Suiting Up for the Apocalypse (and Maybe Looking Sharp Doing It?), Banter Before the Bang, and One Seriously Big Plane (Please Don't Let This Be My Last Ride).
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Author Note: Sawyer's having a moment (or several) in the hangar, battling nerves with sarcasm and questionable fashion choices. Joe's socks are a cry for help (or just Joe being Joe), and Sarah's briefing style is... concise. Looks like our reluctant hero is about to board a one-way flight to "Ancient, Creepy, Possibly Cursed" Land. Wish him luck! (He's gonna need it.).
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Sawyer stood alone in the vast, echoing expanse of the aircraft hangar, his figure dwarfed by the high ceilings, exposed steel beams, and endless rows of dormant machinery and parked aircraft. The metallic scent of cold steel, aviation fuel, and distant engine grease lingered in the air, thick and clinical, offering no comfort. His breath formed pale wisps in the icy atmosphere, vanishing almost as soon as they appeared.
The space was brutally cold. Not the kind of cold that simply made you shiver, but the kind that sank deep into your bones, settling there like a second skin. It came in waves from the open vents and nearby airstrip, pumped deliberately to preserve the sensitive internals of the aircraft. But to Sawyer, it felt like the building itself was holding its breath—waiting, watching.
He bent down, steadying himself on one knee as he focused on the simple, grounding task of tying his boots. Thick, scuffed leather. Heavy soles. The laces, though frayed at the tips, still held strong—a quiet metaphor for how he felt about himself these days. Worn, but intact. Used, but not broken.
Each loop and knot felt like a small ritual. A necessary preparation. A familiar movement in the face of overwhelming uncertainty. The mission ahead of him remained shrouded in classified whispers and half-formed fears. He didn't know exactly where they would be going or what they would encounter, only that it would be dangerous—and that he had agreed to go.
The nerves hit him in waves—sharp, fluttery jolts in his gut, like a thousand tiny wings beating in confusion. Fear didn't come in screams. It came in silence. In quiet breaths. In the way your hands tremble slightly even when you're still.
He straightened slowly, pushing himself up with more effort than he expected. The bomber jacket he wore was heavy and lined for warmth, the kind issued for practicality, but it carried a subtle edge of style too—black, fitted, with a small stitched emblem on the chest that marked him as part of something larger, something official.
He pulled the collar up against the chill, adjusting it with a precise tug. He could feel the weight of the gear on his shoulders, the tension of expectation pressing in from all sides. And yet, despite everything—the cold, the silence, the looming danger—he felt an odd sense of calm settle in.
Not confidence. Not courage.
Just readiness.
He might be terrified, yes—but he was still here. Still moving. Still suiting up. And if the world was truly teetering on the edge, then maybe, just maybe, he could help push it back.
And if he was going to do something that mattered—even something reckless, even something doomed—he might as well look sharp doing it.
His chosen outfit was more than just clothing—it was armor. Every piece had been selected with care, not just for function, but for the version of himself he wanted to embody in this moment. The classic black bomber jacket, snug at the wrists and collar, hugged his frame with a kind of reassurance. It was warm, practical, and just edgy enough to convey a calm confidence he wasn't entirely sure he actually felt. It moved with him like a second skin, holding in the anxious tremors just beneath the surface.
His pants, black cargo style, were tailored but utilitarian. The deep, secure pockets were filled with small but crucial items—an emergency flashlight, a worn compass, a folded photo, and a tiny charm his Mom had once given him for luck. Each item told a story, whispered a memory, and tethered him to the world he was trying to protect. The sturdy black combat boots had already seen more than their fair share of wear. Their thick soles met the ground with purpose, reminding him to stay grounded—physically and mentally.
Beneath it all, a sliver of color peeked out from the collar and sleeves: a red and blue striped long-sleeve shirt, the kind he used to wear on lazy weekends or spontaneous movie nights with his mom. It was soft, slightly faded from too many washes, and completely out of place in the sterile, metallic expanse of the hangar. But that was why he wore it. It was a piece of who he was before all of this—before the chaos, before the loss, before the gates started tearing open. That shirt was a silent rebellion against the darkness, a flash of boyish innocence in a world rapidly forgetting what innocence looked like.
