The Relic: Part 3

Four hours later, Zero was a ghost haunting the desolate perimeter of Sector Gamma-4. He had moved like smoke, commandeering a battered utility truck outside a roadside diner—enough cover to blend into the early industrial traffic until he reached the Vault’s territory.

Gamma-4 was a brutalist rectangle of concrete and barbed wire, nestled deep in the mountains: a logistics hub masquerading as an abandoned military base. It wasn't guarded by typical sentries; it was protected by layers of subsonic acoustic fences and heat sensors programmed to ignore anything that didn't register above human body temperature.

Zero stripped off his tactical vest, relying solely on a light canvas utility jacket and his custom-fitted leather gloves. His skin was his best sensor.

He slid over the final fence line, timing his entry between the rhythmic pulse of the acoustic fields. He used a compressed canister of inert gas to temporarily cloud and blind a heat scanner—a cheap trick, but effective against automated systems.

Inside the main warehouse, the air was cold, sterile, and still. The high-bay shelving stretched toward a ceiling lost in shadow, holding identical black crates tagged with cryptic alphanumeric codes. Zero moved down the central aisle, his footsteps silenced by years of practice. He was looking for a pattern, a break in the monotony.

He found it in the only light source that wasn't fluorescent: a single, thin beam of red light cutting across a specialized docking bay reserved for oversized, heavily fortified containers. This area was clearly the core.

As he reached the edge of the bay, a low, metallic hiss came from the shadows to his left. Zero dropped instantly, spinning with the carbine raised.

He wasn't facing a camera, a drone, or a human goon. He was facing a Sentinel.

It was a man, but stripped of all identifiers, wearing a suit of perfectly insulated, non-reflective obsidian armor. The armor didn't look bulky; it looked like a second skin. Most critically, the suit was cold. Its surface temperature matched the ambient air, rendering it invisible to Zero's thermal optics. The Sentinel's face was covered by a black visor, and its hands—equipped with wickedly sharp, metallic talons—were clean.

The Sentinel didn't move until Zero's suppressed weapon clicked off safety. Then, it moved with the impossible speed of a compressed spring.

The fight was instant, close-quarters, and devastating. The Sentinel didn't dodge; it absorbed. Zero's first three rounds impacted the chest plate with a dull thud, not even shaking the armor.

Zero knew panic was a death sentence. He kicked out the Sentinel's footing, but the thing was too heavy. He was forced into a block, catching the Sentinel's taloned hand with his forearm. The talons tore through the leather of his glove and bit deep into the bone.

A blinding spike of pain shot up Zero’s arm. He felt the sickening, grinding sensation of metal against his ulna. He knew this wasn't just armor; this was a weapon designed to neutralize relics.

As the Sentinel prepared to crush his arm, the low, synthesized voice of the Vault crackled from a small speaker embedded in its shoulder: "Stop. Wait for retrieval. The Asset is compromised."

The Sentinel froze instantly, its visor staring blankly down at Zero, its talons still clamped on his bleeding arm. The pain was excruciating, but the voice had saved him.

Zero slammed his free hand against the Sentinel’s head, popping the speaker unit off the shoulder. He yanked his arm free, stumbling back, clutching the wound that was already pumping blood onto the cold concrete floor.

He had two choices: stay and fight a battle he couldn't win, or take the hint. The Asset is compromised. The Vault had found what it was looking for.

Zero looked at the Sentinel—now a frozen, seven-foot statue—and then at the heavily fortified container. He knew he couldn't breach that. But he had a target that was suddenly far more vulnerable: the human who controlled the Vault's commands.

He turned and disappeared into the shadows of the warehouse, leaving a trail of crimson drops on the floor. He knew one thing: he needed to find the Controller, and that person was now tracking him through his own blood.