhaled, not fatigue, decision.

—The enemy was destroyed— he said, without looking away yet—. Take him.

It was not a forced order.

It was conclusion.

Narka did not move immediately.

—I see no inconvenience— he responded in his deep tone, without questioning.

The pressure of his leg was withdrawn without generating more damage than necessary, not out of care, but because it was not necessary to exert more force. Sebastián descended from his shell with the same stability with which he had remained above, without adjusting his balance nor looking at the man while doing so, and when he reached the ground he did not change his rhythm.

He bent slightly and took him, not by the arm nor by the torso, but by the head. His grip was not violent in appearance, but it was sufficient to lift him without effort; the body responded like a mass without capacity to oppose, hanging by what still held it together.

The bionic eye disappeared from his hand in the same movement, stored without emphasis.

Narka reduced his size without visible transition, his colossal form disappearing as if it had never occupied that space, reappearing on Sebastián’s shoulder with the same stability as before, his golden eyes still open, still attentive.

There were no final words nor declared closure, only movement.

And behind them, the destruction did not disappear.

It remained.

_____________________________________________

END OF Chapter 94

The path continues...

New Chapters are revealed every

Sunday, and also between Wednesday or Thursday,

when the will of the tale so decides.

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