The sky darkened faster than forecast.
Jones noticed it before the warning came—ambient pressure shift, wind patterns turning erratic. His sensors adjusted automatically, filtering dust and static.
"Derick," Jones said, eyes tracking the horizon. "Weather spike incoming."
"I see it," Derick replied. "Extraction bird is rerouting. Hold position."
Hold position.
Jones didn't like that.
A low-frequency hum vibrated through the ground beneath his feet. Not thunder. Not weather.
Something heavier.
Jones turned toward the ruins just as multiple signatures flared back to life—too many, too synchronized.
"This isn't random," Jones said. "They're activating in waves."
Before Derick could respond, the first explosion hit.
The ground behind Jones erupted, throwing debris skyward. Jones planted his feet, compensators firing as shrapnel bounced off his armor.
"Ambush," Jones said calmly. "Requesting clearance to engage fully."
Static crackled.
Then Derick's voice, sharp and immediate. "Granted. But do not pursue beyond visual range."
Jones moved.
Not fast—precise.
He vaulted over a collapsed wall as three droids rushed him simultaneously. One swung high, one low, one delayed.
*Patterned attack.*
Jones intercepted the high strike, redirected the low, and used the third's momentum against it—driving it headfirst into concrete.
Metal screamed.
More droids poured in from the rubble.
Jones increased output.
Speed doubled. Weight compensation adjusted. Balance systems screamed warnings—but held.
He didn't overextend.
Each movement had intent. Each strike ended a threat.
Then—something new.
A taller unit stepped into view.
Heavier plating. Adaptive joints. Not a scavenger build.
"Derick," Jones said, locking onto the target. "New class detected."
Before Derick could answer, the unit spoke.
"Designation: J-7," it said in a distorted mechanical tone. "You are a variable."
Jones felt it—not fear, but recognition.
*It's learning.*
The unit moved.
Fast.
Too fast.
Its strike connected—Jones was thrown backward through a wall, skidding across the ground.
Alarms flared. Structural stress warnings lit his vision.
Jones pushed himself up.
The unit advanced, copying his stance.
Mirroring him.
"Derick," Jones said, voice steady despite the damage. "This unit is adapting in real time."
Silence.
Then: "Jones… extraction is compromised."
The J-7 unit tilted its head.
"You exceed projected control parameters," it said. "Correction required."
Jones clenched his fists.
*So do you.*
He surged forward—not with raw force, but unpredictability. A feint. A delay. A sudden shift in balance mid-strike.
The unit hesitated.
That was all Jones needed.
He drove his fist into its core, overloading the system. The unit convulsed, sparks erupting as it collapsed.
Jones stepped back, chest rising slowly.
The sky finally broke—rain crashing down, washing dust and ash from the ruins.
"Jones," Derick's voice returned, strained but clear. "Emergency evac window opening in thirty seconds. Move."
Jones didn't argue.
As the transport descended, he took one last look at the fallen unit.
It had called him a variable.
Back at base, alarms followed him through the doors—not red, not green.
Yellow.
Observation alarms.
Jones stood still as technicians rushed in, scanning damage, whispering urgently.
Derick arrived moments later, eyes locked on Jones.
"That unit wasn't supposed to exist," Derick said quietly.
Jones met his gaze.
"Neither was I."