In the distance, the deep, thunderous roar of jets preparing for takeoff rolled through the hangar like a storm approaching. The sound hit his chest like a physical force, vibrating through the steel and concrete beneath his feet, echoing in his ribs like a war drum. It was the sound of movement, of commitment, of no turning back. It was also terrifying.
Sawyer inhaled slowly, trying to time his breath with the thudding beat of the engines. In. Hold. Out. He did it again. And again. He counted. He imagined waves hitting a shore. He imagined quiet. He imagined his mother's voice reading bedtime stories, the weight of her arm around his shoulders during old sci-fi reruns, the smell of her cinnamon tea.
He needed to stay calm. Focused. He mentally mapped out the day, shrinking the towering unknowns into small, manageable checkpoints.
Get on the plane.
Somehow find the gate.
Close it—however that was supposed to work.
Save the world. Hopefully.
Bring Mom back. Alive.
Then… maybe give a heroic speech at a press conference or something. Smile for the cameras. Pack up. Disappear. Change names. Start fresh in a city with fewer apocalyptic portals.
"Easy peasy, lemon squeezy," he thought with a dry, bitter smirk, the phrase thick with sarcasm. It was a joke, a shield. It didn't really make him feel better, but it made the fear feel less massive—less like it was swallowing him whole. And right now, that was enough.
"Whoa there, kid. You always have full-blown conversations with the empty air like that?"
Joe's familiar voice sliced clean through the haze of Sawyer's thoughts, snapping him out of his silent mental rehearsal like a whip crack. The words hit unexpectedly, making Sawyer flinch ever so slightly—a reflexive twitch born from the intensity of his focus being abruptly interrupted. He hadn't heard Joe approach, which was saying something, considering how loud the man usually was.
"Uh… yeah, sometimes," Sawyer replied, voice a touch too high at first. He cleared his throat and tried again, forcing a more casual tone. "You know, just… thinking out loud."
He turned around to face Joe and added a tight-lipped smile to complete the act—an expression that was supposed to say 'I'm fine', even if the nerves gnawing at his insides suggested otherwise. His heart still beat faster than it should have. Joe, thankfully, didn't seem to notice—or if he did, he gave no sign of it.
"Well, good," Joe said, stepping closer, his broad figure casting a long shadow under the fluorescent hangar lights. "You're in good company, then."
With a reassuring grin, Joe clapped a firm hand on Sawyer's shoulder. It was heavy, grounding, and warm through the fabric of his jacket. That single touch was enough to break the tension that had been slowly coiling in Sawyer's chest like a live wire. Joe had a way of doing that—balancing his irreverence with moments of quietly solid support.
Joe's appearance, as usual, was a walking contradiction. On one hand, he wore a crisp white shirt, its sleeves rolled up past his elbows in a display of work-ready efficiency. On the other, the shirt was slightly untucked on one side, as though he had forgotten—or simply not cared—to fix it. Around his neck dangled a loose, vintage tie adorned with delicate pink roses. The floral pattern fluttered faintly in the draft, standing out against the utilitarian gray of the military setting like a wildflower in concrete.
The wind that blew through the massive hangar doors caught the hem of his trousers, revealing what could only be described as a war crime against fashion—bold red-and-yellow striped socks, stretched confidently over his ankles and entirely unapologetic.
"Interesting choice of hosiery, Joe," Sawyer said with a smirk, raising an eyebrow. It was an automatic quip—one of those small, familiar jabs he could throw without thinking too much, like muscle memory from every other awkward pre-mission moment.
Joe looked down with exaggerated pride, then lifted one foot slightly to give the socks a full dramatic display. His grin widened, the twinkle in his eyes somewhere between mischief and nostalgia.
"Ah, these beauties?" he said, patting one knee as if they were prized possessions. "A gift from Zara. She was very enthusiastic about the color scheme. Made me promise—solemnly, mind you—to wear them on a 'truly unforgettable day.'"
Sawyer snorted, folding his arms. "And you picked the day you're sending me to potentially die in a collapsing dimension. How incredibly thoughtful."
The sarcasm was sharp, but not mean. It hung in the air between them, softened by the faint curve of a genuine smile that tugged at the corner of Sawyer's mouth. The banter—familiar, steady, stupid in the best kind of way—helped more than he could admit out loud.
"Well," Joe said, mock-somber now, "I figured if you're going to go charging through hell, you might as well do it knowing someone out there is wearing the dumbest socks in your honor."
