Fallen Angels

The UEC patrol cutter cut low across the waves, hull stained black with smoke and oil. Ashton Kane gripped the helm with white-knuckled abandon, sea spray soaking his boots. Behind them, the shoreline of Cuba flickered orange, fire consuming the island's main military complex like it was soaked in gasoline.   "They killed Nero," Keora muttered, still watching the inferno.. One eye covered still wide with utter shock, the other glowing red with tactical overlays.   "He got himself killed," Ashton replied, grinning as the Gulf wind tossed his hair. "Us? We got out."   Keora glanced at him. He was high—just enough to shine. But clear enough to steer.   Below deck, the cabin stank of ozone, salt, and stolen time. Ashton pulled her into him, hands running over the heavy plating of her bionic arm like it was silk. She let him.   “We’ll be gods down there,” he whispered into her neck. “South coast—these little towns? Third-world shithole, ripe for the taking.”   Keora didn’t answer. Just held the silence like it was something sacred. For now, she tried to believe in Ashton’s arms.

The town they found near the Gulf was nothing like Ashton promised. The streets were sun-bleached but clean, swept by hand, lined with palms and painted stone. Buildings squatted low and wide, built to survive storms and worse. Colors flaked from walls like old stories—faded with pride, not neglect. The people moved slow, eyes sharp, hands calloused. They smiled at one another. But never at them.   Keora was starting to doubt their decisions.   They sat in a bar made of red cedar and welded steel, the air thick with smoke, laughter, and the clatter of dominoes. Word had spread fast—“UEC forces routed, Cuba in flames!”—and the locals were already celebrating like it was the last war they'd ever need to survive. A breeze slipped in from the coast, carrying the scent of salt and fried plantains.   Ashton nursed his mezcal like the most important person in the room. He always did this—drank like a king, smiled like a savior, talked like the world was already his. It was what first pulled her in, that reckless gravity he had.   But lately..   Keora nursed a bottle of water. Her bionic hand stayed beneath the table, gloved in a loose cloth. Not hiding—just not flaunting. She felt eyes on them, trained and certain. This town could smell trouble, and they were stinking of it.   A man finally slid into the seat across from them. Crisp linen shirt. Nighttime sunglasses. Silver pistol tucked neat and obvious under his arm.   “You two look like broke tourists or war refugees,” he said in perfect English. “Which are you?”   “Both,” Ashton grinned, teeth white as sin, voice like an open invitation.   The man didn’t smile. “You’re not from here. No one’s gonna cry when you go missing. What makes you think we need your kind?”   Keora shifted slightly, scanning the exits without turning her head. She caught the edge of a knife handle at the next table. A woman pretending not to listen.   Ashton leaned back like he was at a casting call. “Because we’re very good at very bad things.”   “You sound high.” The man replied coldly.   Keora didn’t flinch. Ashton’s laugh was smooth, lazy, almost charming. It hit her wrong this time.   The man stared at him for a beat, then looked to Keora.   “You claim this one?”   Keora tilted her head. “I clean up after him.”   A pause, then a nod. Not approval—just understanding.   “There’s a place south of here,” he said, standing. “No names. If you’re serious, they’ll see you. If you’re not…” He looked at Ashton. “You won’t last the night.”   He left without looking back. The woman with the knife did too.   Ashton watched them go, then looked at Keora with that same old fire in his eyes. “Told you. Easy.”   She didn’t answer.   Outside, the ocean sang to itself in the distance. Inside, the mezcal burned in quiet toasts, warmed by local voices until the night swallowed the last whisper.

The village was abandoned. Or so it looked.   Dust moved down the main road like it had somewhere to be. Not even a dog barked. But the buildings were too intact. Chairs still sat under shaded awnings. Half a bowl of soup congealed on a doorstep.   They were already being watched.   The tank came first. Old world design. Cleaned. Loved. Polished like a holy relic. Sunlight caught the polished rivets. It moved slow, reverent, like a priest taking the altar.   "That’s not a patrol," Keora murmured, pistol already in hand. "That’s an ambush.."   Ashton stepped forward and pushing his sleeves up with a practiced calm. His aviators caught the light. He stared at the tank like he knew its name.   No gestures. No warning. Just quiet, surgical hatred.   A muffled thunk sounded deep inside the armored hull.   Then the world folded.   The tank ruptured inward first, the shell cooking off inside like a curse finally spoken. Steel peeled open like it wanted to scream. The shockwave knocked bodies down like bowling pins. Ashton didn’t move. He just watched it come apart, fire dancing in his eyes like it was personal.   Keora was already moving. Silent, decisive. A short burst from her pistol turned the first man’s face inside out. Another charged—she side-stepped, let him pass, then slammed her bionic forearm into the base of his spine with a wet crack. She cut the third across the chest with a whisper of force, almost gentle. He folded in half like paper.   Less than a minute passed. Then silence.   Smoke rolled over the square like an old habit. Ashton breathed it in, smiling faintly.   “That it?” he asked.   Keora didn’t answer right away. Her eyes scanned the rooftops. Then the windows. Then the doorways.   That was when they say the first one. Like a curious child, the raggedly dressed creature peered at them with eyes that were once human. Now Hollowed out and replaced by something else, it had no fear of them. And it wasn't alone.   Ashton turned slowly, the fire in him guttering out. “We need to move.. Now!!”   They ran—through smoke, through the following cacophony of morbid laughter and cries, into the trees— leaving the fantasy of freedom behind in the wreckage of their old lives.