Inside the transport aircraft, the air was thick with a heavy, suffocating silence. Slammer sat alone, her knuckles white as she gripped the handle of her hammer with such ferocity the reinforced metal groaned under the pressure. Her mind was a storm of bitter memories. Why won't you listen, Advisor? she thought. She could still see the faces of the fallen, the divisions shattered, and a world teetering on the edge of total ruin.
"Landing sequence initiated," the automated announcer droned, its voice devoid of emotion. "Exercise caution. Route safety status: Uncertain."
The heavy bay doors hissed open, and the operators poured out like a flood, scattering into a desolate, snow-dusted landscape. Slammer stepped onto the frozen ground, her boots crunching in the frost. She passed a derelict cabin—a hollow shell of a former life, its windows choked with cobwebs and rust.
Suddenly, a shout shattered the stillness. "Found something! Over here!"
While the operators sprinted toward the discovery, Slammer walked. Her footsteps were heavy, burdened by the weight of what she suspected they'd find. Pushing through the crowd, her breath hitched. Her eyes widened in genuine, rare shock.
"We need to inform the Advisor right now!" she commanded, her voice urgent. "This shard is powerful—it's the only thing that can tame the Calamity!"
But as the team reached out to secure it, the shard began to vibrate violently. It hummed with a chaotic, erratic energy before flinging itself into the sky, vanishing into a swirl of snow particles. Then came the voice—ancient, vast, and loud enough to rattle the very marrow in their bones:
"Wait till he comes..."
The operators stood paralyzed. The silence that followed was broken not by a voice, but by the mechanical roar of a Predator Mk 2. It descended through the clouds like a bird of prey, unleashing two missiles that tore through the ranks in a blossoming of fire and screams.
Slammer blinked, her mind still reeling from the vanishing shard. The Predator cackled—a grating, metallic sound—as it raised its arm-cannon. Four more operators were cut down in a spray of crimson before they could even draw their weapons.
Finally, the fog in Slammer's mind cleared, replaced by a white-hot rage. With a snarl, she gripped her hammer and charged across the snow.
The Predator Mk 2's mechanical maw unhinged, releasing a high-frequency screech. The sound was a physical wall, an agonizing vibration that turned Slammer's muscles to lead. She stopped mid-stride, frozen like a statue of ice, her senses failing. The Predator loomed over her, raising a massive fist to crush her into the frozen earth.
Whir-clink.
A golden sticky bomb sailed through the air, attaching itself to the Predator's raised fist. The machine tilted its head, peering at the blinking device for a split second before a deafening BOOM rocked the clearing.
As the smoke cleared, the Predator's right hand was gone, replaced by jagged, sparking scrap. Its eyes flared a murderous red, and it swept a laser beam through the haze to clear its vision.
Standing there, leaning casually with a cocky grin, was Mr. Mane in his gleaming, newly forged golden armor.
"Yo," Mr. Mane said, his voice dripping with confidence. "Time to save the day, you hunk of junk."
The Predator Mk 2 let out a low, unsettling mechanical chuckle. Mr. Mane remained unimpressed. He stepped over to Slammer, nudging her gently; realizing she was out cold, he sighed and hoisted her onto his shoulder as if she weighed nothing.
With a practiced flick of his wrist, he spun his golden revolver. "Bring it on!" He charged headlong toward the machine, and the Predator Mk 2 raised its remaining arm, ready for a collision that would shake the mountain.