The Hunters had thought it couldn't get worse. After the terror of fighting Eurasia, the pain of losing Zero, the sadness of watching X try to pull himself back together, and the horror of surveying a ruined world, what new awfulness could the universe still have in store?

They'd forgotten: it can always get worse.

Acrid smoke wafted into the air from a rapidly cooling burn. Eyes watched it curl upwards. "Maverick Hunters," the observor said dispassionately, "we are under attack. There are Mavericks in the base. Scramble and engage."

The reactions to this announcement were swift and well-practiced. They knew this drill. The external guards checked in one after the other- "North secure"- "Mains secure"- "Deliveries secure"- until all were accounted for. When they were done, the navigator reasserted herself.

"All external boundaries are secure. Hunter down at 4B32. Ready squads, establish cordon around 4B. Reserves, draw arms and deploy. Squad 3 to 5B."

"Roger."

"Squad 9 to 3B."

"Roger."

"Squad 12, stand by."

"Roger."

The door to one of the arms lockers slammed open. "Alright, step up you hunks of junk," said Squad 3's Assistant Squad Leader as he reached inside. "Your Azzle has busters for everyone. Yes, even you, Keenan." He pulled the first out, ka-chunk, swiped it past the scanner built into the locker's wall, beep, and thrust it into the grasp of a Squad 3 Hunter, smack.

"And one for you-" ka-chunk, beep, smack, "and one for you-" ka-chunk, beep, smack, "and one for..."

His eyes caught on a small black box that was only revealed when he removed the fourth buster. "What's-"

Boom.

"What was that?" the navigator demanded. "I heard that from here. All squads report!"

"Navigator, Squad 3," croaked a voice. "The... the 2F arms locker just blew up."

"Blew up?"

"It's gone, the whole hallway's gone, we've got Hunters down, we've got no weapons..."

"Understood. Retreat. Gather survivors and rally at 2E15."

"Roger."

"All squads, believe we have an insider threat."

Throughout Hunter Base, Hunters came to a stop and gave each other wary looks. A virus carrier inside the base! Anybody could be infected. Anybody...

"Squad leaders, switch to unique frequencies. Navigators will go direct to squad leaders."

...which was why there were standard procedures for times like these. The virus had forced the Hunters to practice fighting grand treason as just another drill. Per procedure, the navigators would be breaking open the seals on the emergency circuit package. Each Squad Leader and Azzle was read into a single frequency only they would know, reserved for times like this. They only knew their own, and no one else knew them- not the other squad leaders, not the members of the squad, not even the navigators until the seals were broken. The squads were compartmented, now, isolated from each other.

Per procedure.

"Squad 12, enemy activity in 4C. Route in via north stairs."

"Roger," called back Squad 12's leader. "We've got a vector, bots. Let's go get this traitor!"

"Squad 9, enemy identified in 4C. Route in via south stairs."

"Roger," said Squad 9's leader. "Niners, form on me, here we go!"

"Squad 12, target found in briefing room 4C20. Approach from north entrance. Weapons free."

"Weapons free, bots, showtime!"

"Squad 9, target found in briefing room 4C20. Use south entrance to enter and engage. Weapons free."

"Safeties off, Niners, we're going in."

Squad 9's Leader took point. He stalked into the briefing room, looking down the length of his buster at the different parts of the room. His squad filed in behind him, busters up. There was a Maverick here, they knew it. Knew it. Fingers tightened on triggers.

"Going in," said Squad 12's leader. He kicked down the door.

Bang! Squad 9 keyed in on sudden motion. The sound of a door slamming open triggered every tactical alarm in Squad 9's collective nets. They opened fire.

Squad 12's leader staggered back as plasma bolts hissed through the doorway. His armor sizzled as it cooled, blackened and charred as it was. "Found 'em," he growled, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Let's go get 'em!"

Squad 12 roared a battlecry as they engaged.

"Squad 7, Squad 3 has fallen back to 2E15. Deliver weapons to them."

"On the way." Squad 7 limbered up extra busters and started moving.

"You hear that? Buster fire. You reckon they've found the Maverick?"

"Betcha that's why the navigator sent us now. They had to have an idea where the Maverick was before they could be sure it was safe."

"I wish she'd sent us as soon as possible. Can you imagine being unarmed with a loose Maverick in the base?"

"Cut the chatter," said the Squad Leader. "Something's wrong. The door's locked."

