Touchdown

The planet rushes up at me, my body rattling inside like shoes in a dryer; vibrations shaking through the hull, teeth chattering, the roar of re-entry drowning out everything but the rush of blood in my ears.

Ellie wasn’t kidding. This bitch is rough.

With a thought, I reinforce the pod. A layer of padding ripples into existence around me; soft, yielding foam molding to my body like a custom cocoon, absorbing the jolts with muffled thuds, turning bone-rattling chaos into a bumpy ride.

The pod slams into Promethea’s Meridian Outskirts, cratering the pavement with a thunderous boom - concrete fracturing in spiderweb cracks, dust kicking up, the ground shuddering.

But me? I’m fine. Didn’t even need to use the healing abilities I was granted when entering this world; the padding's done its job, cushioning the impact like a high-tech airbag.

The hatch hisses open, steam venting in hot bursts. I step out, boots crunching into the fractured concrete; shards grinding underfoot like broken glass.

Lilith crackles through my comms; static chewing the edges of her voice, her image glitchy in the upper corner of my HUD, but still gorgeous, red hair framing that fierce, knowing smile.

Bzzt. "Nice landing," she teases, voice cutting through the interference like a blade. “You should be able to pinpoint the distress signal now that you’re planet-side. We’re still holding back, but we can transport you out whenever you want. Find Lorelei. Help them out. They’re a good soldier; you’ll get along like gangbusters. Lilith, out."

The comms fizzle, leaving me with nothing but the buzz of neon billboards flickering in the smoggy distance, the hum of distant sirens wailing like wounded animals, and the sweet sound of opportunity; Promethea’s tech-heavy sprawl screaming to be assimilated.

CashCrab chirps from my wrist, eager to suck up the loot this place is practically dripping with.

Far ahead of me, massive skyscrapers pierce the sky, neon lights humming and pulsing in electric blues and pinks, casting the streets in a perpetual twilight glow. I wonder just how much tech this planet is hiding; corporate prototypes, abandoned drones, Maliwan scrap begging to join my army of junkyard killers.

GhostScout launches ahead; cloaked, silent, optic whirring faint as it vanishes into the haze; ready to tag potential enemies before they can even smell me, red pings already flickering on my HUD.

But right now? There’s only one piece of compatible tech nearby, and she’s sitting behind me, sleek, humming, ready for her first transformation.

My dropship, steaming hot from the harsh re-entry, scorched, hull blackened and pitted, thrusters still venting wisps of superheated air that distort the air around it.

I grin, as I hit her with my Action Skill, violet energy crackling out.

She shimmers; panels sliding with hydraulic whines, metal groaning as joints unfold, frame expanding upward with a series of heavy clanks. Legs lock into place, arms extending like unfolding weapons, turrets mounting on forearms with metallic snaps.

Sentient Companion: PodSm@sh [Drop Ship] – Goliath Ground Class

Heavy, Strong, Deadly

Attack: Heavy melee attack

Secondary Attack: High Caliber Artillery

Tertiary Attack: EMP pulses and holographic projections

• Drop in, tear out.

PodSm@sh stands tall now; brutality at every angle, eyes glowing red slits in a hulking faceplate, fists the size of engine blocks clenching with a metallic crunch that echoes off the buildings. She growls, a mechanical silverback in low gear, guns twitching, exhaust ports puffing steam that smells of raw power.

Getting to that distress call isn’t gonna be a problem, and if my landing lit up the radar?

Good. Let them come. I'm armed. And in the mood for a fight.

The dust from my drop is still settling, when GhostScout updates me, pinging twenty red targets advancing toward the landing site.

Maliwan soldiers.

Sleek, armored, and probably overconfident, corporate logos gleaming on their visors, rifles humming with energy clips that glow faint blue. They fan out in tactical formation, boots thudding on cracked pavement, visors scanning the haze with digital whirrs.

They think they're walking into a standard sweep.

They have no fucking idea.

I casually raise my Judgment Day; sights lining up crisp through my augmented contacts. GhostScout already tagging weak points in red overlays: joints, visors, power packs, still cloaked, floating silently to my left. The air barely ripples as a faint hiss sounds; his silenced pistol whispering **** across the street. Pshtt!

