As the Auclair police stood stationed in Southern Auclair, awaiting the tide of battle to come, a distant buzzing sound filled their ears.
"Commander LaCroix, something's approaching from behind," an officer called out, a note of panic in his voice.
Most citizens of Meteor Kingdom had never ventured far beyond its borders. As a result, the sounds of certain vehicles were largely unfamiliar to them. So when the buzzing grew louder and louder, many of the officers instinctively raised their rifles, expecting an enemy.
"I don't recall giving the order to take up arms," said Commander LaCroix coolly, his blonde hair glinting beneath the sun. "At ease, men. Our worries are ahead of us, not behind. This must be the backup Chief Nkosi sent our way."
The buzzing swelled, the anticipation mounting with every second—until at last, the source came into view: a motorcycle. The rider slid into the gathering of officers and came to a clean halt. Without a word, they reached up and removed their helmet.
"State your name and reason for being here," ordered Commander LaCroix. "If you're a civilian, make your way home or to the nearest shelter."
Without hesitation, Jackie answered, "Jackie O'Hara. I was sent by Chief Kota Nkosi to aid the southern force, then head west with Commander LaCroix once the fighting was done."
This is the backup the chief sent us? LaCroix narrowed his eyes. He knows we're spread thin—troops divided between the south and west, with others still patrolling outer sectors. But then he took a breath, grounding himself. No… the chief knows what he's doing. I trust him with my life. If he sent her alone, there's a reason. Something only he knows.
Jackie scanned the area, noting their defense layout. They had established solid cover positions for ranged engagement—enough to return fire and withstand a siege until morning, maybe longer. It looked like overkill at first. But then, something caught her eye.
She stepped closer to the nearest supply crate and picked up a round. Frowning, she turned it in her hand, then read the casing.
"Non-lethal?" she muttered. Her voice sharpened. "They're armed, aren't they?"
"From what we've gathered from civilian testimonies, less than half of the individuals are armed with firearms. The rest are carrying melee weapons. By law, citizens aren't allowed to possess guns, and live ammunition can't be used against them unless under special circumstances."
Jackie blinked, incredulous. "What's more special than this? We're literally being invaded. Who came up with such a dumb–" She cut herself off, remembering exactly who had written the law.
"That's true, Ms. O'Hara," the officer continued, "but we had to mobilize quickly. Using lethal rounds would've required clearance—authorization we didn't have time to wait for."
Jackie let out a frustrated sigh and scratched the back of her head. There was no use arguing about it now. "Fine. Was there anything else? Did the civilians say how they were dressed?"
"Yes, actually. One person mentioned the group was dressed oddly—fishing gear, nature camouflage, duster coats. That sort of thing."
Jackie's eyes narrowed. "Sounds like hunters. I think I passed a group of official ones the other day—part of the KHA, carrying signs and everything. If I'm right, they'd all be at the conference in the capital today."
She turned to LaCroix, voice firm. "I'd say I'm ninety percent sure these are Dread Hunters. And if that's the case, we'll need to use lethal force. No question."
"Ninety percent?!" the whole group echoed in disbelief.
Commander LaCroix stepped forward, skeptical. "Ms. O'Hara, it seems risky to authorize lethal force when you're not one hundred percent sure these aren't just angry civilians protesting about losing their hunting rights."
Jackie crossed her arms. "Look, Commander, I can't go into details, but let's just say the capital may or may not have pissed off the Dread Hunters by capturing one of them and shipping them off to Purgatory Prison."
A ripple of shock passed through the officers.
"You actually took one alive?" one asked, stunned.
"You managed to track one down?" another chimed in.
Jackie nodded once, letting the weight of that settle. "Yeah. And if that's true, then what we're seeing now is likely retaliation."
She turned, giving them all a moment to absorb that. Then, she stared ahead, eyes fixed on the dark horizon.
Non lethal ammo. Great. Not like it'd be enough to kill a Dread Hunter anyway... but it sure as hell would've slowed them down.
Turning back to the commander, Jackie asked, "How much damage would you say the non-lethals do?"
"Enough to knock a grown man off his feet. Maybe out cold if he takes one to the temple," LaCroix replied.
