Unforgiven

Toral saw it first: a glaring lightning-blue glow above a smouldering pile of debris, superheated by the Hellbore rounds that had torn the structure apart. The Tin Man hauled its bulk over the wreck, clamping and crushing as it advanced. Its recessed eyes moved from side to side, scanning the ruins.

Some distance away, Toral crouched silently behind a fractured wall, her peripheral display flashing with a data feed. Hiding was impossible. She did not need the display to tell her that the Tin Man’s sensors had detected her long before she reached the fighting. Once it moved into effective range, its cannon would punch straight through the wall—and her exoskeleton.

Yet crouching behind stone and metal felt as natural as breathing. Around her, other Convicts darted through doorways and the shadows cast by burning wreckage. They ran up walls and leapt between towering structures. Toral knew neither their names nor the crimes that had condemned them to these mobile prisons. Like her, they had been involuntarily incorporated into the Prime Link.

The breakaway Confederate faction still clung to the hope of the Primarshal uprising. For a moment, Toral allowed her mind to wander. How long had it been? A few days must have passed since she and the others had been dropped headfirst into the chaotic ruins of the Gragon Line.

With everything that had happened, she had overlooked the magnitude of where she stood. Everyone knew the story of the ill-fated megastructure. The Gragon Line had been designed to end the Asylumists and protect Icinir and the Coalition heartland. Instead, it remained unfinished, unable to stop the waves that had spilled over it decades before.

Now the Line was a cauldron of battle: prey for scavengers, Blood Engines, and anyone seeking a fortified outpost from which to strike into Icinir. Confederation, Drakkaran, and Asylumist forces fought across its massive length. Toral had been deployed to serve that struggle.

Disorientation pulled her abruptly back to the present. The suit reminded her that she had a task. If she waited longer, it would take measures to reinvigorate her; if she continued to refuse, it would kill her. When the Prime Link captured them, Toral had believed they might be freed. Instead, it had merely seized control of their suits and replaced the Council’s tyranny with its own.

Toral moved through the ruins, weaving between twisted mechanisms and conveyors in the shattered industrial sector. Host filled what remained. Grotesque forms charged from every direction, hindering each step of her advance. Her visor’s targeting systems worked without pause, directing every round from her rifle towards its mark.

Hellbore rounds tore the Host apart. Sizzling fragments collapsed, crawled away, or burned to ash. The rifle had little recoil, but its noise and flash were immense. Round after round ripped through the ruins as Toral forced a path forward.

Then the suit relayed a proximity warning. Toral entered a small clearing in the industrial ruins and understood at once: the Tin Man was close, and she had moved within range.

The Tin Man’s cannon roared. Toral’s shielding whipped upwards to meet the incoming shot, but she was not its target. Another Convict had emerged beside her. The blast struck their shield directly; the field buckled and shattered, hurling the armoured figure backwards through smoke and debris.

Toral raised her rifle and fired, but the Tin Man’s field dispersed the shot with ease. She fired again. Its cannon roared once more. Toral was struck sideways and fell hard. The shot carved through the side of her helm, exposing part of her head, but she was alive.

At her feet, the remains of the fallen Convict had already become Host and began hacking at her suit. Toral fired, ending the thing her comrade had become. Another cannon shot flashed overhead. More Convicts poured into the clearing, and their rifles answered at once.

The Tin Man’s shields were overwhelmed. Incoming fire struck its armour as the field failed. The machine collapsed amid snapping arcs and still loosed one final shot before more rounds dulled its systems. At last, it crumpled into a glowing mound of slag.

Toral lay still as her suit’s systems dulled and flickered. The other Convicts passed her, firing into the incoming Host before disappearing into the ruins. Soon, all was quiet. Toral stared at her dead display, waiting for any sign that it still functioned. None came.

Slowly, she reached for the mechanism that kept her locked inside the suit. Interference should have meant death, yet no warning came. She grasped it and tore it away in one swift movement. There was no response. The Control Carapace and its monitoring systems were dead. Toral was free.

She crawled from the motionless shell, lungs burning as she inhaled the fumes. Across the clearing lay the Tin Man. Such machines were rarely deployed alone, yet this one carried the markings of the Flensing Chorus—a small faction of technology hoarders said to be led by a species able to speak with machines.

As the Council built new robotic creations, the Chorus had gathered whatever technology it could and filled its ranks with Tin Men and other mechanised soldiers. Whether through disorientation, exhilaration, or the shock of near death, Toral failed to notice the Host closing around her—crawling over walls and across the floor. She lunged for her rifle. It was dead.

The Council would never trust criminals with independent weapons. Without power from the suit, the rifle was useless. The prison that had stolen every choice was also the only thing keeping her alive. As the Host closed in, Toral took the shockwave-grenade belt—the one weapon not connected to the suit—and smiled. At last, she held a choice that was truly hers.