Bullets in Flight

Chapter 6: Bullets in Flight

The metallic corridor that had once confined Kestrel was now twisted and deformed beyond recognition. The impact of the space station's crash had clearly been immense—charred remnants bore witness to fires that had raged in its wake.

Scattered across the wreckage lay countless disassembled parts, remnants of machines that had once floated gracefully in zero gravity. Among them, broken robots lay in disarray, their once-sleek bodies now shattered husks.

Rain dripped ceaselessly through fractures in the wreckage, pooling on the ground as the storm continued its relentless downpour.

Kestrel, having narrowly survived, pressed forward through the ruins of the space station, his robotic companion, TPAL, at his side. Their goal was clear—escape before the lunatics arrived.

But they were too slow.

A deafening roar overhead signaled the arrival of a ship slicing through the rain-drenched sky, heading directly for them.

The craft resembled an oversized, wheel-less supercar, its sleek frame adorned with garish graffiti. But what truly made Kestrel's stomach turn was the grotesque sight affixed to its prow—a rotting corpse, arms outstretched as if crucified, its face riddled with bullet holes, writhing maggots feasting upon the decayed flesh.

He wasn't mistaken. It was a body.

In that instant, the stories TPAL had told him about the so-called "cyber lunatics" took on an entirely new meaning. No matter what, Kestrel refused to be discovered by these people.

"Hide! Now!" he hissed, dragging TPAL behind the cover of a twisted metal slab.

The grotesque ship thundered past, but before Kestrel could even exhale, another craft—a battered old helicopter—lurched into view.

The side door slammed open while the chopper still hovered meters above the ground. A man with a mohawk, his arms tattooed with grinning skulls, launched himself into the air, guns blazing mid-descent. His mouth, filled with gold teeth, twisted into a maniacal grin as he howled in a language Kestrel didn't recognize.

"Nunarjuaq tittinaqtillugu!!"

Kestrel's pulse pounded.

As the mohawked man landed with a bone-jarring thud onto the wreckage, more figures emerged from the hovering vehicles, each as wildly adorned in ink and metal as their leader.

Their voices carried through the storm, their words unintelligible to Kestrel. He turned to TPAL.

"What are they saying?" he whispered.

"Link the local network. Sync positioning. Deploy all drones. Something this big falls from the sky, there's bound to be treasure inside. Move fast—others are already on their way. If you're too slow, you won't even get the scraps."

Before TPAL could translate further, a shrieking projectile streaked through the storm, leaving a smoky trail in its wake before colliding with one of the airborne ships.

The explosion ripped through the sky, transforming the vessel into a blazing inferno.

Kestrel swore under his breath.

"They're already shooting? No warning, no hesitation? These bastards really are insane!"

Using the explosion as cover, he and TPAL made a break for it, weaving through the wreckage. But the battlefield had already been set—more and more scavengers arrived, the ruins rapidly descending into chaos.

Another deafening blast sent a massive fireball crashing from the heavens, scorching the ground mere meters from where they ran.

Kestrel's entire body was taut with tension.

"Why the hell does trouble find me everywhere I go?" he muttered bitterly.

"TPAL! Are there any weapons nearby?"

TPAL's screen flickered as he scanned the area.

"Yes. Security storage—this way."

Sifting through the debris, TPAL unearthed a rifle—a sleek, gray-metal construct—and thrust it into Kestrel's hands.

Kestrel hefted the weapon, its cold weight settling in his grip.

"What is this?"

"SOR-11:3 Tactical Assault Rifle. Energy-based."

"How do I use it?"

"Hold it steady, brace here, aim, and pull the trigger. No time for precision—first to fire wins. The sight is pre-calibrated for close-quarters combat, perfect for a beginner."

Kestrel exhaled sharply, shouldering the rifle. It was heavy, but the feeling of holding a weapon gave him a small sense of control. He didn't want to use it, but he knew that in a world like this, hesitation meant death.

"How long until we clear the station's wreckage?"

"Based on current pace, twenty minutes to the outer perimeter."

A sharp whistle cut through the air.

Kestrel barely had time to react before a searing pain lanced through his left ear, followed by a numbness that sent adrenaline surging through his veins.

"Enemy fire!" TPAL's screen flared red as he immediately returned fire in the direction of the shot.

Kestrel cursed, ducking behind cover. Blood dripped from his ear. He touched it and found a fresh wound—a bullet had carved a half-moon into the flesh.

If it had been an inch lower, his head would have been gone.

Gritting his teeth, he peeked out, spotting the attackers. They were hunkered behind cover, exchanging gunfire with TPAL. Gang markings covered their bodies—intricate tattoos winding up their arms, sigils burned into their flesh. The most telling symbol? A branded upside-down cross on each of their throats.

And, like the mohawked man, their bodies bore metallic enhancements—cybernetic limbs, weaponized implants.

Sparks flew as bullets struck TPAL's metal plating.

No time to hesitate.

Kestrel leveled his rifle against a scorched metal beam, took a breath, and squeezed the trigger.

The first shots went wide, but TPAL had been right—the weapon's calibration was near perfect. Within moments, one of the attackers' heads snapped back, a crimson spray marking the moment his body crumpled to the ground.

Kestrel barely had time to process his first kill.

"TPAL! Get to cover!"

The battered robot complied, retreating to Kestrel's position as another explosion rattled their surroundings.

"We're outgunned!" TPAL shouted over the chaos. "We have to retreat!"

"No shit! You got a plan for that?" Kestrel emptied another burst from his rifle. Running was suicide, but staying put wasn't an option either. Their enemies had begun circling, closing off their escape.

Then, amid the cacophony of battle, another barrage of gunfire erupted from the left—a fresh firefight breaking out among the ruins.

Kestrel's mind raced.

"TPAL! We fall back that way! Let them fight each other while we slip out!"

"You think that'll work?"

"You said they're insane, right? Time to put that theory to the test. Unless you've got a better idea?"

Without waiting for a response, Kestrel fired as he moved, forcing his enemies to keep their heads down while maneuvering toward the newly engaged faction.

Minutes passed in tense retreat, but the expected clash never came.

Instead, the two opposing groups seemed to operate with an unspoken truce—you fight your battle, we'll fight ours.

TPAL, now riddled with bullet holes, pressed against Kestrel.

"I told you this wouldn't work. They're crazy, not stupid."

Kestrel exhaled sharply, nodding in reluctant agreement.

"Yeah. Which is why we need bait to make them shoot each other."

He turned to TPAL, clapped a firm hand on his metal shoulder, and smiled.

TPAL's display flickered.

"…"