Hawk crouched beside the old man, watching the towering Titanborn from behind the cover of the rusted-out car.
"Alright," Hawk whispered, "how about this—you let me throw the dynamite. Once they're down, I'll head inside and rescue your people."
The old man turned, eyes narrowing. "Seriously? You'd do that?"
Hawk smirked. "As long as you share the loot. I'm not exactly risking my ass for free."
The old man let out a short grunt—half laugh, half cough. "Deal. Fair trade."
They shook hands quickly, keeping low.
"But what's your name, kid?" the old man asked.
"Hawk. And you?"
"Old Man."
Hawk blinked. "Wait... you're messing with me, right?"
"Nope," he said with a straight face. "That's what they call me. 'Old Man.' Been that way since folks forgot what came before."
"Alright," Hawk muttered. "Weird world."
Old Man reached into his jacket and handed Hawk a single match.
"I'll hide under the car," he said. "Once they're toast, you rush in. Fast and quiet."
"Wait—how do I even light this thing?" Hawk asked, looking down at the bundled dynamite.
Old Man rolled his eyes, took the match back, then struck it against the rusted underbelly of the car with a practiced flick. The match flared to life.
He passed the flame to Hawk.
"Now or never, kid."
Hawk swallowed hard, took the burning match, lit the fuse, and with a tense breath, lobbed the dynamite across the street like a pro baseball pitch.
WHOOOOOM!
The explosion rocked the street. Shards of rock and Titanborn flew through the air in a cloud of dust and smoke. When it cleared—nothing was moving.
"Holy crap," Hawk whispered. "It worked."
From under the car, Old Man peeked out. "Nice shot, rookie! Now get inside before more of those bastards show up!"
Hawk didn't wait for a second warning. He bolted across the street, boots splashing in puddles and soot, and slipped inside the shattered doors of the museum.
Inside, the once-grand building was a shadow of itself—collapsed exhibits, overturned display cases, and dust-covered relics scattered across the floor. Hawk ducked behind a crate near the lobby, just as voices echoed through the marble halls.
A figure stomped past—a Titanborn, but smaller, more humanoid. It wore jagged armor and carried a massive hammer on its back. Its voice was gravel and rage.
"Have any of you found it yet?" it barked, turning to two of its underlings.
"No, sir," one grunted. "The last of them ain't talking."
The leader growled. "Then break his legs. He'll talk soon enough."
The two nodded grimly and disappeared down the stone staircase, heading toward what must've been a lower holding area.
Another soldier, tense and jittery, approached the hammer-wielder. "Sir… aren't you going to check outside? We all heard that explosion."
The leader didn't even look back.
"It doesn't matter," he said flatly. "If anyone tries to come in—shoot them. Or torture them. Doesn't matter to me."
Then he turned, walking down a side hall and through a steel door. The faded sign on it read:
CONTROL ROOM.
Hawk's eyes narrowed from behind the crate. Control room? What the hell are they looking for in here? he thought.
As footsteps echoed away and the museum fell into eerie quiet, Hawk stayed low and still, mind racing with questions.
What could they possibly be after… and why are Titanborn suddenly thinking like soldiers?
Hawk crouched low, gripping the thick, industrial gun he'd scavenged earlier.
I'm
He popped open the cylinder, dug into the box of 12mm rail-slugs, and loaded six. Each one slid in with a heavy, metallic click. He whispered under his breath:
"Dear God, let me live through this."
He peeked from behind the cover of the crate.
Four of them.
All in rugged, patched-together armor, wielding long, pulse-rifles with glowing coils. They stood alert but hadn't seen him—yet.
Okay, Hawk thought. They're armed to the teeth, but if I get the jump on them, maybe I can drop one before they scatter.
He aimed.
BAM!
The gun kicked like a mule, sending a shockwave up his arm. The slug slammed into one of their heads. The helmet cracked, the soldier staggered—but didn't go down.
"WE HAVE AN INTRUDER!" one of them shouted, voice distorted through a comm-link.
