CHAPTER 10: THREE AGAINST ONE 1

ZACK

The weight of my mechanical body strains against the jagged path beneath me. Each step crunches against the rubble, a cold reminder of what I've become—part man, mostly machine. I reach the summit and halt, surveying the world below.

In my left hand, I feel something—crumpled paper. I unclench my fist to reveal a photograph, its satin finish smudged by my robotic grip. Helen and I, smiling on our wedding day. For a moment, the memory softens the edges of reality, pulling me back to the day we met at the Roxy Cinema. We shared a fascination with radioactivity, an innocent connection that became our undoing. The memory sours. Zetacode—the so-called skillful speedster—failed to save her. Failed to save us.

I shove the photo into my pocket and look out at the ruined landscape. Twisted beams jut from the ground like broken bones, shards of concrete scattered across the expanse. The sky, a swirling mass of dark clouds, casts a dull, lifeless glow. The air is thick, choking with the stench of smoke and burnt memories. Fires crackle stubbornly in the distance, clinging to life amid the wreckage.

On the horizon, a shadowy structure looms—a monument to the catastrophe that ravaged this place. Its massive silhouette pierces the haze, casting a long, ominous shadow over the ruins below.

New York will fall, just as this place has fallen. I'll reduce it to ashes. There's a dark poetry in that—complete obliteration.

A low hum vibrates through the air behind me, building steadily like a distant storm. I don't need to turn to know what it is. The Terminators are coming—my new family. Their footsteps crunch over the rubble, each step grinding into the debris until they stop a few feet behind me.

"Brother," the first Terminator's voice is metallic, tinged with concern. "Why are you out here alone?"

"Maybe he's stuck in the past," another sneers, "afraid to face what's ahead."

I keep my gaze fixed on the horizon. "You're both right—and wrong. I regret the past, yes. But I won't live in it. Something has to change."

The first one steps forward. "What's your plan?"

"New York." The word is bitter on my tongue. "We'll bring it to its knees. Reduce it to the wasteland you see here."

The first Terminator's head tilts, gears whirring. "What is New York?"

"It's where I come from. It's also the city of Zetacode—the one I trusted. He's saved millions, but he couldn't save her. He couldn't save my wife."

The third Terminator steps forward. "We're with you, brother. But why stop at New York? Why not the whole world?"

I meet his gaze. "I'm not a monster. I just want him to suffer like I have. I want him to watch his city burn."

"And how will you do that?" the third one challenges.

I grip the first Terminator's shoulder. "Trust me. I have my ways. All I need is your support."

They exchange glances, then nod. "We're with you."

"Good." I release my grip. "Let's get to work."

Earth, Nigeria.

We touch down in the heart of Oyo State, Nigeria. Our alien spaceship descends quietly, its metallic exterior gleaming under the midday sun. The first Terminator brings the ship to a smooth halt, checking the coordinates one last time with his usual calm precision. His steady presence keeps us grounded.

Behind him, Terminator 2 finally falls silent after chattering non-stop the entire trip. He loves his stories—wild, bizarre, and often hard to believe. Terminator 3 sits in his usual quiet, calculating way, ever the lone wolf. Meanwhile, Terminator 4 adjusts the ship's sound system, filling the cabin with haunting melodies from Erebus. Terminator 5 is absorbed in ancient films, lost in civilizations long gone. And as always, Terminator 6 is already asleep, oblivious to our arrival.

The ship's door hisses open, and warm, humid air rushes in. Oyo's sun-drenched landscape stretches out before us.

"Finally, we've arrived. But...where exactly are we?" Terminator 2 asks, peering outside.

"Welcome to Oyo," I say, stepping out. "One of Nigeria's historic states. It's home to the University of Ibadan—Nigeria's first university—and Cocoa House, built in 1965, the country's first skyscraper."

"Are you a historian now, Zack?" Terminator 4 asks with a raised eyebrow.

"Not just a historian," I smirk. "I'm also a scientist."

Terminator 3, all business, cuts in. "What's our mission here? Why Oyo?"

I glance toward the horizon. "Have any of you heard of Quiver?"

Four heads shake in unison.

"You will soon." I turn back to face them, a sense of purpose tightening my voice.

