Sentinels

General Elias Calloway stood before the massive digital display in the war room, his eyes narrowing as red warnings flashed across the screen. Surging spikes of Mutosterone levels painted the map in crimson, converging over one location—Yuccavale.

The lights in the war room flickered as an incoming emergency transmission cut through the silence. A sharp, static-laced voice came over the encrypted military channel.

"CPG Command, this is Outpost 17, Yuccavale! We are under heavy assault! I repeat, we are under attack by high-threat mutants—Fletcher confirmed on-site! Casualties rising—We need immediate reinforcements! Requesting Omega-level response!"

Gunfire rattled through the speakers, followed by the muffled screams of soldiers being torn apart.

"They're everywhere! Hollow Man—sound suppression—communications unstable—"

"The Red Hound—goddamn it, it's too fast—"

"We need backup, NOW! For the love of—"static—

The transmission cut out. The room was silent for a moment, the weight of the situation pressing down like a crushing tide.

Calloway clenched his jaw. His grip tightened around the edge of the console. Again. Fletcher had returned, and Yuccavale was falling apart. With a deep breath, he turned to his aide. "Get me a secure line with the Zero-Six Council—now."

The holographic conference room flared to life, revealing the members of the Zero-Six Council, the six highest-ranking officials in the CPG, responsible for deciding the fate of mutants across Tanasma.

At the head of the table sat Chairman Stroud—a severe man with silvered hair and an unforgiving gaze. Next to him, Director Patel, whose cold analytical mind had architected many of the CPG's harshest policies. General Zhang, a hardened veteran, his scarred face showing years of war against mutants.

The remaining seats were occupied by:

Admiral Koenig—head of the CPG Naval Forces, known for his brutal efficiency.

Secretary Vance—an older statesman with political ties across Edenia.

Dr. Luthra—chief scientist, the mind behind the Sentinels.

The moment Calloway's face appeared on the holo-screen, Stroud spoke. "Calloway, what's the situation?"

Calloway didn't waste time. "Yuccavale is under siege. Fletcher and his mutants are tearing the town apart. Local CPG forces are being overwhelmed—we're looking at total loss of control unless immediate action is taken."

The council exchanged glances. Then Patel leaned forward. "How many casualties?"

Calloway exhaled sharply. "Too many."

A brief silence. Then Zhang spoke. "What are you asking for, General?"

Calloway straightened. His voice was ice-cold. "Permission to deploy the Sentinels."

The room tensed. Even through the holograms, the weight of his request was palpable.

Koenig grunted. "Are you insane, Calloway? We haven't deployed Sentinels since the last incident."

Vance adjusted his glasses. "Last time we used them, they didn't just neutralize threats. They wiped everything out. The Sentinels don't distinguish between civilian and combatant."

Patel folded his hands. "And why should we assume they'll behave differently now?"

Calloway's expression darkened. "Because this isn't some back-alley mutant raid. This is Fletcher. You all know what he's capable of. How many more cities do we let him burn before we use our best weapons?"

Zhang sighed. "The problem isn't Fletcher. It's the Sentinels themselves."

Dr. Luthra finally spoke, his voice calm but deadly serious. "The Sentinels do not 'fight.' They adapt. Their combat algorithms allow them to instantly counter any mutant ability. But as we saw during the last deployment... the moment they deemed the situation 'unsalvageable,' they took full control of their directive. They became executioners."

The memory of the last Sentinel test hung in the air. A mutant insurgency had been wiped out, but so had an entire Capitol Patrol battalion—and every living thing within a three-mile radius.

Stroud rubbed his temple. "We made them too perfect."

Calloway exhaled. "And yet, they're the only thing capable of stopping Fletcher before he reduces Yuccavale to ash."

Silence.

Then Patel looked at Stroud. "Your call, Chairman."

Stroud's fingers tapped against the table. His expression was unreadable. Then, with a slow nod, he turned to Calloway. "Deploy the Sentinels. But if they spiral out of control again…"

Calloway's eyes hardened. "Then I'll be the one to shut them down."

Stroud locked eyes with him. "See that you do."

The transmission cut.