She paused, considering the options. This can still work. Even if they're all armed, all I really need is crowd control. People to keep them off me long enough to do what I need to do.
"By the way," she added, "I'm guessing the group in the west went non-lethal too?"
LaCroix shook his head. "No. Word is, the group heading their way was more heavily armed. That's why the capital decided to intervene."
"I see," she muttered. "Then we don't have time to wait around. We need to wrap things up here, fast."
She raised her voice. "Alright, men—gather what you can. We're moving up."
Confused murmurs spread among the ranks.
"What? Why?" one of the officers asked. "We're set up here. We've got cover and the high ground."
"And while we sit here waiting," Jackie cut in, "a more dangerous force creeps closer to your comrades in the west. Even with the capital backing them, people will die. We either hold the line here for comfort, or we push forward and take pressure off the others. Your call."
A brief silence fell.
But there was conviction in her voice—enough to move them.
While Commander LaCroix didn't love the idea of abandoning a fortified position, he couldn't argue with Jackie's logic. Every second they waited gave the enemy time to tighten their grip on the western front.
"Alright, men, you heard her!" he shouted. "Take what you can and begin advancing."
Just as the unit began to mobilize, Jackie called out, "Heeyy—hold up!"
One of the younger officers turned to look.
"You," she pointed, jogging up and pressing the keys to her motorcycle firmly against his chest. "I need you to deliver a message for me."
PUSHING FORWARD, THE SOUTHERN GROUP—NOW BACKED BY JACKIE—SECURED AN evacuated street, taking control of a three-story hotel and its rooftop. From their vantage point, they had clear sightlines and cover. On the road below, Jackie stood alone, waiting.
She had given only one instruction: provide suppressive fire, and nothing else. That's all they'd be able to do. Most of the officers hadn't fully grasped what she meant at the time—how one person could stand against an approaching force of Dread Hunters with nothing more than a single firearm and their support to slow the enemy down—but soon, they would understand.
All she asked was that someone cover her back while she took care of everything in front of her.
From a hotel window, Commander LaCroix watched her. Arms folded, jaw tight, his thoughts drifted to the phone call he'd received before leaving the department.
The phone rang just as he was gearing up.
"Commander LaCroix," Chief Nkosi's voice came through, calm but firm.
"Chief Nkosi, what is it, sir?"
"Change of plans," the chief said. "Everyone's running lethal ammunition now. You and your men included."
"But sir," LaCroix had protested, "I'm the last one at the station. I already sent my men ahead."
"Ah. You don't say." Nkosi had sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, what's done is done. I'm sending backup your way. And LaCroix… treat them like an extension of me. No questions, no pushback. They know the enemy better than we do, and frankly, they might be the only person capable of stopping them."
There'd been a pause before Nkosi added, almost as an afterthought, "Actually, it's probably better you didn't bring the lethal rounds. Might just make things harder for her."
Now, as the memory faded, LaCroix blinked and refocused on Jackie—still standing calm in the middle of the road.
Her voice rang out clear.
"Eyes up, men! They're here."
As the Dread Hunters came into view, Jackie figured she might as well set the tone herself.
Without hesitation, she drew her revolver in a flash and fired a single round. One of the Dread Hunters dropped with a scream, clutching his leg as he hit the ground. Jackie holstered the gun just as smoothly, standing tall in the middle of the street as the others turned to face her.
"Whoa, did you see that, Commander? She dropped him in one shot!" one of the officers shouted.
LaCroix squinted. Did she mean to hit his leg, or was that a missed execution?
"Come at me, boys!" Jackie called out, her voice carrying over the quieting street. "That was the only warning shot. Next ones'll be direct."
That did it. The Dread Hunters let out war cries and charged, just as she'd expected. Melee fighters rushed ahead, guns trailing behind—creating the perfect screen to reduce the chance of her getting shot.
The trap was set.
As they closed in, Jackie met them head-on. Her fists and boots moved like weapons of their own—precise strikes, brutal counters, elbows to jaws, knees to ribs. One by one, they fell around her.
Meanwhile, from above, the officers opened fire—peppering the charging Dread Hunters with non-lethal rounds. Those with guns were kept suppressed, while those with blades and bats were knocked off balance.
In the middle of the chaos, Jackie kept moving. Kept fighting.