We approach the king's palace, our footsteps heavy with purpose. I can feel the weight of it—the mission. We're here for something critical. As we draw closer, a group of human warriors bursts from the palace gates, clad in traditional garb. They're armed with spears, swords, and arrows.

At first, we just look at each other and laugh.

"Who are you kidding?" I shout at them, chuckling again. "You think you can take us on with those toys? You're nothing but chickens."

But then, I get a closer look. The tips of their weapons glow faintly blue, and the edges seem unnaturally sharp, almost too perfect. My laughter fades.

These weapons aren't ordinary—they're made of Quiver. That metal can cut through anything on this planet.

One of the warriors steps forward, a woman with fierce eyes, her voice sharp as she speaks in her language: "Báwo ni ẹ ṣe dé ibí yìí, àwọn ẹranko burúkú, kí ló tún fẹ́ ní àárín wa?"

("How did you get here, beasts, and what do you want from us?")

Before I can respond, another warrior, a man, steps beside her. "Ní tòótọ́?? Ṣé o ti gbàgbé ohun tó wà ní ọwọ́ wa?"

("Seriously? Have you forgotten what we possess? Everyone comes for it.")

I can sense the tension building among them. They're not just defending their home—they're prepared to die for this.

"Great," Terminator 2 mutters behind me. "They don't speak English. How do we deal with this?"

"Relax," I say, my eyes still on the glowing weapons. "I've got their language translated."

I take a step forward, raising my hands in a show of peace. "Listen up," I say, my voice steady but firm, "we know you've got Quiver, and we tracked it here. We don't want any trouble. Hand it over, and you all walk away."

The woman's eyes narrow, and she speaks quickly to her comrades, their voices rising in defiance. Her grip tightens on her spear. I can see it in her stance—they're not backing down.

Just as I open my mouth to negotiate further, one of the male warriors lets out a battle cry and charges, sword drawn, the Quiver metal gleaming in the daylight.

"Really?" I sigh. "If that's how you want it."

For a moment, time seems to slow. My right arm morphs into a cannon, the transformation seamless and fluid. Behind me, I hear Terminators arms twist into twin blades, the metallic sound sharp in the air. Carnage flexes her claws, a wicked grin spreading across her face. We're ready to unleash hell, but I hesitate, eyes locked on the advancing warrior. There's a flicker of something in his eyes—fear, or maybe desperation. He's risking everything, knowing he won't survive.

But before the clash, the palace doors swing open with a creak, and the king himself steps out, robes trailing behind him. He raises a hand, and the warrior halts, lowering his sword reluctantly.

The king's gaze sweeps over us, a mix of curiosity and dread in his eyes. "What... What kind of creatures are you?" His voice trembles, but he quickly regains his composure. "What do you want?"

I lower my cannon slightly, the hum of its power fading. "Quiver," I say simply.

The king's eyes flicker to his warriors, then back to us. I can see the conflict in his face—the fear of us, the duty to his people. He takes a slow breath, shoulders sagging under the weight of his decision.

"You don't understand what you're asking for," he says quietly, almost pleading. "Quiver is sacred to us. It's not just a metal; it's part of who we are."

I hold his gaze, unflinching. "We know exactly what it is. And we know what it can do. That's why we need it."

His expression hardens, resolve breaking through his hesitation. He looks at his warriors, their faces set in grim determination. "If we give this to you, what guarantee do we have that you'll leave us in peace?"

I pause, considering. "You have my word," I say, and though it's not much, it's all I can offer. "We're not here to conquer, only to collect."

The king studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. "Give it to them," he orders, his voice heavy with resignation. "As much as they need."

The warriors hesitate, their anger and frustration palpable, but they obey. Five of them retreat inside, returning minutes later with handfuls of Quiver shards. The metal glints in the sunlight, a strange beauty in its deadly sheen.

"Good cooperation," I say, my cannon reverting back into an arm. My team relaxes as well, weapons morphing back into their robotic forms. We turn and head back to the ship.

"What's the plan with this Quiver?" Terminator 2 asks as the engines roar to life.

I glance at him, a smile creeping onto my face. "We bring New York to its knees."

To be continued.....