The underground bunker of Nexus was a place few had ever seen. Hidden beneath miles of reinforced steel and black-budget secrecy, it was the beating heart of the Sentinel Project—a cold, clinical hell where machines were born, taught to kill, and refined into perfection.

Inside the dimly lit control chamber, Silas sat before a massive holoscreen, sipping black coffee laced with exhaustion. His weathered face was illuminated by the eerie glow of red status reports scrolling across the screen. He barely had time to process them before his console lit up—an encrypted transmission from General Calloway.

Silas exhaled. "Shit."

He accepted the call, leaning back as Calloway's grim expression appeared. "Silas, I need them deployed. Now."

Silas scoffed. "Straight to the point, huh? No foreplay?"

Calloway's voice was cold. "Yuccavale is under siege. Fletcher and his mutants are tearing the town apart."

Silas rubbed his temple. "You do realize what happened last time we unleashed them, right?"

"I don't have time for your bullshit, Silas. Launch the Sentinels. That's an order."

Silas chuckled dryly. "Of course. A government dog can't be reasoned with."

He leaned forward, fingers dancing over the console as he keyed in the authorization codes. "Fine. Let the metal gods go hunting."

The chamber around him trembled as massive blast doors slid open, revealing sixteen towering figures—sleek, humanoid machines with matte-black armor, streamlined exoskeletons, and glowing crimson optics. Their bodies were a fusion of advanced A.I. and Mutosterone-adaptive combat matrices, allowing them to mimic and counter any mutant ability they encountered.

Their heads tilted in eerie unison as the activation command blared through the speakers.

"SENTINELS: ONLINE. DEPLOYMENT ROUTE: YUCCAVALE. OBJECTIVE: MUTANT NEUTRALIZATION."

Engines ignited. Their backs split open, revealing folded wings of metallic alloy, jet thrusters roaring to life. The pack launched from the Nexus Facility, tearing through the underground tunnels before breaking through a hidden exit in the mountains.

Above the night sky, a formation of black shadows streaked across the clouds, moving in terrifying, perfect synchronization—a murder of mechanical crows descending upon Yuccavale.

As they vanished into the darkness, Silas exhaled and muttered under his breath. "Let's see who survives this time."

The Sentinels descended like specters of death, their blackened forms streaking through the night sky, landing with thunderous force amid the battlefield. Their crimson optics flared as they scanned their targets, instantly adapting to the chaotic battlefield. And then—without hesitation, without pause—they began the purge.

The silent void that was the Hollow Man drifted through the wreckage, absorbing the sounds of destruction. A world in silence was a world he could control. He glided forward—until he saw them.

A Sentinel turned toward him, its mechanical frame standing motionless as if assessing the anomaly. Then, without a single sound, the machine mirrored him.

A horrifying realization struck—the Sentinel's presence absorbed sound as well, nullifying his ability. For the first time, The Hollow Man felt silence swallow him.

He lunged forward, stretching his unnatural form to envelop the machine, but the Sentinel moved faster. A single blade—vibrating at a frequency beyond human perception—sliced through his chest. No scream. No death rattle. Just nothing. His body crumbled as his own void consumed him, reduced to absolute emptiness.

Vael raised a hand, her skeletal fingers extending toward a group of CPG officers, the air around her growing dry and brittle. One step closer, and their bodies would shrivel like dead leaves. Then, she felt it—a presence beyond time.

A Sentinel materialized in front of her. Its frame shimmered, a distortion rippling over its armor as it adjusted to her mutation. Then, something terrifying happened.

The Sentinel's body began to wither, its metal plating corroding as if centuries had passed in an instant. Yet it remained standing.

Its glowing eyes burned into her skull, its processors calculating. Then—it reversed the effect. The corrosion spread back toward Vael, her own power reflected upon her.

Her body withered beyond control. The flesh flayed from her bones in an instant, her own curse turning against her as she disintegrated into dust.

Garrick roared, his massive frame plowing through walls as if they were made of sand. His jaw stretched wide, his metallic fangs glinting in the firelight. He had torn apart tanks before. But the Sentinel before him… did not move.

Garrick lunged, his fangs biting deep into the machine's head. Sparks erupted, metal screeched—and then Garrick's jaw locked.

