The Tales of the Legendary Mimic : Momo

GOLDEN RAVINE

“Shouldn’t we just barge in and get this over with?”

Henrik’s voice cut through the low murmur of soldiers checking their gear. He was half‑crouched behind the rusted husk of an armored vehicle, eyes fixed on the overgrown entrance of the abandoned lab, fingers drumming restlessly on his rifle.

“NO, doofus. Do you have bananas for brains? What if it’s a trap?”

Sarah didn’t bother lowering her voice. She shot him a glare sharp enough to cut, one hand on her hip, the other tightening the strap of her vest. The air around them tasted like dust, gun oil, and tension.

Henrik snorted. “Well, that dude is strong. He should be able to kill them all. Have you seen him fight, mennn? Plus, they’re zombies—how smart can they be?”

“You know what, why don’t you head in yourself and sacrifice yourself for our greater good?” Sarah replied dryly.

“HELL NO! Why me? It ought to be you. Aren’t you the smart one… eh, Sarah?”

“Yeah, obviously.” She smirked, then turned away before his stupidity could infect her, boots crunching on scattered shell casings.

Her gaze swept over the makeshift camp. Soldiers lounged beside vehicles, some sitting on ammo crates, others leaning against armored doors. They’d been told to relax their minds but keep their senses sharp—no smoking, no loud jokes, no helmets off.

Waiting. Always waiting.

They had less than five minutes before Max, and the scouts were due to return. Sarah checked her watch, then the perimeter again—the fence swallowed by vines, cracked asphalt, the lab entrance looming like a dark mouth behind warped metal and choking foliage.

Talk of the devil.

A familiar figure emerged from between two trucks, moving with a casualness that didn’t match the wariness in his eyes. Max’s gaze sharpened instantly, turning predatory as he swept the camp.

He froze.

A thin, cold thread of killing intent slid over the area.

Sarah stiffened. For a heartbeat, she felt like prey pinned under a hawk’s talons. Max’s aura pressed down on her, heavy and suffocating. Her throat constricted; every instinct screamed at her to move, to hide.

Then he blinked and pulled his aura back. The invisible pressure vanished.

He frowned. He was sure he’d felt killing intent—and just as sure it hadn’t come from her. All she’d done was stare at him, breathing a little too fast. Still… her face tugged at his memory.

“She’s one of the scouts we met after coming across the military,” Lorne blurted right into his ear.

Max flinched. “Huh? Yeah, sure.”

He shot Sarah one last glance, then hurried off, weaving between vehicles and ignoring curious stares as he headed for Captain Jane, who was striding toward him from the command tent.

“What’s the scout report, Maximus? Any oddities?” she asked without preamble, leading him to a folding table in the center of camp. Maps were pinned down under knives and clips; a portable radio crackled nearby.

“It’s… strange,” Max said, pulling off his gloves. “The zombies refuse to leave the area. They’re not wandering like usual. It’s like something’s anchoring them here.”

Jane’s eyes narrowed. “Anchoring?”

“What if they’re guarding something?” he continued. “Their formation’s too dense around the southern wing. They’re not chasing noise, not reacting to bait. It’s like they have a perimeter to maintain.”

She tapped a finger against the map, staring at the rough sketch of the lab—the collapsed sections, the southern entrance circled three times.

“Is that so…” she murmured.

After a moment’s silence, she turned to a nearby cadet. “Go get Sir Garfield. Tell him to get ready—we’re going in. And tell him about the weird habits the mutants exhibit. Maybe he’ll see something we don’t.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

Once the cadet ran off, Jane exhaled and knelt beside a rolled‑up sleeping mat, pulling it aside to reveal a metal case hidden underneath. She dragged it out and flipped the latches.

Inside, cushioned in foam, sat a Golden Ravine sniper rifle, code-named GMC-6.

The weapon seemed to glow even in the dull daylight—sleek, long‑barreled, its finish reflecting a faint gilded sheen. It looked less like standard issue and more like an artifact.

Jane lifted each component with practised care, setting the stock, barrel, scope, and custom stand on the table. One by one, she assembled them. Once the stand locked into place, the already massive rifle grew even bulkier, its weight jumping by a few kilos.

The GMC‑6 was infamous. Its rounds could punch through armored vehicles and turn a cluster of enemies into a crater. When fired, the muzzle flash left a golden shimmer—hence “Golden Ravine.” Only the strongest soldiers could even handle its recoil, and very few were trusted with its firepower.

“Here. Use this to battle henceforth.”

She tried to present the rifle with ceremony, but misjudged the weight. Her arms dipped; she almost dropped it. With a grimace, she let it settle on the table within Max’s reach.

Max stared at the massive gun. “I don’t use guns,” he said flatly.

“You should know,” Jane replied just as flatly.

“I prefer my fists.”

He raised his right hand. A faint, translucent goo seeped over his palm like liquid glass, then hardened, forming an organic shell. He curled his fingers; the coating flexed with him.

“I’ve got this.”

Jane watched his hand for a beat, then sighed.

“I sent a report to Command on the mission’s update,” she said quietly. “Everything. That includes your details. They ordered me to bring you back in one piece as a new core of the mission.”

She met his eyes, the pressure in hers laid bare.

“Your power makes you important to the future of the human race. If anything happens to you out here, I’ll be held responsible—mentally andmateriallyy. They’ll make sure I pay for it.”

The camp’s background noise filled the silence—distant laughter, the clank of a magazine being slammed home, an engine humming.

Max finally looked down at the rifle. His thumb traced a ridge on the stock, then the hunch of the grip and the cold barrel.

Goo slid from his wrist, threading over his hand and forearm like a living mesh. It hardened, forming a web of external muscle over his skin.

He wrapped both hands around the Golden Ravine and lifted.

The weapon came up easily.

Jane’s eyes widened despite herself. She’d seen strong men fail to even shoulder the GMC‑6, let alone move it like a regular rifle.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

It wasn’t just for lifting the gun.

It was for understanding.