Sawyer chuckled despite himself. The laughter was quiet, almost cautious, like he didn't quite trust how close to the edge he felt. But it helped. It grounded him. Reminded him he wasn't walking into this alone—even if, in the end, he would be the one taking the leap.
Joe chuckled softly—a low, rolling sound that rumbled from deep in his chest. It wasn't the kind of laugh that came from genuine amusement, not really. It was more of a subtle, practiced tool, a sound he used to chip away at the brittle edge of tension that had quietly thickened between them. Their banter had been a decent distraction, but the undercurrent of anxiety still swirled below the surface, unrelenting and real.
"Yeah, maybe dwelling on the whole 'certain death' scenario isn't the most productive way to spend our time," Joe said with a crooked grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Positive affirmations only from here on out, remember? Let's just focus on getting this incredibly dangerous and potentially world-saving thing done, and then we can all celebrate with copious amounts of something non-lethal."
Sawyer gave a dry snort, the kind that tried to sound amused but came out more as a breath caught between hope and fear.
"Fingers crossed, toes crossed, and maybe even a few other appendages for good measure," he replied, his voice a notch more relaxed but still carrying the weight of everything he wasn't saying. There was a flicker of something real in his eyes—a brief spark of nervous hope, raw and almost childlike. He stepped forward, out of the relative quiet of the hangar's mouth, and onto the wide concrete stretch of the takeoff zone.
The world changed the moment he did.
The expanse of the airfield opened up around them like a steel-gray sea, vast and imposing beneath an overcast sky that hung heavy with unspoken threats. The clouds above were thick, brooding, as if the heavens themselves were holding their breath, waiting for what would come next.
Then came the sound.
It hit like a wave—no, like a wall. Solid, sudden, and completely overwhelming.
The roar of military-grade jet engines filled the air, not just loud but all-consuming. The vibrations traveled up through the soles of Sawyer's boots, climbed into his ribcage, and rattled in his bones like the echo of something primal. It wasn't just noise; it was a living force, like the breath of mechanical giants awakening from slumber.
He stumbled back a step, instinctively raising a hand to shield his face from a gust of hot wind kicked up by the nearest engine. The acrid scent of fuel and heated metal filled his lungs, sharp and clinging, wrapping around him like invisible armor—or maybe a shroud.
Ground crew teams moved like ants in chaos, yet somehow with purpose. Bright vests flashed in the dim light, hands gestured with practiced urgency, and shouts were swallowed whole by the roar of the machines. Everything was moving. Everything was alive with tension and purpose and speed.
Sawyer turned his head sharply and pointed, wide-eyed, toward the hulking aircraft that stood ahead of them like a mountain carved from steel and intent. Its thick hull gleamed faintly beneath the grey light, and its monstrous wings stretched outward like the arms of something divine—or demonic.
"That's… that's one seriously big plane!" he shouted, barely able to hear his own voice above the thunder around him. His words were pulled away by the wind almost as quickly as he spoke them.
Joe cupped a hand to his ear, leaning in like a man trying to eavesdrop on a hurricane.
"What in the hell did you just say? You said you… you shit your pants?" Joe bellowed back, his face twisted into a mixture of alarm and confusion, the wind catching the loose flap of his floral tie and whipping it against his shoulder like a small, stubborn flag.
Sawyer blinked, then doubled over with a laugh—loud, surprised, and entirely genuine. For one brief moment, laughter pushed aside the fear.
Even here, standing on the edge of something catastrophic and unknown, Joe still managed to find a way to pull him back from the brink.
Sawyer came to a sudden halt mid-stride, turning slightly to stare at Joe with a look of flat disbelief. For a moment, words failed him—not out of irritation, but from the sheer absurdity of what he'd just heard. His mouth opened slightly, as if ready to issue a correction, but then he paused, considered it, and simply exhaled with a tired, amused breath.
"I said… you know what, never mind," he muttered, waving a hand dismissively as if swatting away a bothersome fly—or the effort of explaining something that no longer mattered. His head shook slowly, more in amused resignation than frustration, and a short, involuntary chuckle slipped out despite himself. Without waiting for a response, he turned and resumed his pace toward the staging area.
Behind him, Joe stood with a hand cupped to one ear, watching Sawyer's retreating figure with mild confusion. He muttered something about needing to get his ears checked, scratching his scalp with that same puzzled expression he often wore when trying to decipher tech jargon or why modern slang sounded like spell incantations.