The first Maliwan soldier's helmet cracks; a neat hole between his eyes, brain matter misting out the back. His body drops, face-first into the asphalt, armor clanking useless as blood pools around his head.

Chaos erupts; voices overlapping in frantic bursts over their comms.

"CONTACT!"

"FUCK, WE GOT HOSTILES!"

"MOVE UP, FLANK LEFT!"

"FIRE, FIRE!!!"

But then… they see her.

PodSm@sh.

Towering, plated in reinforced steel and dirty metal scars, heavy arms flexing with unsettling mechanical grace; joints grinding like thunder, the thrusters on her back venting blue flame.

One soldier stutters mid-sentence, voice cracking over their comms.

"Uh… what the fuck is that?"

Answer? Their funeral.

PodSm@sh fires an EMP pulse; an electric blue sphere cracking through the air, expanding in a rippling wave that hits them all, static crawling across their suits. Their shields implode; energy fields fizzling out in sparks and pops, visors fritzing hard, displays going dark with digital screams.

Their panic hits fast.

"My helmet's dead!"

"Shit! Ditch the visors!"

"It's frying our tech - DROP 'EM!"

Helmets clatter to the ground; faces exposed, eyes wide with raw fear, sweat already beading under the neon glare.

PodSm@sh lunges ahead; all brute weight grace, ground shaking under her stomps. Her massive fists slam into the nearest two soldiers; the first guy's chest caves in, ribs exploding through his back in a spray of bone shards and lung tissue; the second? She grabs him by the skull, a high pitched scream followed with a squelch, his head torn clean off; vertebrae dangling like a broken chain.

Maliwan soldiers' screams rise; raw, panicked, ****; echoing off the skyscrapers like a bad concert.

"RETREAT!"

"FUCK THIS!"

"GET THE - "

But it’s too late.

PodSm@sh deploys holograms; life-like projections of herself stepping in from both sides, towering duplicates flickering into existence with violet glitches and static hums. They hesitate, confused; firing wildly at the fakes, ordinance passing through nothing but air, bullets ricocheting off walls in angry whines.

I stride forward, letting her do the work as she barrels through the remaining soldiers; back-handing one poor bastard so hard his legs separate from his torso in a spray of guts and spinal fluid, body folding like a ragdoll mid-air before crumpling wetly. Another tries to run; boots slipping in blood; but she catches him by the waist and slams him into the ground; a mist of dirt and blood erupting, what’s left looks like roadkill on a bad day, organs smeared across pavement in red streaks.

I switch to burst fire; stitching three bullets into a cluster of remaining soldiers clambering together; one goes down clutching a stump where his arm used to be, severed clean at the elbow, as he screams.

The final two panic, tripping over the fallen forearm, boots skidding in viscera that squelches underfoot.

"NO NO NO -"

"PLEASE -"

PodSm@sh grabs one by the leg; hoisting him upside down, blood rushing to his head, and hurls him into his buddy. The impact snaps spines and limbs alike with cracks that echo sharp; both collapse in a twitching wreck of meat and broken armor; ribs protruding like splintered wood, blood pooling thick and dark beneath them.

Silence.

The street is a painting of carnage; limbs scattered blood pooling in viscous lakes that reflect the neon glow in crimson shimmers, organs smeared across pavement like abstract art. The air hangs heavy with the coppery reek of slaughter, burnt ozone from fried tech, and the faint sizzle of Maliwan armor cooling in ****.

I exhale, smirking. “I love it here.”

GhostScout hovers back, scanning the area for more threats, optic whirring faint as it sweeps the shadows.

CashCrab bounds off me; legs clicking eager; already sensing loot to be scooped, chirping as she dives into the mess, claws snatching credits and mods from bloodied pockets.

PodSm@sh bangs her chest with a metallic thud that rings off the buildings, snarling low as gore drips across her plating like war paint, fists unclenching with hydraulic sighs.

I reload, grinning.

Promethea’s reckoning is just getting started.