Roland staggered back from the impact of the rounds just as Alexander’s point man burst through the door. The coordination between the two teams was impressive, as was the fact that the suited men hadn’t hit their allies on the other side of the door. On a normal day, Roland would’ve ripped the shotgun out of the point-man’s hands and castrated him with it. But this was not a normal day and Roland’s brain was occupied with the damage to his body. The point man fired twice and sent one-ounce tungsten slugs through both of Roland’s knees.

He dropped, rolled, moaned. And then the rest of the team was in the room. They moved well. Not like vets, but like men who’d trained a lot for entries like this. They all wore heavy body armor. It wasn’t powered, but it provided solid protection against small-arms fire. They mostly packed auto-shotguns. Smart choice, Roland thought. When fighting post-humans, go for tissue damage.

He was hurt. Nothing fatal, yet. But the loss of momentum and control had cost him dearly. Now six men had a bead on him with weaponry powerful enough to do some real damage. Roland listened as one of the stealth suits smashed the remainder of the window in and crawled inside the room.

This armor was much more subtle than the standard Ares pattern armor. Aside from plating at the chest and shins it didn’t look like it added a substantial amount of protection. But the suit was covered in high-definition display panels. The man was hard for Roland to see. He would’ve been nigh-invisible to a normal human.

“Shit,” Roland spat blood and looked up just as a very satisfied looking young man stepped into the room. He was tall, handsome, and well-built. He wore the same armor as his men but lacked a helmet. Instead, he had a red beret with a lacquered gold cross pinned to the front. Roland took one look at the boy’s prominent jaw-line and well-tanned skin. He grudgingly agreed that it would’ve been a crime to cover up that face.

“How new are those fucking suits?” he asked the fancy-man.

“The Republic had some very choice gear in its armory,” the youth replied. “My superiors will be happy to hear how well it worked against you.”

He sauntered into the room like a conquering king, waving his pistol lazily at the captives.

“Hello, Sasha!” he said with a smile and a cheery wave of his free hand.

“Alexander,” she replied in a tone as cold as ice.

The young man, Alexander, stopped in front of Roland, peered down, and grinned the shit-eatingest grin in the history of eating shit.