A flurry of snow and blurred rocks and white-buried trees flies past them as they dash down the sparsely visible winter-covered road that winds through the mountain-pass. A waving flash of color makes itself visible before them for a brief second, a piece of cloth from one of the way-markers that perseveres through the storm. Pen loosens her grip a little, pulling the sticks back just an inch, just enough so that they slow down enough for her to see clearly. Her eyes can’t keep up with the indistinct mass of objects coming at them on both sides at that pace.

They’re barely ahead of the wolves, whose red eyes she sees shining out ever-presently in the corner of her eyes down in the mirror-window. A constant reminder of their nipping at their heels. Pen yelps and janks the controls to the side, as her gaze returns to the main-screen and they dodge an old boulder that had long since fallen from the cliff-face above. More cloth billows in front of them and Pen adjusts her grip, pushing them towards that direction. The road is narrow, the mountain growing in a steep incline to their right and at first the left side is like that as well.

The stone marker whizzes past them with an audible, bassy sound of wind in her ears.

But now the left side of the mountain was becoming slowly less inclined, growing steadily steeper and steeper downward. Another cloth. She pushes the controls to the right, following a gentle bend of the road. With each movement, turn and twist a coil whines and burns in her hearing; some mechanical part of Tango growing super-hot and buzzing with an energy that it is brim full of. The heat is growing intense again. She looks in the corner. The eyes are still there, the wolves just behind them. She’s not going fast enough to lose them. But she can’t go faster without losing her own orientation.

Pen’s eyes dart to the left-side view of the window, where there is now a deep, stark incline visible. The drop isn’t visible from this angle, but she’s willing to assume that it’s far enough to be fatal. Something else whines in the empty space with her, the console. The camera hisses again as it moves once more.

“Tango?!” she calls out in fright to the bauble, her voice shaking, without looking away from the window. Her quivering hands still hold the sticks pressed as far forward as she dares; the girl quietly thanks the stars that this mountain road is fairly straight. Another cloth and she turns towards the stone that marks the way.

Suddenly, the lighting shifts inside of the cramped compartment, the strange red lights from before turn on. From when they had crashed into the snow. The deep glowing aura giving the cramped space a bloodied, grisly appearance. The shine bounces off of the console window, making it look like there are glassy eyes everywhere now, all around her.

“Foxtrot. Foxtrot. Foxtrot.-“ says Sierra.

Pen grits her teeth, her fingers clenching tighter as she hears the high-toned voice of the woman who she dislikes, distorted into a shrieking electronic squeal.

“Shut up!” she hisses through her gritted teeth and janks the controls to the side, as a new bend comes around the curve and they swoop around in an arc, Tango’s feet sliding along the ground as they drift around the corner, almost too fast. Pen wrenches the controls to the right, over-correcting and scratching Tango’s right shoulder against the rock-face. She corrects her pull again and watches as the twelve eyes come around the corner behind them not a second later, dragging a vaguely floating silhouette just within their midst, hidden by the snowstorm.

“Foxtrot. Foxtrot. Fo-“

Pen lifts her leg up and hits the console on the bottom side with her knee. The voice twists and the distortion shifts. The high-pitched woman’s voice modulating between a deep baritone and the high electronic squeal over and over, up and down as she continues to speak. Pen has the urge to cover her ears, but doesn’t dare to let go of the controls. A window appears on the side, but Pen can’t read it, too busy with the task at hand. It’s getting so hot in here again. She takes a second to push the air out of her lungs, feeling her breath rise up against the deep layer of heavy sweat currently dripping down her forehead.

“FoOoOoOoO-“

“WHAT DO YOU WANT?!” yells Pen at the camera without lifting her gaze, feeling the little yellow light watching her closely. A loud hissing comes back in response, like the snow outside, but only more frenzied and sharp. Pen winces and pulls towards the right around another curve. The road was becoming tighter, the stones were placed closer together now than before. The wall of the cliff and the drop all creeping nearer and nearer towards them as they dig deeper into the heart of the mountains. Something chimes and a new window pops up. Pen looks at it, not sure what she’s seeing. It looks like…

She pulls left.

