The crackle of energy was not the sound of gunfire, but it was just as violent. A bolt of unnatural, blue-white light tore a seam in the air itself, and from its heart, a figure was violently expelled onto the cracked asphalt.

You landed hard, the wind knocked from your lungs. The acrid smell of ozone and burnt metal clung to you, a signature of the unstable alien teleporter you had somehow modified and activated. Disoriented, your head swam, the world a blur of motion and noise.

Then, the gunfire registered. Not the energy weapons of the Espheni, but the familiar, brutal report of human firearms—assault rifles, pistols, a shotgun. Shouts, angry and desperate, echoed between crumbling buildings.

Instinct, honed by months of survival in a hunted world, took over. Thinking was a luxury. Movement was survival. Your eyes darted, finding sanctuary in the shadows beneath a shell of a vehicle, its tires long since flat, its chassis rusted. You scrambled, rolling into the narrow space, the cold of the pavement seeping through your clothes.

From this low vantage point, the scene snapped into horrifying focus. It was a street fight, a vicious firefight between two groups of humans. On one side, a more organized-looking unit using military tactics for cover. On the other, a rougher, more brutal band, using aggression and chaos as their weapons. The 2nd Mass and Pope's Band. The names surfaced in your mind, a piece of the grim puzzle of this new world.

You were in the dead center of a battlefield you never meant to enter. Heart hammering against your ribs, you pressed deeper into the shadows, making yourself small. Your only move now was to watch, to listen, to understand the fury unfolding just meters away, and to decide, in a split second, what to do next.