RONAN Death was never something that felt describable before. Now it was sitting right in front of me, and it refused to look away. Only a few hours had passed since the army pulled me out of the hands of the paramilitaries. The unit sent to recover me never gave them a chance to surrender. They moved fast and finished it fast. Now I sat inside a hastily raised army tent, staring at the bodies laid out in front of me. Just a short time ago, those same people had seemed untouchable. Dangerous. In control. Now they were nothing more than shapes under sheets, taking up space in my thoughts. The bodies distracted me from the real problem waiting in my head. So the distraction became my focus.The smell came first. Human waste mixed with the sharp metal scent of blood, layered with something faint and clinical. The corpses rested on army cots, shaded by canvas that turned sunlight into dull yellow haze. The tent had been turned into a temporary examination space. Sitting there, staring, the mind tried to catch up to the body. Everything that had happened pressed down at once. Thoughts circled the same unsolved problem, while every instinct begged for something else to think about. The waste smell was easy to explain. So was the iron. People lose control when they die. Blood dries fast. Some of it was still sticky on their clothes and skin. One question refused to leave. The faint medicinal smell made no sense. A medic had to explain it. No one tried to save these people. By the time medical support could have reached the firefight, they would have been dead anyway. Most dropped instantly. One woman stayed alive a few minutes longer, long enough to choke on her own blood. She never spoke. No one asked her anything. There was no time, and no mood for questions. The medic said the smell came from spent gunpowder. From their weapons and from the soldiers who ended them. That answer settled it, even if it did not make it easier. So the sitting continued. Every answer was there except the ones that mattered. Hands dragged down my face as a slow breath escaped. The dead men and women carried no identification. No papers. No tags. Only gold crosses hung from beaded chains, the same kind soldiers used for dog tags. A table sat nearby, covered with every device taken from them. All of it locked down. Encrypted.Army intelligence had given me solid hardware to work with, machines already chewing through the systems by force. Going back to headquarters crossed my mind. Stronger rigs waited there. But the drones had moved freely through the building. That meant everything inside was likely compromised. The army major got that warning during debrief. To his credit, he listened. That surprised me. What shocked me more was learning how few analysts were left. Middle management had been almost wiped out. Thousands reduced to dozens. Promotion was never supposed to happen like this. The drones had been brutally efficient. Eyes shifted to the far side of the tent. Broken robots lay in piles on the ground, torn apart in different ways. Their power cores sat on a folding table a few yards away. The soldiers had learned their lesson decades ago during the push into South East China with the Taiwanese Expeditionary Force. A machine that looks dead is not always dead. Waiting dragged on. Army devices worked to crack paramilitary memory systems. No idea existed on how to pull data from drones that had wiped themselves clean. One of the atomic memory cards came up into my hand. The thin slab of magnesium flipped between fingers. Billions of lines of code once lived there. An entire AI mind. Now it was empty. The last safeguard had done its job. Atomic structure scrambled. Data erased beyond recovery. Not overwritten. Gone. The card clattered back onto the stack. Even local memory in smaller systems had been destroyed.Whoever built these drones had planned everything. Concealment mattered more than cost. Standing brought me face to face with the machine that chased me. Its ruined body rested among wrecked cars I used as cover while running straight toward the paramilitaries. The design told no clear story. The faceplate matched Multi National Robotics security units. The chest armor looked like Russian Spetsnaz shock gear. Joints mirrored Indian Mountain Units. Arms matched Israeli recon drones. Every piece borrowed. Nothing original. Nothing traceable. The arm dropped back onto the pile. A timer flashed in my vision. Frustration slipped out loud. No progress. A glance went back to the bodies. “Break time’s over,” the words came out dry. “You’re all welcome to keep laying around.” A rude gesture followed as I stepped out. Part of me felt embarrassed. Most of me did not care. There was no rulebook for how to treat people who wanted you dead a few hours earlier. From my point of view, composure was already being stretched thin. The next tent held my temporary team, locked in a digital war. Halfway there, a notification appeared in my vision. A message from my mother. The urge to open it hit hard. Every instinct screamed to answer. But opening meant replying. Replying meant risk. Someone hunting me could trace it. Worse, they could use it to reach my parents. Teeth clenched. Mom always answered. So did I. The notification slid away with a swipe. It would wait. A safe system would come first.The ache that followed was heavy. They had no idea if I was alive. The thought almost stopped my feet. No. The head shook as movement resumed. Guilt and fear could not take control. Not now. Mistakes here could get people killed. The tent flap came into reach. Canvas snagged against the bonding agent on my forehead. Fresh tissue protested with a hiss as light shifted from bright midday sun to dim interior glow. Steps barely carried me inside before an army intelligence sergeant was at my side, flicking a file into my inbox. The report opened as he spoke. “The protocols you gave us are working. Enemy AIs are struggling to adapt. Some are destabilizing and shutting down.” The screen showed the truth. “They’re splitting before they crash,” the words came out tight.A nod confirmed it. “Duplicates drop into civilian networks. They start weaker, but they steal processing power fast. By the time we find them again, they’re stronger than before. Cleanup takes longer every time.” Teeth ground together. “That gives them time to make more copies.” Another nod. “We’re getting pushback. Several modems already purged.” “Replace every router tied to those systems,” the order came fast. “Pull every connected machine. Full wipe on drives and memory. Reinstall the OS from clean backups.” A gesture pointed to the offline devices. “No shortcuts.” “That’s going to take time.” “Better than losing control,” came the answer. “If they own our systems, we’re done.” The sergeant moved off. Enlisted operators stayed glued to their stations, fighting line by line in a war no one could see. A wall of monitors filled the far side of the tent. News feeds. Social platforms. All of it moving.Sitting beside a young corporal, fingers flying through a holographic interface, I asked the question already known. “How many of these feeds are fake?” “All of them,” she said, voice distant, eyes locked somewhere else. The breath left my chest slow and heavy. “Holy fuck.”