Alright, Jackie, she told herself. You're doing what's right. Not what's easy. You asked for this power. You took it willingly. That makes it your burden. Your duty.
Her knuckles cracked as another enemy dropped.
And right now, there are corpses that need to be put to rest.
Clearing her mind, Jackie drew her revolver again.
Weaving past one Dread Hunter, she closed the distance with another and pressed the barrel directly against his forehead. His eyes crossed, locking onto the gleaming metal between them. He had no time to react before she pulled the trigger.
The shot rang out like a thunderclap, snapping his head back with brutal force.
The chaos around her blurred, replaced by something she hadn't felt in years—a familiar rush. The heat of battle. But it wasn't like Mille Dan, not like the way it had been with Noir. That was stealth. Ambush. Mud and shadows. This was different. This was a warzone. No hiding, no slipping away. Just a raw, face-to-face fight against overwhelming numbers. Jackie had clawed her way out of battles like this before.
She knew this type of fight well.
The bullet had done more than just kill—it had obliterated him, leaving a glowing hole in his forehead. As the Dread Hunter collapsed, the back of his skull blown wide open, something unnatural began to happen.
His skin cracked and turned black, charred like burnt wood. Then it split. His flesh peeled off in chunks, dissolving into a foul, tar-like sludge. Within seconds, what remained of him was nothing but a dark puddle hissing on the pavement.
From the hotel window, Commander LaCroix staggered back, covering his mouth as nausea clawed its way up his throat.
What the hell did I just see? What kind of weapon does that? If that's what it takes to kill a Dread Hunter… then what are they? And more importantly—who is she?
Sensing danger, Jackie ducked low—just narrowly avoiding the chop of a makeshift clever. Its blade was crudely fashioned from a repurposed road sign, jagged and rusted along the edges. The Dread Hunters weapons and utilities were notorious for their roughly improvised aesthetic. They were both brutal and effective.
With a sharp pivot, she swept the attacker's legs out from under him. He hit the ground hard. Rolling on top of him, she pressed her barrel to his forehead, pushing herself upright as she pulled the trigger.
Jackie's bullets were no ordinary rounds.
They were soul-forged—ammunition crafted through her power as a soul weaver—a title reserved for humans capable of manipulating their own soul. Each weaver's manifestation was unique but this wasn't Jackie's. This was simply a technique she'd learned to combat corrupted entities from afar.
"Hey! Where's my support?"
"Sorry, Ms. O'Hara, we're a little preoccupied up here!" an officer called down from above.
Some of the Dread Hunters had found their way into the halls of the occupied buildings, forcing the men to shift their attention inward before they could even offer proper cover fire.
"Alright," Jackie muttered, steadying her breath. Then louder:
"You can't kill them—trust me. Just knock them out and chain them to something solid. A pipe. A post. To each other if you have to. I'll clean up once I'm done out here."
Her voice rang with certainty, even in the chaos.
She wasn't asking for help. She was making a promise.
"All right, men—you heard her."
Commander LaCroix shrugged off his uniform coat and let it fall to the floor. "Dread Hunters have breached our lookout. We're about to get real familiar with close-quarters combat. That means ditch the rifles—switch to hand-helds."
He tore off his white button-up shirt, splitting it in two with a loud rip. Wrapping each half around his fists, he paced in front of his officers like a man preparing for war.
"Get ready for a scuffle," he growled. "They're already storming up the stairwells." He stopped, turning to face them squarely. "But who are we?!"
"The Auclair Police Department!" the officers shouted in unison.
"That's right—the APD! A bunch of pissed-off Dread Hunters think they can riot in our parish. But who are we?!"
"The APD!" Their voices rose, loud and sharp.
"Who's going to protect this parish?!"
"APD!"
"What's our mission?!"
"To protect the peace!"
"Who do the people turn to in their time of need?!"
"You and me!"
LaCroix grinned like a madman. "And what do we say to the enemy?!"
"RIP!"
"In this case, sure," he smirked, rolling his shoulders. "But normally—we'd just tell'em they're under arrest."
For a moment, the joke nearly flew over their heads—but then it clicked. Laughter broke out among the officers, their commander's unexpected humor cutting through the tension like a blade. The nerves didn't vanish, but they eased. They knew what they were up against wasn't ordinary—but with LaCroix at the helm, the odds didn't feel impossible.