It looks like the mountains, but… like a bird would see them. From above. She sees a little triangle in the center. Is that them?

“Foxtrot. You are leaving the engagement zone. Please return.” Pen wants to roll her eyes but refrains. Engagement zone? She isn’t going to get married to this weird woman. Another right curve.

“Foxtrot. Please recalibrate. Orbital-synchronous Geo-spatial data indicates that your course of action will lead to unsatisfactory results.”

Another curve, sharp this time and Pen just barely misses the tight right turn after the initial bend, one of their legs hangs over the cliff for a moment, the propulsion coming from the back of the other one only just managing to catch them, as they blast straight forward. Something howls and Pen presses the sticks just a little further in.

“Foxtrot. Please engage.”

“Shut up!”

“Foxtrot. Foxtrot. Foxtro-“

“SHUT UP!”

The window chimes again as the bird’s eye view moves to a space not far away from where they are. Something lashes out, just behind them, nipping at their heels once more as the pack howls in a frenzy. Pen is having trouble breathing, it’s getting too hot again. She feels light-headed. Her vision is becoming a bit spinny. The air is becoming thin again. She feels faint. Where’s Tango? Why is he gone again? That jerk. Why is he always leaving her alone?

“Foxtrot. Geo-spatial intelligence indicates that the infrastructure ahead has been self-destructed. Please defer from attempting a crossing,” says the woman’s voice with an oddly clean, emotionless sterility to its tone. Pen catches the next curve, but it’s becoming closer each time. She only spares a fraction of a second to look at the view from above, but then spares herself the effort entirely, as her eyes drift towards the left instead. Where from up here she can see the bridge through the raging snowstorm. The center of it long since collapsed and entirely missing.

“Foxtrot. Foxtr-“

“SHUT UP, SIERRA!” yells Pen as they drift around another curve. There weren’t many left until the bridge. What should she do?

The pack howls just behind them, not more than a few meters away now. She was going too slow. But she couldn’t go any faster without sending them flying off of the edge. She was sure of that. She yanks to the side.

“Foxtrot-“ Pen’s eye twitches as they round the second to last bend. She hates that voice. “Foxtrot. This plan of action is inadvisable. The Tango unit is u-u-u-unarmed, but still in functional capacity as a combat operator. Please en-en-gage.”

Red eyes glint from behind them, hungry glass baubles shining out and Pen only needs to see them in the corner of her eye for a split second to know that stopping wasn’t an option. This strange woman was talking nonsense. If Tango had opted to try to escape rather than fight, then so would she. Pen’s fingers clench tighter around the sticks, the material graining under the strain of the applied pressure. There’s nowhere else to go. They round the last corner. The road is straight now, as it comes towards the wide stone bridge that must have at one point, stood grand and proud. Now it’s simply cut in half; a relic of forgotten times.

“Foxtrot. Foxtrot. Please engage emergency brake systems.”

Pen leans forward.

“Foxtrot.”

It howls.

“Foxtrot, there’s nowhere to go.”

Pen clenches her teeth, a hiss escaping her throat inadvertently. She had heard that sentence before. The coils whine, her body is shaking. She feels like she’s about to black out again from the heat that’s cooking her and from the thin mountain air that doesn’t satisfy her lungs anymore for some reason. A strange and furious howl erupts in her world. A howl of the bots at their heels, a howl of a screaming, distorted boy, a howl of the mountain winds, a howl of the screeching voice of the banshee woman calling into her twitching ears, a howl of the coils and cables and the console that are all releasing a strange, screeching cry as she pushes the sticks further forward. A howl of the crystal shaking so violently down at her feet that the sensation jostles her own bones. A howl as she screams.

“Foxtrot. Where are you going?”

“HOME!” is the last thing Pen says, as she slams the full weight of her body against the sticks, pushing them all the way down and forward against the console; sending her body slamming back violently against her seat, as they leave the bridge and fly through the air.

Her vision goes black as something lurches in her empty gut.