A trend for the majority of Cells is that they are more defensive than offensive. Striders are unarmed; even the displacer rifles that Sentinels use as standard is surprisingly precise.

Guardians are the exception. They are the Cell equivalent of a weapon of mass destruction. They were originally called "Warforms" by Firewatch, but that seemed a bit too bellicose to the Ministry, so they actually asked Firewatch to rename them. Seemed like a stupid idea until it worked.

Now, they're heavy peacekeeping units. "Heavy," meaning they have enough firepower to casually obliterate a planet. They're typically quadrupedal or hexapedal, the size of a large hovercraft, and come equipped with what's called a "vigorous displacer bank." A case of mistranslation, but it gets the point across.

Research supports the theory that these were once the mainstay in assault units. Nothing else could explain the name or the absurd amounts of firepower, and the Strider seems to corroborate the idea that these Cells were originally built as some kind of automated military. Needless to say, the Guardians have been toned down significantly. They still have the displacer bank but are now equipped with a range of low-power lasers and stunners. Their size tends to be prohibitive when it comes to peacekeeping, so they're held in suspended storage until needed.

<>-----<>-----<>-----<>-----<>

Three months ago...

Captain Peter Wols warily eyed the facade of the power substation in front of him. Substation 300, deep inside the crust of Firewatch, down one of the access portals called The Dekker. Not that there was much of it left. Most of it was really just a slagged heap of metal now, but there was just enough of it to be distinguishable from the rest of the carnage.

"What the fuck happened?"

Peter eyeballed his deputy rummaging through the debris. "Not 100% sure yet," he said halfheartedly. "Some girl was on the run. Only just got the word when Firewatch dropped a Guardian on top of her."

Deputy Jenson shook his head. "Gods. She have a clone?"

"Yeah. But she's gonna be stuck in grayscale for a while. It's old."

"How old?"

"Over a thousand years."

Jenson blinked. "You said she was a kid."

"Yeah."

Opening his mouth to speak but deciding against it, Jenson just shrugged.

Peter rubbed his eyes and yawned. A handful of Siemens drones were already swarming, plucking at the waste for anything useful. They were a wretched mob, not quite a human and yet not fully machine. Outcasts, forced to fend for themselves in the dark underdistricts of Firewatch. They scavenged parts for repairs and sold whatever was left. Peter pitied them, so he let them do what they wished after the site had been cleared. It was early in the morning, and there was no one around who would cause any trouble.

He tilted his head to the left, scrutinizing the Guardian that had entered a dormant state. It was on the smaller side for sure, only about five meters tall by his own estimation. A rare tripedal variant. Well, all of them were rare. It had been several decades since anyone in The Dekker had laid eyes on one.

"You see these things in the Median, Jenson?" Peter asked.

"Yeah." Jenson tossed a chunk of concrete at the Guardian. "Bastards would show up every once in a while. Never helped. Just blew everything up."

"Not exactly subtle, are they."

"One landed on a primary school. Flattened it. Kids and all." He flung another hunk of concrete. "Department blew half our quarterly budget on clones in a single weekend."

"Don't antagonize it, Jenson."

"It's dormant. Besides, it's not like I'm hurting the thing." He picked up a hefty pole of steel rebar, walked up to the Guardian, and slammed it into the nearest leg joint a few times. "See? Didn't even scratch the fucking paint," he huffed, tossing the rebar aside.

"They're on our side, you know," Peter remarked, bemused.

"Are they? Feels like nine times out of ten, they just get in the way."

"This isn't exactly what they were designed to do."

"So what you're saying is that melting a substation and vaporizing a girl on the run aren't in their job description?"

"Enough. Finish up and take the advance team to whatever printing lab this girl's scheduled to pop out of. Lock it down and set up a guard rotation."

Jenson raised his hands in defeat. "Aye, captain."

Peter sighed, rubbing his eyes again. Roused from sleep at the crack of dawn for what amounted to a glitch in the system, nothing more. Firewatch was... well, it was old. No one really knew exactly how old the primary neural core was, but even a hyperintelligent artificial consciousness made a mistake once a century. When you considered that it was trying to deal with quadrillions of humans all at the same time, it had a pretty strong track record.

The girl was a different story. No prior lives, no record, no known family or next-of-kin. The genetic template of her clone was so outdated modern printers couldn't even read it anymore.

Peter and his team had been tracking her for several days. Several unfortunate and fatal incidents involving magic had been tracked back to her. She was considered both dangerous and unpredictable, as she was young enough not to have full control over her powers. A 6-man detention squad tracked her to the Cloudpass Interchange; she fled to The Dekker, killing an officer in the process. Yesterday, a warded hunter-killer drone pinged magic used in The Dekker, Level 2055, Substation 300.

Evidently, Firewatch got to her first.

Peter summoned forth a labor drone; it trolled sluggishly out from the darkness, a flat sphere with little texture, six articulated arms, and one large audiovisual receptor.

"Meet Deputy Jenson and the advance team at this printing lab," he said, watching the drone bob up and down on fluffy grey clouds of antigravity glow. "Make sure no one touches anything. You don't touch anything, either. I want it on lockdown until that girl comes out."

The labor drone warbled and scuttled off.

There was nothing more to do here. Besides, time was up. Peter's thermos was dry, and without the caffeine, he doubted he'd survive the hour.

Glancing at the Guardian one more time, Peter trudged home.