Then, the door exploded inward under the force of a single Dread Hunter's kick.
Instincts kicked in. Every officer raised their pistols and opened fire. A barrage of heavy rubber rounds pummeled the intruder's body, each shot slamming into him with brutal force. Though stunned, the Dread Hunter remained upright—for a second—until the relentless storm of fire brought him crashing to the floor, limp and unconscious.
LaCroix didn't miss a beat.
"Let's get them, men!" he roared, vaulting over the fallen enemy and into the corridor beyond.
His men followed without hesitation, their boots thunderous on the floor, their shouts echoing through the halls.
As LaCroix and the rest of the squad stormed ahead, one officer lingered behind, pausing over the unconscious and trampled Dread Hunter.
He crouched down, fishing a pair of handcuffs from the pouch on his hip.
With a flat stare, he muttered, stretching out his words, "I'm just gonna—" click. He locked the cuffs around the Dread Hunter's wrists. Another pair went around the ankles. Then a third set connected them together.
"Don't want you runnin' off if you wake up before we come back for you," he said, patting the Dread Hunter's shoulder like he was tucking in a sleeping friend.
Satisfied, he stood, threw his arm up, and shouted, "Hell yeah!" before bolting after the others down the hall.
THE HOTEL HALL WAS IN TOTAL CHAOS—DREAD HUNTERS AND OFFICERS LOCKED IN a savage clash. In the thick of it stood Commander LaCroix, trading blows with two Dread Hunters at once.
One wielded a pipe with nails soldered to the end. He swung it overhead with brute strength, but LaCroix sidestepped and the weapon slammed into the floor. As the Hunter yanked at his lodged weapon, LaCroix turned to the second—armed with twin daggers connected by a chain, like savage nunchucks.
With ruthless precision, the second Dread Hunter lashed out, scoring several shallow wounds along LaCroix's arms and sides. The commander moved with measured care—he knew one mistake could mean losing a limb… or worse.
As the dagger-wielding Hunter thrust forward, LaCroix struck with a clean hook to his face, then twisted around him just in time to avoid another blind swing from the nail pipe. The weapon whooshed past as LaCroix stepped in, catching its midsection with his forearm before driving a punishing uppercut into the wielder's chin. The blow snapped his head back, and the pipe clattered to the ground.
With his enemy dazed, LaCroix launched a flurry of hard, surgical strikes—each one cracking against the Hunter's skull until he collapsed, unconscious.
"Why, you—take this!" the remaining Dread Hunter roared, hurling one of his chained blades at LaCroix's head.
The weapon buried itself in the wall, just barely missing its target.
Or so it looked.
LaCroix's eyes flicked to the embedded blade. Blood dotted the steel. Then he looked down—and to his quiet surprise saw his ear lying on the floor.
Without a word, he bent down, picked it up, and tucked it into his pocket like loose change.
Then, calm as ever, he gripped the chain linking the stuck blade to the one still in the Hunter's hand. With a sharp pull, he yanked hard and stepped forward. The Dread Hunter, still clutching the other end, was jerked off balance—flung toward him like a fish on a line.
LaCroix met him halfway with a devastating headbutt, dropping the Dread Hunter like a sack of bricks.
As the last of the enemies lay unconscious, the officers moved in, methodically cuffing them together, ensuring their restraints were tangled and awkward enough to keep even the strongest from moving in unison.
After he bandaged his cuts and taped over where his ear used to be, LaCroix made his way to one of the street-facing windows. He cracked it open and leaned out to check on Jackie down below.
"Don't worry," he called. "We're coming to back you–"
A vehicle came hurtling through the second-story window, shattering glass and brick as Jackie's shout rang out:
"Get back!"
JUST MINUTES EARLIER, JACKIE STOOD ALONE IN THE STREET, SURROUNDED BY enemies. She took them out one by one, prioritizing the Dread Hunters with firearms, dispatching them with sharp, precise shots to the head. Once they were down, she shifted to the remaining attackers, dismantling them with swift and decisive blows.
Then the ground began to shake.