The Sentinel's body shifted, a nanite response restructuring its metal into a crushing vise. Garrick's mouth—his greatest weapon—was now a prison.

The Sentinel's arm shot forward, fingers piercing through Garrick's steel-plated torso. A single twist—And Garrick was ripped in half.

Flames burned in the night as the Red Hound blurred between the streets. He was a phantom, a streak of red light too fast to be caught. Or so he thought. A Sentinel stood in his path, unmoving.

The Red Hound snarled and vanished. He reappeared behind the machine, claws aimed for its throat—but his strike met nothing. The Sentinel was gone. Then, a whisper of movement. The Red Hound's body froze.

A cold sensation spread through his limbs. He had been matched. The Sentinel had mimicked his speed—and surpassed it.

Before he could react, a blade severed his spine. The Red Hound collapsed, twitching, his body unable to catch up with the reality of its own death.

Varn exhaled a toxic green mist, his very breath capable of dissolving flesh. His sickness had rotted cities before.

But the Sentinel before him did not breathe.

Varn grinned. "Metal or not, your frame will decay."

The Sentinel stepped forward, its plating shifting. Varn's disease spread across it—then halted. It had already adapted.

The machine's core superheated, burning through the pathogen at a molecular level. Then, it copied the disease.

A vent opened in its chest—and Varn's own virus was expelled back at him, now magnified a hundredfold. His body liquefied in seconds.

Selene flickered through the battlefield, stepping between dimensions, untouchable. Until she wasn't. She stepped forward—and didn't reappear.

Her existence stuttered. A Sentinel's field had locked her in place. Her body flickered in and out of reality, her molecules scrambled.

Then, the Sentinel touched her. And in that moment, she collapsed inward, trapped between two realms that no longer recognized her. She ceased to exist.

Dreg's jagged spine cracked as he moved forward, his razor-sharp bones slicing through bodies like scythes. He lived for carnage. A Sentinel faced him. Dreg roared and lunged. The Sentinel mimicked him.

For every bone-blade he formed, the machine countered with an identical structure— only sharper, stronger, more refined.

Dreg snarled, butchered by his own mutation. The last thing he saw was his own severed limbs, his spine snapping like dry wood.

Scylla writhed, her parasitic form dripping through the ruins. She invaded minds, consumed thoughts. No one could resist her.

Then, she touched a Sentinel. And she felt nothing. No thoughts. No emotions. A void deeper than death. Her psychic tendrils lashed out—and were devoured.

The Sentinel absorbed her consciousness, shattering it into fragments. For the first time, Scylla experienced true silence. True death. Her mind was erased.

The Sentinels stood among the wreckage. The most powerful mutants in Fletcher's army—slaughtered in minutes.

Fletcher, still atop the town hall, turned from his brawl with Barry. His eldritch form shuddered.

The Sentinels turned in unison. Their crimson optics flared as they converged on the last two standing mutants. Barry and Fletcher.

The battlefield around them lay in ruins, Fletcher's army annihilated. But the two titans still clashed, locked in a brutal, blood-drenched battle.

Barry—his mutated werewolf form grotesque and primal—snarled as he tore into Fletcher's corrupted flesh. Fletcher, a twisted abomination of pure mutosterone energy, laughed through the pain, reveling in the chaos. And then—the Sentinels struck. From the sky, a blinding energy surge erupted.

A dome of crackling containment energy expanded outward, engulfing both Barry and Fletcher in a suffocating force. The moment it touched their bodies, it froze them in place—their mutations forcefully suppressed, their bodies paralyzed.

Barry tried to break free. His muscles bulged, his claws dug into the ground—but nothing.

Fletcher howled in rage. "YOU COWARDS!" His voice warped, vibrating through the air as he fought against the prison. "YOU THINK THIS WILL HOLD ME?!"

A transmission cut through the silence.

Silas: "The targets are contained. Phase two is complete."

A pause. Then, another voice.

Captain Stone. Her tone was laced with pure satisfaction. "Good. Bring them in."

Barry's vision blurred as the energy field tightened. Fletcher's maniacal laughter faded into nothing.