Discoveries | TMR | Three

5:6

Kill the guards. Take the berg. Rescue their friends.

On paper, it sounded simple enough. In Daniel's head, even easier. Wicked had no idea what they would be walking into when they boarded that train. As far as they were concerned, the Right Arm was still scattered, still hiding, still plotting an escape route. They would never expect that this ragtag team of young adults - half-starved and running on nerves - to even dare to strike at the very heart of their operation.

That's what made their plan sound so clean. So doable.

But it wasn't - not even close. The world had shattered into chaos a while ago, and now they were scrambling through the wreckage. Their team had splintered early, with half now in the berg overhead and the rest trapped on the ground, fighting tooth and nail against a relentless tide of armed soldiers surging towards them.

Newt crouches at the carriage, cutting through the beams connecting the container to the wheels with a blowtorch, hands sturdy with desperate precision, every muscle in his body straining against the stubborn steel. Each metallic clan rings louder than it should, swallowed instantly by the cacophony around them.

Gunfire echoes along the length of the carriage, bursts reverberating off the container like thunder trapped in a canyon. Through the haze, Daniel catches flashes of Nick, steady and unflinching, each shot from his gun carving a rhythm into the chaos, holding the line by sheer will.

On top of the container, Thomas moves with a frantic kind of control, firing bursts into the storm of guards below while Vince fights against the chains that whip and strain in the wind. The thick steel links dangle from the berg above, swaying like pendulums as he scrambles to fasten them into place. Sparks leap where metal strikes metal, his hands working with brutal speed, every second dragging them closer to disaster. Thomas barely spares him a glance, body pressed low, rifle braced against his shoulder as he sends round after round downrange, carving space out of the chaos so Vince can lock the container in.

Beyond, shadows surge forward - guards spilling from the far end of the train, sprinting hard, rifles blazing. Daniel's focus narrows, the figures stretching and blurring, muzzle flashes flaring like strobe lights that freeze the battlefield in violent fragments. The sound warps, muffled one moment, deafening the next. His pulse hammers in his ears, faster than everything else, as if his own body is trying to outrun time itself.

And above them, the berg roars like some monstrous engine tearing the sky apart. Its turbines shriek with a grinding whirr that rattles in Daniel's chest and makes it near impossible to hear anything else. The downdraft churns the air into a frenzy, blasting dust and dirt across the tracks in stinging waves. It blinds, it chokes, it fills every gasp with grit. The ground itself trembles under the weight of the noise, a constant thunder that drowns out shouts, gunfire - everything.

There's far too much happening at once, and for a heartbeat Daniel finds himself wishing Adeline were here to steady him, to keep his head clear.

The thought barely forms before instinct flares - movement at the edge of his vision, a barrel swinging his way. His pulse spikes. He throws himself down just as the shot cracks past, close enough to tear the breath from his lungs. He slides beneath the carriage, his arm smashing against the tracks, a searing burn tearing across his skin where the metal scalds.

He bites back a curse, jaw tight, the metallic taste of adrenaline flooding his tongue. Gravel scrapes his palms as he drags himself forward, heart hammering against his ribs like it's trying to break free. Another bullet sparks off the steel beside his head, so close the sound leaves his ears ringing.

Daniel presses flat to the ground, chest heaving as he crawls under the partial shadow of the container. Sweat stings his eyes, smoke claws at his throat. He scrambles out from under the carriage, only to be caught by another guard closing fast from the flank. He ignores the raw pain in his arm, raises his weapon, and squeezes the trigger.