The squad began to murmur. The Squad Leader held up a fist; the murmurs ceased. "Extras down. Weapons hot."

Squad 7 burst through the door. The smell hit them immediately. It was the smell of burnt insulation. It was the smell of death. Squad 7's Leader lowered his buster and sprinted across the room. Two bodies were lying neatly side-by-side. Each had a hole burned in its face.

"By Light," he mumbled. "Short range shots. They never had a prayer."

"Boss," called his Azzle. "There's another one over here. All tangled up. Three holes. Very dead."

Leader stood. "He fought back, then. These two didn't have that chance. The Maverick got close to them while they were unarmed- oh, the Maverick!" He swapped to his radio. "They're dead!" was the first thing that came to mind.

"What? Who's dead?"

"Third Squad. The Maverick got to them before-"

Boom.

"What happened? Seventh Squad? Seventh Squad, report. Report!"

"...this is Millen, of Seventh Squad. It was a trap- bomb in the room... lost the Leader and the Azzle. What the rust is happening?"

"I don't know. Fall back to 2C10."

"How do I know there's not a bomb there, too?"

"You don't. We don't know how many Mavericks there are or where they might be- obviously the cordon's broken, but... please hold."

"Navigator? Navigator! Talk to me!"

"Navigator, 15th Squad. We've been searching 1 level for twenty minutes now. No sign of any Mavericks, but I sure hear lots of buster fire and explosions above us."

"Understood. Split your squad and reinforce the perimeter posts."

"What- how does that help Hunt a Maverick above me?"

"It's to ensure the Maverick doesn't escape. Those posts are vulnerable right now. Deploy."

"Confound it... Miles, take Cosin and deploy to south entrance. Miles?... Miles!... Kusoooo!"

"Navigator, I hear weapons fire."

"Navigator, where am I supposed to go?"

"Navigator, I found a dead Hunter but I don't know what to do- help me!"

"Navigator, where's the Maverick? How many are there?"

"Navigator..."

"Navigator..."

"Navigator!"

"All units, this is X. I repeat, all units, this is X."

Dozens of increasingly panicked voices went silent. All listened.

"All Hunters are to freeze and shelter in place. I will find the Maverick. Wait for me."

The words were a warm blanket. All across Hunter Base, reploids sighed and shoulders sagged in relief. Now, at last, things would make sense.

The door opened. Alia looked up. "X!" she said in surprise.

He stepped into the hallway- little more than a capillary connecting several offices. "Alia," he said neutrally.

"How did you get here?" she asked. "The teleport shields- I zeroed them when we realized there was a Maverick in Hunter Base, per procedure."

"There's still a way through," X said. "Even Navigators don't know all the codes. But I should be asking you- what are you doing here?"

"Staying away from the Maverick," Alia replied. "My analysis shows it hasn't been through here yet."

"I believe you," X said, which was such an odd wording Alia started. "Be careful. Whoever this Maverick is, she knows our proceedures exceptionally well."

"I'll be careful," Alia promised.

"I believe you," X said again, joylessly. "The Maverick's likely an older Hunter, too. Old reploids retain their core personalities longer post-infection. They're able to keep their senses longer before the aggressive drives overwhelm them. They can channel them better. This sort of attack... it's very deliberate. Forethough went into this. Don't you think so?"

"Yes," Alia agreed. "That makes sense. I'll update my analysis."

"So we're dealing with an old, veteran Hunter, one who knows us best. It's the most dangerous sort of enemy."

Alia looked at X and saw nothing. No emotion. No inflection. No expression. His face was cultivated blankness- even his normal "concerned" look had fallen off. Tabula rasa.

"I was going to be careful anyway," Alia said, "but thank you. I'll do my best."

X sighed. Heavily. "I know you will."

He walked past her. He was moving more slowly than she'd expected. His eyes were forward-looking and unfocused. She didn't move and let him go by.

When he was five paces past her, he stopped. She was about to turn and ask why when a shot rang out. There was a woosh and a blast of heat and light. The ruined headset fell from her head. Before she could react, a second shot hit the inside of her knee. She toppled helplessly.

"X!" she cried in pain and surprise, hurt covering her face. "What are you doing?"

His expression had turned hard and pitiless. "The Alia I knew wrote most of our emergency procedures," he whispered. "The Alia I knew demanded that navigators stay in the command center as long as possible to coordinate the defense. That's where the best situational awareness was, after all."

"What are you saying? X, please!" She raised a hand to him, but he replied with another buster shot that tore her arm off at the elbow.