"GET TO COVER!"
The others immediately ducked behind pillars and display cases, their weapons aimed at Hawk's last known position.
"Shit," Hawk muttered, pulling back behind the box. That shot was supposed to kill him!
A ZAP echoed through the museum, followed by a searing flash. A laser bolt punched through the wooden crate beside his head, vaporizing the corner. Splinters flew across his face.
"NOPE!" he yelled, diving toward a set of stacked metal supply boxes.
As he ran, a second bolt clipped him—THWACK—just above the knee.
"FUCK!" he screamed, stumbling but forcing himself onward. Blood smeared the floor behind him, but he made it behind the steel crates, panting and clutching his leg.
Footsteps.
Fast. Heavy.
One of them was charging.
Hawk gritted his teeth, raised the revolver with a shaky hand—BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!—three slugs ripped through the air.
The Titanborn's armored face exploded in sparks and blood. Its body crumpled, slamming into the ground just feet from Hawk with a metallic clang.
Smoke rose from the barrel of Hawk's weapon. His chest heaved, adrenaline flooding his body.
"So you bastards can die, huh!?" he growled, spitting blood from his lip.
Hawk glanced to his left and froze.
The box of 12mm slugs—he'd left them behind, right by the crates where he took the first shot.
"Fuuuck," he hissed under his breath, his mind racing. "Only three bullets left…"
Before he could think of a plan, a laser bolt screamed past his head, ZZZP!—searing through the air so close he could feel the heat. He ducked instantly, heart pounding.
"Come out, you fuckers!" he shouted, voice echoing across the museum's ruined walls.
He looked up, scanning for movement—and that's when he saw it.
Hanging from the ceiling above the exhibition floor was a massive, tattered replica of a winged dinosaur. Its wings were outstretched in a frozen roar—dusty, lifeless, but massive.
"Wait a sec…" Hawk muttered. "I remember that… from the book. Dinosaurs."
Then it clicked.
A grin crept across his face.
"Time to go Jurassic on your asses."
He aimed.
BANG!
The first shot tore through one of the suspension cables.
BANG!
The second snapped another.
With a creaking SCREEEEECH and a rush of air, the massive beast replica fell, its jaws open wide in a final, plastic roar as it crashed down onto the two Titanborn beneath it. Their screams were brief, crushed under the weight of fiberglass and ancient bones.
Hawk panted, blood still trailing down his leg. "Alright," he gasped. "One more left."
He raised his arm blindly over the crate—BANG!—and fired his last bullet, hoping to suppress the last enemy long enough.
Then, with a burst of adrenaline, he sprinted toward the crate where the extra ammo lay. As he reached it, his fingers trembling, he shoved in five more slugs.
Click. Clack.
Reloaded.
But as he popped his head back up—WHAM!
The final Titanborn was already there.
A massive, armored fist slammed into Hawk's face, sending him flying backward. Blood sprayed from his nose, and he crashed hard into the floor, disoriented, vision spinning.
The Titanborn stomped forward, shoving aside the crate like it was made of cardboard.
He stepped on Hawk's chest, CRUNCH, pinning him to the floor. The weight was unbearable—metal and muscle crushing the breath from Hawk's lungs.
"This is for my brothers, you dirty human," the Titanborn snarled, voice gravelly and venomous.
Hawk gasped, struggling. "Go to hell…"
He gripped the revolver.
Aimed straight up.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
Six shots. All of them point-blank. The Titanborn's head erupted in gore, blood and bone spraying across the walls—and all over Hawk's face.
The body teetered.
Then dropped backward like a felled tree, shaking the museum floor as it crashed down with a thud.
Hawk coughed, spitting out blood and Titanborn ichor. He sat up slowly, wiping his face with the sleeve of his jacket.
His chest heaved.
His eyes turned to the revolver in his hand.
Still smoking. Still warm. Still alive.
He let out a shaky laugh and said, "I'm gonna call you… The Iron Lung."
And for the first time since the world went to hell—
Hawk smiled.