As Sawyer drew closer to the staging point, the landscape around him sharpened into focus—organized chaos, pulsing with the last-minute urgency of soldiers and specialists finalizing preparations. The floodlights overhead bathed the area in a harsh, clinical glare, casting everything in high contrast. Among the flurry of movement, his eyes settled on Sarah.
She was standing at the center of a loose semicircle of beings, briefing them with precise, clipped movements and a tone of voice that brooked no nonsense. Her presence radiated authority, and even in the chaotic energy of the airfield, her team held firm focus. Sawyer took a moment to observe the crew—and they were anything but ordinary.
They looked like a ragtag ensemble plucked from several different worlds and shoved into one high-stakes mission. A few reptilian humanoids stood to one side, their iridescent scales reflecting hints of blue, green, and copper beneath the floodlights, giving them an almost ethereal glow. Each subtle shift of their bodies sent shimmers across their skin, like living armor forged from gem-like skin. Nearby, two half-giants loomed silently, easily twice the width of any human there. Their expressions were grim, but their watchful eyes tracked every movement with the quiet discipline of seasoned warriors. And then, off to the right, was the troll.
He stood like a statue carved from time and stone, his skin rough and uneven like cracked granite, his features angular and hard, built more for intimidation than charm. Yet even he, this massive creature of brutish strength, stood calmly under Sarah's command, watching and waiting. All of them were clad in sleek black combat suits—military-grade gear built for both movement and survival. Despite their differences, their cohesion was apparent. Every stance, every nod, every subtle gesture told a story of training and shared understanding. They were ready.
Then there was Sarah.
Always Sarah—unapologetically herself.
She was the type of person who made you forget what normal was supposed to look like. Amidst the dark uniforms and clean lines, she stood out like a defiant flame in a sea of shadows. Her black bomber jacket—customized with faded patches and a few tiny embroidered symbols that hinted at personal stories—sat open over a simple tank top. Practical, yes, given the warmth of the airfield, but also bold in its plainness. Her pink camouflage cargo pants, aggressively loud and hanging low on her hips, clashed rebelliously against the strict palette of the military zone. A glimpse of black shorts peeked out beneath them, subtle but intentional, like everything she wore.
Heavy, well-worn black boots grounded her presence. Not new, not polished, but tested—scuffed from the field, not fashion. And yet somehow, the whole outfit wasn't just functional. It was commanding. Her posture, the way her arms moved as she gestured through her briefing, the fierce spark in her eyes—everything about her broadcasted one truth loud and clear: Sarah wasn't here to play by anyone else's rules. She was here to win.
Sawyer couldn't help the genuine smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth as he approached. He slowed his pace slightly, letting himself take in the moment—the strange comfort that her presence always brought, even amidst looming danger.
"Well," he called out over the rising hum of an incoming shuttle engine, "that's certainly one way to rock into a potentially apocalyptic fight with undeniable style."
His voice carried a note of admiration—light, teasing, but sincere. That kind of style wasn't just fashion. It was armor. Identity made visible. A declaration that said: This is who I am. Even at the end of the world.
Sarah glanced up from the softly glowing holographic display she had been scanning, the luminous light casting sharp blue edges across her face. A smirk spread slowly across her lips—equal parts amusement and challenge. Her bright eyes caught Sawyer's just long enough to spark a shared flicker of energy between them, unspoken but charged.
"You're just profoundly jealous," she said, her voice laced with dry humor and an effortless confidence that made the words feel more like truth than teasing. "That I can pull off pink camo better than you ever could. In your wildest, most delusional dreams, kid."
Sawyer chuckled, his laugh coming easily, warming the tightness that had been sitting in his chest all morning. It wasn't just her words—it was how she said them, like every joke was a hand extended across a battlefield. He shifted his weight, running a hand through his hair as he looked at her with a mixture of admiration and playful defeat.
"Maybe," he said, his tone light but honest, "just maybe, there's a sliver of truth to that outrageous accusation. I'll give you that."
He paused, then gestured with a small nod toward the plane behind them, the beast of a transport that loomed like a dormant dragon waiting to be awakened.
"But fashion aside," he continued, "I'm still the designated gate-closer here. So whenever you—and your ridiculously stylish pants—are ready, just say the word."
A new voice cut into the moment like the pop of a soap bubble.
