Initializing neural compatibility check. All signs are green. Secondary lobe bonding. Green. Visual synchronization. Green. Let’s boot him up.

Wolfhound’s ocular implant flickered a few times, as the neural link went through the last calibrations, and then the world was back. He was standing in an enclosed space, not much more than a cargo container, cast into darkness by the absence of any apparent light source.

‘Ah shit, you’re on this op?’ Dingo was on the other line, chippy as usual, ‘Ain’t that a kick in the ass.’ Communication Administrators — or C-Ads — were vital to operational procedure. They were overwatch, eyes in the proverbial sky; big brothers and sisters with a superiority complex. Information was as valuable as any weapon in the field and they brokered it like currency. You didn’t pick your mission parameters or the operators you partnered with; it was all on the need-to-know. Wolfhound hadn’t the slightest idea where he was or even the nature of the assignment. Dingo filled him in. ‘Let there be light!’

The artificial glow of inbuilt night vision was blinding at first, Wolfhound squinting against it as his surroundings were illuminated. The container was cramped, crowded with various crates and storage units, but Wolfhound knew better than to search for anything useful. Operators never provided more intel than what was strictly necessary — plausible deniability.

‘We got one helluva situation brewing down here, mate. Whole thing is one giant clusterfuck and I ain't exaggerating neither.' Dingo was talking fast, clipped and urgent. 'We've got an active shooter situation, multiple casualties, and a whole lotta panic in the streets. Rogue iceman. Geeked out with experimental military-grade gear. It’s FUBAR.”

Wolfhound nodded despite knowing Dingo couldn’t see him, taking everything in stride. ICEMEN were elite special operations soldiers who underwent extensive cybernetic augmentation procedures, effectively turning them into living weapons. In theory, they were humanity's greatest fighting force. In practice, well... that depended on who you asked. The human brain was a complex machine, fragile in its own way. Ripping it apart piece by piece, replacing it with circuitry and machinery, left many veterans unstable. When push came to shove, icemen could turn on their allies just as easily as their enemies.

'What's my play?' Wolfhound asked. He didn't have time for exposition and neither did anyone else involved.

'Get in there and clean up this mess before it gets any worse,' Dingo replied. ‘Gear is in the usual marked bin, that’s already been squared away.’

‘Is it adequate?’

‘Heavy duty.’

Wolfhound grunted his acknowledgement, approaching the designated crate and flipping open the latches. Inside was a collection of standard issue equipment: a G46 auto-rifle with depleted uranium ammunition, several M901 concussive grenades, a combat knife, a pair of high frequency EMP grenades, and finally, Wolfhound's favourite toy, a ROM2100 Mark II Sentinel. The shotgun was sleek, designed for close quarters engagements, with a folding stock and integrated laser sight. Wolfhound took it in hand reverently.

'You know those things'll kill you right? What if you hit someone with friendly fire? You gonna give 'em a hug after?' Dingo quipped, making small talk while Wolfhound suited up.

'That's why I only point it at people I don't like,' Wolfhound said dryly. He wasn't exactly a people person. Perhaps that’s why his handlers had armed him so well, a preemptive apology of sorts.

‘Well, fun ain’t over just yet; you aren’t running this one solo.’ Dingo sounded as though he were squinting at the last part.

As he checked the ammo count for his rifle, Wolfhound sighed, ‘Elaborate.’

‘She’s already there. Boxed up and awaiting activation.’ As if Dingo were there with him, the operator looked to a conspicuously large container that had slipped his attention. While it didn’t dwarf the hulking merc, it was a rather large sarcophagus; streaks of pulsing crimson light played upon its graphite face.

‘I don’t like the sound of activation.’

Dingo cleared his throat, ‘Who does. She’s already patched in to your NueraLink — eggheads had you configured during transport.’ Fuckers. Of course they had. Wolfhound gently tugged at his collar, feeling along the base of his neck as though he’d find something. ‘Quick rundown of the borg. No point in asking questions you don’t have the answers to.’ Wolfhound snorted.

‘Her name is Revenant — codename. Model number…unregistered. Class and capabilities? Unregistered. This shit is haywire. Gimme a sec’ It had hardly been three. ‘I’m blacklisted, would ya fucking believe it. This is real hush-hush, hound man, we’re both rolling blind.’

If there was a God then Wolfhound hated Him.

‘Operational parameters are simple: eliminate hostile threat with extreme prejudice. There won't be no trial, no debrief, no nothing. We're cutting this one real loosey goosey. Don't go making friends, she ain't staying around long either. Cleanup crew is on standby.' Wolfhound understood perfectly. There'd be no witnesses when this was over.

'She's online,' Dingo remarked, tone shifting from urgency to nonchalance, 'Say hello to momma.'

'Fuck off, Dingo,' Wolfhound growled as he approached the sarcophagus, shotgun slung over his shoulder.

