Two. The Others.

Thirty miles east of Gotham, a pack of dogs walked down an empty street in a small town. German Shepherds, they sniffed the air and the ground, moving together, a feral pack perhaps, only too well-groomed and too synchronized with one another to be feral.

No, a hunting party.

The lead dog stopped and stared straight ahead. The others read the cues of its body and halted likewise, following its intent gaze to a manhole in the center of the street.

The manhole cover was ajar. There was the faintest splash from within.

With a low growl, the lead dog stepped forward.

Then, a snapping of fingers.

Without another sound, all the dogs retreated, padding off into an alley and out of sight.

A man stepped out of the alleyway. Across the street, another. And another, and another, and another. Exiting side streets and abandoned buildings, the men hefted enormous handguns, smoothed their coats with their hands and approached the manhole.

Without the slightest twitch of the mouth or shifting of the eye, they communicated.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Gyro, it carries a .55-caliber chemical payload. The firing system, free of primer and powder, allows the chemical payload to remain stable. Gyroscopic system also increases bullet velocity three hundred percent over conventional firearms. The gun will stay balanced in your grip, so don’t attempt to compensate for recoil.

And don’t hesitate. Don’t bother to explain. Shoot to kill.

The lead man stepped over the manhole. He glanced down. All clear.

He dropped into the sewer.

Striking a shallow pool of water, he immediately rolled aside and swept the tunnel for any sign of life. There were ripples up ahead, in another pool, indicating the targets had moved south. As the others entered the tunnel at his back, he ran forward.

There were torches in the walls up ahead. A couple of them appeared to be set lower, in the shadows...they were being held by hands...

The man raised his gun to fire. Before he could, the torches flared blinding white as a magnesium compound was added to the flame.

“I’ve got no visual! Hold your fire!” the man shouted. He shut his eyes and listened intently, filtered out the splashing at his back, focused on what was up ahead. Heard a footfall, calculated the location, taking the environment’s unique acoustics into account, and fired.

There was a scream. A long, wet, human scream. Then silence.

“Go go go!” the man shouted, opening his eyes and seeing the torch go out as it fell in fetid water.

“Bots!!” someone up ahead yelled. A cacophony of screams erupted within the tunnel. The lead man sent a message to his comrades:

Delmar, there’s a junction up ahead. Take the west tunnel. Macendale, your men go east. I’m going straight.

He stumbled as two bullets punched into his chest. The targets had silenced firearms. He listened for footsteps and fired into the darkness.

“Please!” someone cried. “Please leave us alone! Don’t!”

He ignored them and unleashed a hail of chemical rounds. Bursts of flame and shrapnel lit up the junction as he entered. He saw men and women flailing as the meat of their faces was scorched and shredded.

His pack split up. There were more cries, some cut off abruptly. The sound of Gyros cutting through flesh and bone and rock.

A wall up ahead. No, a door. The man crossed his arms in front of his face and plowed through.

In the light of a single torch, he saw a woman huddled over three children, the lot of them wrapped in a filthy blanket.

The woman wept. “Please. Let us live. Just let us live.”

“I can’t allow you to suffer,” the man said, and fired four rounds.

#

The cleanup crew took the dogs down into the tunnels. One of the shepherds was being uncooperative. Smelling the blood on Macendale’s clothing and hands, it whimpered.

“Go on, dog,” Macendale snapped. He grabbed the scruff of its neck and dragged it toward the manhole.

The lead man stopped him. “Macendale.”

“Bruce.”

“Use positive reinforcement.” Bruce removed Macendale’s hand from the animal and knelt. He patted its head. “C’mon now boy. Let’s go. Down there. C’mon!”

He clapped his hands and headed for the manhole. The dog followed him, staying at his side.

“Negative reinforcement is detrimental to their whole training program,” Bruce reminded Macendale. “Use praise. Simulate love and acceptance. You can still be firm, but always remember, respect over fear.”

The other bot nodded curtly.

Delmar walked over to Bruce, thick fingers fumbling across his torso. “I think some of my armor’s loose. This old Army-grade material just isn’t going to hold up any longer.”

“We’ll see what we have back at the base,” Bruce replied. Delmar was a modified military bot, unlike most of the first-gens on Bruce’s team. They were a civilian peacekeeper class that had worked for the United Fuel Cooperative prior to the First Harvest.

Macendale was one of the second-gens, built by the first-gens. Their emotive programming wasn’t quite as mature as that of their parents, but they were still good as infiltrators. Macendale, like many other children, just needed to learn to follow his field training. There was a time and a place for improvisation. A sweep wasn’t it.

Cinnamon came up from the sewer. Bruce gave her a hand as she brushed the scarlet hair from her eyes. He’d asked her why she hadn’t removed the synthetic locks, as most did, and she’d said it complimented her programming. She’d been a personal recreation model, working in a bar up in Alaska in the same Cooperative town as Bruce and Delmar. He conceded that her uniquely human look often gave her an advantage with the targets, even if it was form over function.

“It’s clear down there,” she said. “The bodies are being destroyed.”

“Good work all around. We’ll want to review this one frequently.” Bruce turned and patted the dog’s head again. “Guess we won’t need you down there after all. Good boy.”