"Is it just my old eyes playing tricks on me," Joe asked, his tone mischievous and laced with that maddening smugness only he could carry, "or have you two suddenly gotten… considerably closer in the last few hours?"
He seemed to appear out of nowhere, as he always did—silent as a shadow until it was far too late to prepare for his entrance. He stood with hands casually in his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels, wearing those mismatched socks again. It was so very Joe, a jarring splash of cheerfulness in an otherwise high-stakes atmosphere.
"Of course not, Joe. Don't be ridiculous."
"I'd rather spontaneously combust."
Both Sarah and Sawyer replied at the exact same time, their voices sharp and almost too synchronized. The second their words landed, they turned to glare at each other with mock betrayal, their faces tight with a mix of surprise and shared embarrassment.
Then, almost in perfect choreography, they looked away—quickly, awkwardly—as if caught doing something they hadn't yet admitted to themselves, let alone each other. Their deflections were too perfect, too emphatic, the kind of thing that people said when there was something very much there, under the surface, trying not to rise.
Joe, ever the observant instigator, raised both hands in mock surrender. A wide, knowing grin stretched across his face, his eyes dancing with delight at their discomfort. He backed away with the smug satisfaction of someone who had struck gold in an emotional minefield.
"Alright, alright," he said, chuckling, "touchy subject. I'll just leave you two lovebirds to your little pre-apocalyptic bonding ritual."
With that, he turned and began his slow saunter toward the loading ramp of the massive transport plane, humming some off-key melody under his breath, as if he hadn't just dropped an emotional grenade at their feet.
Sawyer shifted slightly, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes fixed on the tarmac. The air between him and Sarah had gone still—not quiet, not peaceful, but charged, like the seconds before a storm finally breaks. A few feet apart, and yet they both felt how close they were standing. Or maybe it was just the weight of everything unspoken hanging in the space between them.
Sarah cleared her throat softly and looked back at the holographic map, suddenly very interested in a blinking icon that hadn't moved in minutes. The humid air clung to her skin, thick and heavy, matching the pressure in her chest.
Neither of them said anything.
They didn't have to.
Sarah turned fully to face her assembled team, the weight of leadership settling onto her shoulders like a familiar, well-worn jacket. Her commanding voice cut clean through the chaotic buzz of the airfield—jet engines roaring in the distance, cargo units clanking against steel ramps, radios crackling with overlapping voices. The amplification came from a small device clipped discreetly to the collar of her black tank top, but the authority in her tone needed no help.
"Alright, listen up, people! Eyes on me!" she called out, her voice sharp as a whip crack.
Her gaze swept across the group like a scanner, locking briefly with each individual—reptilian, human, half-giant, troll—until every wandering glance was anchored to her. They were an odd assembly by any standard, but she commanded their respect, not just through rank, but because she had earned it, time and again, in places where medals didn't matter and survival did.
"This," she continued, jerking a thumb toward the boy standing beside her, "is Sawyer."
He gave a small, awkward wave, one corner of his mouth twitching in a nervous smile.
"Our mission parameters are crystal clear and blessedly simple," Sarah went on. "We deliver him, in one piece—emphasis on the one piece—to the designated entry point in the Red Desert. You know the place. Big, glowy interdimensional gate. Ancient, creepy, possibly cursed? That one."
There were a few smirks and raised brows in the group, but no one interrupted.
"Absolutely no scratches, bruises, or existential crises allowed. None. Not on my watch," she said, her eyes narrowing slightly for effect. "And once the glowy thing is closed, we bring him back. Safe. Whole. Preferably conscious. Think of him as irreplaceable cargo. No—more than that. If Sawyer doesn't make it back, we might as well all start digging our own graves right now, because, trust me... we are all royally screwed."
There was a moment of silence as the weight of that last line settled over them.
"Understood? Any questions?"
"Yes, ma'am!" came the unified chorus, loud and sharp. The response was almost military in its precision, a sign of their discipline—and their fear. Not of her, necessarily, but of what failure might mean.
Sarah gave a short nod, satisfied. "Alright then. Dismissed."
The group broke formation smoothly, spreading out around the transport plane in a ballet of purpose. Pre-flight checks resumed, gear was loaded, weapons calibrated. There was no need for further reminders—the tension was already there, thick as the humid air pressing down on their shoulders.
Sawyer turned to her, eyes wide with incredulity.