The top slid open automatically, accented by the pneumatic hiss of depressurization. Smoke spilled forth from within, tinted red from whatever internal lightsource bathed the occupant. Wolfhound leaned forward cautiously, peering into the confines of the unit. Laid supine, suspended in a viscous liquid, was Revenant. Her — because Dingo had referred to it as such — body was a sinuous blend of artificial muscle and ballistic weave, undulating with amniotic fluid. Her head was encased within an intricate looking helmet, a latticework of biomechanical design that hid her face from view. Sleek hardly described it, a full-faced apparatus of carbon composite and a single, glowing red slit where her eyes should have been. She’d been a woman — once upon a time — the mercenary reminded himself. Now, Revenant was anything but. Fingertips and toes ended in raptorine claws. Her legs were digitigrade, jointed awkwardly and terminating in thick, clawed feet. Even submerged Wolfhound could make out the definition of abdominal muscles, toned and taut beneath synthetic flesh. Her loadout hadn’t called for firearms because it didn’t need to. One could only imagine the gore-rending damage that such a borg was capable of with its claws alone. Wolfhound found himself staring, entranced by the serene figure that lay before him. He almost missed Dingo clearing his throat again. Almost.

'Don't get any funny ideas, Romeo.'

'Shut the fuck up, Dingo,' Wolfhound snapped back, brow furrowed, 'neural link established?'

'Just about. Syncing up now, hold tight.' A moment passed. 'Brace for vertigo, this tech is hot.’ Wolfhound braced himself accordingly.

Revenant opened her eyes.

Activation.

Wolfhound staggered backwards, disoriented and dizzy, catching himself on a crate behind him. He groaned, eyes screwed shut, nausea welling up in the pit of his stomach. Neural sync was always rough. Your brain was rewired to accommodate another presence, thoughts becoming shared, senses doubled. Wolfhound had done this song and dance plenty of times but it didn’t stop him from cursing under his breath.

Activation complete.

Wolfhound opened his eyes and Revenant was staring at him. She was sat upright, perched within the sarcophagus like some kind of spider queen. Amniotic fluid clung to her form, accentuating every curve and angle of her physique. Wolfhound tried very hard not to stare. He failed miserably.

”Ally operative. Designation — Wolfhound.” Revenant’s voice was a distorted growl, modulated and artificial, yet distinctly feminine. It was jarring.

"Revenant." Wolfhound nodded, pushing himself upright, "Status?"

"Combat ready," she replied. Her posture was stiff, sitting rigidly upright. Military protocols ran deep, evidently.

'Alright kids, enough chit-chat. Get moving!' Dingo chimed in, interrupting the conversation. He fed coordinates directly into their NueraLinks, marking the location of the rogue iceman on both operatives' HUDs. A steady stream of useless information sprinkled with nuggets of value scrolled across Wolfhound’s irises. Schematics, bursts of staticky CCTV feeds, dossiers; things had indeed been a clusterfuck. Their staging container jostled, likely from a sharp turn taken by the aerial transport.

Dingo wasn’t so unbearable when he focused, ‘ETA is 2 minutes. Evacuation complete. No civvies on-site. It’s gonna be a shoot house and you have full authorization to use every piece of ordinance at your disposal. Current location is the Exxxel night club; hope you like to dance, Wolfhound.’

Wolfhound rolled his eyes, loading a fresh mag into his rifle. Revenant stood abruptly, stepping free of her container with grace that belied her size. She was a good two heads taller than the merc, looming over him with predatory poise. Her movements were oddly smooth, hips swaying with each step. Wolfhound averted his gaze.

'How do you feel?' Wolfhound asked, strapping an M901 to his belt. He preferred keeping the shotgun on hand but concussive grenades weren’t particularly effective at medium range.

"Functional," Revenant replied bluntly, stretching her arms above her head. Muscle fibers rippled beneath synthetic skin, the borg testing the limits of her articulation. God, Wolfhound cursed the pervy little egghead that whipped her up. 'Ready to engage hostiles.' She bent at the waist, touching her palms flat to the floor, her joints creaking with effort. Wolfhound averted his gaze again, busying himself with loading his shotgun. Revenant straightened up, cocking her head to the side. 'Are you nervous?'

"No." Yes. Wolfhound didn't care for icemen; unpredictable bastards. Cybernetically enhanced soldiers weren't meant to last as long as they did. Augments were supposed to enhance, not replace. There was a fine line between a soldier and a monster. Revenant leaned towards the latter, though she wasn’t the most hideous monster Wolfhound had ever seen; far from it.

Revenant cocked her head to the other side, studying Wolfhound intently. 'Your heart rate is elevated.'

"It isn’t," Wolfhound lied, checking the safety on his rifle. His NueraLink pinged, Dingo feeding final details directly to his iris.

'Target has barricaded himself in the VIP lounge — we can't get a visual. Place is a goddamn fortress. Be advised, target is extremely dangerous.' Well, that was obvious. Wolfhound strapped a concussive grenade to his belt alongside the others.

"Got any tricks up your sleeve?" He asked Revenant, nodding to her claws.

"Extensive," she replied, flexing her fingers.

Wolfhound smirked, "Good."

⁂