The Siege of a Titan, II

The surveillance feeds cut to static one by one.

Lucien stood in silence before the central screen, arms folded, emerald eyes fixed as each screen sputtered out—glimpses of cities, outposts, towers—all vanishing into bursts of digital snow. The quiet hum of the panic room felt suffocating beneath the weight of those final images. One tower—overrun by a surge of militia fire. Another—collapsing under a rain of drone strikes. Chronos' aid vehicles were being set ablaze by mobs. All drowning in silence.

Cold light spilled from the overhead fluorescents, painting their shadows long and still.

Across the room, Max drove his fist into the side of a steel console. The sharp crack of bone against metal rang out, raw and unfiltered.

"They're killing innocent people! People that risked their goddamn lives to protect them!" he hissed, voice shaking, unable to steady his rage. Blood smeared down the panel.

Kieran stood beside him, expression hard, unreadable. His gloved hands tapped rapidly through the remaining channels—each blinking red, then black. "We're being hit from every front. The whole world thinks we caused this. The ones we saved, they're leading the charge…"

Isabelle paced along the far wall—barefoot, her feet echoing faintly across the cold steel floor. She clutched a folded report to her chest, unread. Her eyes moved from one failed feed to the next, lips pressed in a line so thin it looked like they might disappear entirely.

Julian sat on the lowest step beside emergency gear, hands clasped, head low. He hadn't spoken since Lucien blinked them out of the press room.

Lucien's figure was still, cast in a green glow. Thread-light danced across his fingertips faintly, coiling and releasing like a ragged breath.

"What do we have left?" Max asked finally, turning toward him. His voice was low. Bracing.

LLucien didn't look away from the center screen.

Kieran answered, flatly. "Less than a quarter of our forces."

Julian finally raised his head. "W-what happens now?"

Lucien's fingers traced the edge of the console in-front of him.

His eyes burning green.

"We fight."

Lucius Cronus was the enemy now.

The media was louder than ever—headlines screaming Lucien's name.

Chronos soldiers—once held as saviors—were now being slaughtered in public, executed in the streets by frightened mobs. Governments placed bounties on anyone even remotely connected to Chronos Industries.

And Lucien had chosen to fight.

With a click of a button, all his soldiers were recalled. All given the same order.

"Fortify Chronos HQ."

What once stood as a cutting edge tower that screamed betterment.

Was now naught but a fortress of imminent destruction.

***

The wind slammed through the spires and ledges of Chronos HQ, howling across steel and glass. A permanent sheet of snow blanketed the higher rooftops, whipped raw by currents that never ceased. Every exposed surface glittered with frost. Every edge was hard, cold, braced for war.

The entire headquarters had begun to transform.

Heavy barricades were welded to the perimeter walls. Each section groaned as they locked into place, massive hydraulic arms hissing against cold air. Mobile cranes swung massive artillery cannons into position, dropping them into pre-carved housing like keys into a lock.

Chronos engineers worked tirelessly—movements efficient, practiced. Some scaling scaffolds with windblown hoods. Others knelt under armored vehicles. Their uniforms were coated in a thick layer of char and snow, thread-insignias glowing faint beneath the grime.

In the southern plaza, soldiers drilled maneuvers in staggered formations. Rows of white-armored infantry moved with synchronized brutality, their rifles raised and lowered in perfect timing. Behind them, newly deployed mechs stood idle—monolithic guardians with pulsing cores. All around, the hiss of pneumatics and the crackle of welders echoed like some industrial orchestra.

Inside, the atmosphere was no warmer.

Command centers buzzed with constant updates. Drones were rerouted every minute. Emergency protocols were tested, retested, then tested again. Hallways were sealed in segments, fallback positions carved out like trenches within the building's architecture.

Kieran stalked past a line of junior officers, issuing orders with grim precision.

In the panic room, the world was silent.

Lucien stood alone before a massive array of displays. Dozens of feeds rotated on an arc of monitors—drone footage, troop vitals, blueprints of the HQ's shifting interior. His armor was partially deployed—green veins of light traced his arms and jaw, vanishing beneath a black coat.

He watched the preparations in silence.

Outside, a massive tank rolled into position near the western wall, its treads carving through ice. On its side—the Chronos insignia burned bright.

The fortress was alive now.

Ready.

Waiting.

***

Distant rumbles shook the frozen soil like thunder. Snow drifted across and endless sprawl of camouflage, concrete, and steel. The coalition had arrived.

Across the horizon, encampments stretched like webs–layered rows of trenchwork, armored carriers, fortified towers. Thousands of makeshift tents littered the snow-blasted ground. Tanks rolled into position with hydraulic groans, their barrels aimed at the center of Chronos HQ. Spotlights swept across the darkening sky.

Above, planes circled—hundreds of them—like vultures waiting for the carcass to collapse. Their roar was constant, drowning the natural sounds of winter. Troop carriers parked in the outer ridges disgorged fresh squads by the minute—soldiers wrapped in winter tactical gear, emblems from every nation, and every faction.

At the far edge, construction towers had been raised—crude, fast-welded monoliths with giant loudspeakers jutting like spikes. A constant stream of distorted headlines—propaganda.

Lies. Speeches. And manipulated audio clips were blasted all day and night.

The ground shook not from artillery—but from the weight of collection deception.

Spotlights flickered across Chronos walls. Riflemen adjusted their scopes. Snipers crouched beneath camouflage netting. Generals argued in heated tents lined with maps and monitors. Morale was high—fed by fear.

War had begun.

***

Outer perimeter, seven days in.

The fortress had vanished beneath a white veil—a snowstorm roaring like a possessed orchestra. Visibility was down to only feet ahead. The winds howled through shattered comm towers and around steel barriers, masking the distant crunch of boots on frozen sand.

A coalition unit—twenty strong—moved like phantoms through the whiteout. Draped in scavenged gear, their emblems mismatched, their rifles clutched tight with frozen hands. At their lead, a figure in a torn officer's coat, planting charges in a rhythmic pattern against the southern wall of the outer perimeter. No words were spoken. Just glances, nods, countdown fingers.

Then—

The outer wall erupted in a screaming boom of steel and fire. Light sliced through the storm like an open wound.

Sirens wailed. Automated turrets blinked alive—pulsing with amber flashes as they rotated violently. Drones launched from hidden panels, their engines whining like insects. Chronos soldiers scrambled from interior posts, fully armored, faces grim.

The outer perimeter had been breached.

Lucien stood in the panic room. One screen after another burst into crimson warning sigils. Max shouted something into the radio. Isabelle ordered medics to the fallback trenches. Julian's face was streaked with ash as he coordinated from a terminal. Kieran's voice crackled steady–commanding, composed, brutal.

But Lucien didn't flinch—he remained silent.

Chronos' troops met the enemy half-past the outer perimeter.

Gunfire tore through the air immediately. Blades clashed with blades. Soldiers were flung into walls. Turrets were detonated by suicide bombers. Each Chronos soldier was capable of holding off ten attackers alone—the difference is their weaponry was apparent.

It was chaos.

But Chronos held.

By dawn, the breach was sealed. The snowstorm had faded to a ghostly haze. Blood steamed against frozen concrete. Burnt equipment littered the outer perimeter. Field medics stepped over the dead to drag back the wounded.

Not a single one of the coalition survived.

That night, the base fell silent.

And Lucien stood alone at the site of the breach.

His black coat fluttering behind him. His armor half-manifested.

Wind hissed across the crater—soft and deadly. Ash spiraled into the air, snow melting around still-smoldering steel.

Lucien said nothing.

He only watched.

As if the crater was staring back.