Cups and plates rattled on the abandoned café tables. Jackie paused, heart ticking faster—just as a dumpster came crashing down from above.
She leapt aside, narrowly avoiding it.
As she landed, her eyes locked on the Dread Hunter now blocking her path—and for the first time all morning, she felt a flicker of alarm. This one was massive, nearly seven feet tall, his bulk wrapped in stained armor and a leather gas mask covering his face.
"Well, well, well," came a voice from behind the towering figure, smooth and mocking, "you just keep finding yourself in police business, don't you?"
The speaker stepped into view, calm and confident.
Jackie narrowed her eyes. "Commander Fortier. Chief Nkosi and I were starting to wonder where you'd gotten off to. Turns out our concern was misplaced—you weren't missing. You were switching sides."
She'd done her homework on Eric Fortier. Dug into his file back at Crescent Parish PD. He'd graduated at the top of his class, but his academy records were stained with quiet red flags—notes from the department psychologist that hinted at volatility, signs no one followed up on. Under normal circumstances, someone like him wouldn't have made it past sergeant. But the kingdom was short on manpower. Standards slipped.
"Siding with Dread Hunters now, are we?" Jackie asked, studying the hulking figure in front of her. "Good God. Who gave birth to you?"
Goliath didn't flinch. His voice rumbled from behind the gas mask.
"My mother."
"That was a rhetorical question," Jackie quipped. "But what was she—a dump truck? Giving birth to you must've been one rough pregnancy."
"Aaah! Don't talk about Goliath's mother!" Goliath shrieked, his voice cracking with sudden rage.
Goliath stomped the ground like a child throwing a tantrum. His boots thundered against the pavement as he looked around wildly—until his eyes landed on the only car left on the street.
Shuffling over, he planted himself behind it. Metal groaned beneath his grip as his massive fingers dented the frame. With a deep grunt, he squatted, leaned back, and managed to lift the entire vehicle off the ground. He started spinning, faster and faster, building momentum like a discus thrower—but the weight proved too much. Losing his balance, Goliath let go too early.
The car soared—not toward Jackie, but wildly off course—hurtling through the air straight for the second story of the hotel.
Inside, Commander LaCroix leaned out the window, calling down, "Don't worry, we're coming to back you–"
"Get back!" Jackie shouted.
The car exploded through the hotel window, smashing into the room LaCroix had just appeared from.
"Aaah, that was meant for you!" Goliath bellowed, voice wheezing beneath his gas mask. Still reeling from the failed throw, he roared again and charged Jackie with reckless fury.
The massive Dread Hunter moved with startling agility—faster than Jackie expected for someone his size. She barely managed to sidestep as he came barreling in, the shock of his speed throwing off her rhythm.
She didn't have time to check if LaCroix was okay. All she could do was dodge and bark out her frustration. "What business do you have being that big and moving that fast?!"
Goliath gave no answer. Instead, he ripped a lamppost from the ground with a guttural roar and swung it like a club. Jackie leapt and twisted through the air as the heavy post whooshed past her. Each missed swing left destruction in its wake—café tables splintered, potted plants from the floral shop burst into fragments, and a mailbox sailed through the bakery window with a crash.
As Jackie danced around Goliath's wild, brute-force strikes, Commander Fortier strolled into view, his voice low and cold.
"You know," he began, "it'll be a real shame."
He stepped over broken glass and debris, hands clasped behind his back like he was giving a tour.
"By the time backup arrives, it'll all be over. You'll be dead. So will these other Dread Hunters. And Goliath? Long gone."
His smirk returned, razor-thin and hollow.
"I'll have to report back, of course. I'll tell them my men were killed during the transfer. And how I stumbled upon a helpless woman in the street, fighting for her life. I tried to save you, Jackie. Fought off as many of those bastards as I could but by the time it was all said and done, your poor little heart had given out."
Goliath finally managed to grab hold of Jackie. With one massive hand, he hurled her into the air like she weighed nothing. His other hand was already in motion, swinging the lamp post with impeccable timing.
Jackie barely had time to brace herself before the metal struck.
The blow sent her crashing through the front of an antique shop, glass and debris exploding around her as she disappeared into the wreckage.
"That's it!" Fortier called out, his voice full of unnerving delight as he praised Goliath. "Well done!"