Wolfen sat atop a cairn of his own making. The small, regional lab—a genetics outpost—was a smoldering crater behind him, its data cores melted, its white-masked staff reduced to still, grey shapes scattered around the clearing like discarded toys. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't bored. He was waiting, a statue of Umbralite and intent.
He had chosen this lab not for its importance, but for its isolation and its predictable response time. He was fishing with dynamite.
Exactly one hour earlier, in a fortified command hub far to the north, the response he'd calculated was unfolding.
The hangar bay echoed with the thrum of engines as a sleek, black assault helicopter powered up. Before it stood the three figures he'd heard discussed in the dark room: Superiors 10, 11, and 12. They were a stark contrast to each other. Ten was tall and gaunt, a living razorblade with a futuristic, humming energy sword already glowing at his hip. Eleven was a mountain of muscle and armor, his hands encased in massive, hydraulic gauntlets that could crumple steel. Twelve was slender, almost effete, but the twin heavy plasma cannons mounted on his back hummed with a lethal promise.
As they moved to board, a figure in a white mask hurried across the bay, her gait purposeful. Architect 328 approached, her voice filtered to a respectful monotone. "Superiors! A moment. Superior-1 has ordered that you take three of the Alpha-class assets from Containment Bay Seven for additional support. Their files have been transmitted to your console."
She stopped before them, awaiting acknowledgment.
Superior-10 stopped. He didn't turn his head. His hand, moving faster than sight, snapped out. There was no energy flare, just the clean, terrible shink of a monomolecular edge.
328's left arm, from the shoulder down, was severed cleanly. It hit the permacrete floor with a wet thud.
Her scream was raw, human, and shocking in the sterile bay. She staggered, clutching the geysering stump, blood instantly soaking her white uniform.
"How dare you come to us and speak without my permission, grunt?" Superior-10's voice was a synthesized sneer. He didn't even look at the arm on the ground or the woman collapsing beside it. "Our methods require precision, not noisy animals. We hunt alone."
The three Superiors boarded their craft without another glance. The helicopter lifted off, its downdraft whipping 328's blood in a spiral across the floor.
From a observation balcony above, Superior-1 watched, his grey mask impassive. As med-drones zipped to the writhing figure below, he commed his private channel to the medic bay. When she was stabilized, her wound sealed with synth-flesh and coagulants, he stood over her cot.
"Wild boars," Superior-1 said, his voice a low rumble. "That is what they are. Not the strongest individually, but together, their coordination brought down a feral Alpha-class that had leveled two sectors. That is their only value." He leaned closer. "And now that they have laid a hand on my assistant… they will die. If, that is, they survive Wolfen Welfric."
In her pain-fogged mind, 328 remembered the device in her torn pocket, still active. She hoped, through the agony, that he had heard.
---
On his pile of rubble, Wolfen had heard everything. The shink, the scream, the cold dismissal, Superior-1's cold verdict. The device in his pocket had gone silent after the scream, but the message was received.
His golden eyes, fixed on the horizon, saw the black speck grow into the descending helicopter. It landed a hundred yards away, kicking up ash and dust.
The three Superiors emerged, their forms imposing against the wreckage. Ten's energy sword cast a blue glow. Eleven's gauntlets clenched with pneumatic hisses. Twelve's plasma cannons whined as they powered up, barrels tracking Wolfen.
Wolfen didn't rise from his seat. He just watched them fan out, a perfect tactical triangle.
Superior-10's voice crackled through an external speaker. "Anomaly Welfric. Your disruption ends here. You will be dismantled for study."
Wolfen finally moved. He stood up, brushing nonexistent dust from his simple clothes. He looked at the one with the sword—the one who had cut off an arm for a perceived slight.
"No speeches," Wolfen said, his voice carrying easily across the clearing. "No permissions needed."
A slow, terrifying smile finally touched his lips. It wasn't his usual smirk of amusement. It was the smile of a predator who has not only found its prey, but has found a reason to enjoy the hunt.
"This," he said, cracking his neck, a sphere of white plasma igniting in one hand, a blade of utter black Umbralite forming in the other, "is going to be fun."