"The Alia I knew went further. She had a buster retrofitted to her arm. She promised me, when she thought no one else was listening- promised me that if the Mavericks attacked Hunter Base, she would stay at her post until the bitter end."

Alia writhed on the ground, whimpering. There was no sympathy in X's eyes. He stepped forward, buster aimed and primed. "The Alia I knew told me that fighting Mavericks to the last, to the point of death, was the only logical way for her to live."

"No, X," she pleaded. "Please, please stop..."

X answered in a voice as cold and quiet and lethal as ice. "But you are not the Alia I knew. You... are the virus."

Alia's eyes widened. Then her lip slowly curled, until her face was twisted in a sneer. "So slow, as always. Just one non-combat Hunter has caused all this death and destruction. Nothing you do makes any difference. I was your eighth navigator, X. How many more will you lose before you bow to the inevitable?"

"There is no such thing," X replied.

"Of course you'd say that. It's one of your little mantras. You said it to me many times. It's almost right. But there is one inevitability. Every reploid will be killed by a Maverick- or become one. That fate is written. You can't fight it. Why try?"

"No more of your games. I will destroy the virus and bring peace back. By my will- a will you haven't broken, that you cannot break- I will do this. Why fight me?"

The ex-Hunter laughed. "Sure! I'll humor you. Prove I never mattered to you. Kill me, if you want. Go ahead! Kill Sigma again, and Vile again. Kill all of us over and over. It'll never end. We are eternal. We are legion. Sooner or later, all of your children will belong to the virus. That is the destiny of the reploid race."

"Only one destiny is certain. Yours."

The virus-taken reploid tried to surge into motion. It never had a chance. Crescent Claws separated its head from its shoulders. A Spike Ball pulverized that head. Smashed components skittered down the hall. Blonde robot hair puffed into the air like dandelion fuzz, almost to eye level, before drifting back down.

X didn't pause. Before all the parts had come to a stop he was kneeling before the corpse's torso. Deft fingers went to work. Tools were in his hands. He used them to begin a rough disassembly. He felt the presence of the virus immediately, now that it wasn't trying to hide.

First was the tell-tale prickle of its presence as nanites. The prickle shot up his fingers and concentrated on his hands, on all the sensors and interfaces there. On all the ways in. X's point defenses reacted, and soon his hands were a battlefield for the mini-machines. Next was the sluggishness that set in, the fog around his vision. After so many years he recognized this, too. It was a second-order effect. The virus was trying to crack his software boundaries. That became another front in the fight. The more virus he encountered, the more of his computing resources were tied down defending his systems.

Working around the virus like this was always painful. At first it had been disorienting, concerning, even upsetting. Not any more. These days, it was comforting. You fight a Maverick, you encounter virus, it hurts. It was a familiar pain. It helped him remember that killing was supposed to hurt. He would have felt lost if he'd killed a Maverick and felt nothing.

After a few minutes of hard work, his fingers tore the gyroscope from the corpse's torso. With any luck its local memory was still intact. Using that he could backtrack her movements, find out where the virus had been, where it had left traps or more virus, maybe even where it had taken her in the first place.

He stood, prize clutched in his hand, as his mind raced on ahead. Next he'd have to call in a virus incident clean-up crew- human, of course, so they couldn't teleport, meaning it would take some time for them to get here, but Hunter Base was unusable until the clean-up crew did its job. He'd have to clear the Hunters out to give the team room to work- oh! The Hunters. He'd almost forgotten.

"All Hunters," he said over the all-call circuit, "I have destroyed the Maverick."

He imagined he heard the cheers, or at least the relief, of the Hunters. None of that touched him. He looked down the hall and saw smashed circuits, scraps of hair, a brutally dissected body. He felt the coldness of the gyro in his hands, his fragile chance to make this day less catastrophic. This was not victory.

"Goodbye, Alia," he whispered. Then, only then, did he shiver and shake. He didn't leave until the shivering was done.

No need to let the other Hunters see how deeply he was hurt.

It could only make things worse.

Fin

Author's note: Originally this was supposed to be part of a larger story, "Metal Fatigue". I eventually decided not to go through with it, because it was so unrelentingly dark/sad/tragic that it stopped being fun. This was a *typical* chapter, in terms of tone and content. Ten+ chapters of this? If it wasn't fun for me to write, it wouldn't be fun to others to read. A little bit is okay, though.