"That's… that's it?" he asked. "That's the entire mission briefing? No tactical diagrams? No complex plans?"
Sarah didn't even look up. She'd already pulled out her beat-up smartphone, the screen slightly cracked along the corner. Without missing a beat, she opened a vividly colorful mobile game—Crush the Bar—and began tapping with an almost meditative rhythm, thumbs moving like dancers across the screen.
"Yep. Pretty much," she said flatly, eyes still on the game.
Sawyer blinked. "No advanced tactical maneuvers? No detailed strategies? No maps of the 'Red Desert'? No backup plans for if things go completely sideways?"
She smirked, her lips quirking as she hit a level bonus with a satisfying ding.
"Dude," she said without glancing up, "do you always overthink things this hard? It's not that deep. We go in. You close the glowy thing. We come out. Easy."
Sawyer looked at her as if she'd lost her mind.
"But what if it's not easy?" he asked, the edge in his voice now tinged with genuine concern. "What if something goes wrong? What if we get separated? What if the portal reacts differently than expected? We don't even know what kind of energy it gives off. There could be radiation. There could be a time lapse! Do we even know what—"
"Sawyer," she cut in, her voice finally lifting from its casual tone, though it remained calm. She looked up, her expression unreadable but steady. "It's normal to be scared. I'd be worried if you weren't. But planning only works up to a point. After that, you just move. You adapt. You trust your team, and you trust yourself."
He swallowed hard, caught somewhere between reassured and rattled. There was a kind of steel in her voice, forged through experience—not arrogance, but survival. It was clear she'd done this before. Probably more times than she cared to count.
Still, the knot in his stomach didn't loosen.
"I'm not afraid to go," he said quietly. "I just… I want to understand it before I walk into it."
Sarah's gaze softened. She put the phone down.
"I know. But sometimes, understanding comes after." She tilted her head slightly, eyes meeting his. "You'll get through it. We both will."
And just like that, the moment passed.
She picked up her phone again, resuming the game with the kind of ease only someone used to juggling chaos could afford.
Sawyer stood beside her, the roar of the engines in the distance, the heat rising from the tarmac, and a hundred unspoken worries swirling in his chest. He didn't feel ready. But somehow, with her beside him, maybe he didn't have to be.
"Dammit all to hell! This stupid, glitching little… sucker!"
Sarah muttered the curse under her breath, her jaw clenching as her thumbs tapped furiously across the screen of her old smartphone. Her usual air of effortless control—so often a calm, grounded presence in the most chaotic scenarios—cracked for just a second. The device in her hands vibrated, let out a sad defeat sound, and the bright, cheerful graphics dissolved into the familiar failure screen. She groaned, sinking back into her seat with a huff that didn't quite hide the sting of losing yet another high-level round in Crush the Bar.
For a moment, she wasn't a seasoned field commander with countless interdimensional missions under her belt. She was just a woman, exasperated by digital candy and laggy response times. That quick flicker of frustration—raw, relatable—barely had time to settle before her entire demeanor shifted, like flipping a switch.
"Alright, people, listen up! Plane moves in exactly five mikes!" she barked suddenly, her voice snapping with authority.
Every head lifted, and in unison, the team glanced down at their synchronized wristwatches. No one questioned the order. No one hesitated. As though wired directly into her voice, their bodies responded like clockwork. The energy on the tarmac shifted instantly—footsteps quickened, gear was double-checked, weapons were secured. Around the massive aircraft, final preparations resumed with swift, practiced urgency.
Sawyer, still lingering near the loading ramp, felt a tap on his shoulder—not rough, but firm, like a polite knock on a sturdy door. He turned, and immediately had to crane his neck up.
Standing behind him was a half-giant.
The man towered at nearly seven feet tall, his shoulders broader than most doorways, and every inch of him seemed carved from something tougher than flesh. His skin was a dusky bronze tone, marked with faint scars that hinted at a long history of battles and maybe a few close shaves with death. A thick mat of dark hair covered his forearms and the visible parts of his chest where his sleeveless armored vest left room for mobility.
Yet despite the sheer, overwhelming bulk of him—this mountain of a man—there was something oddly gentle about his presence. His expression was open and kind, and his deep brown eyes shimmered with something almost childlike: curiosity, warmth, and a quiet understanding. He offered Sawyer a small nod and a quick smile, one corner of his thick lips twitching in amusement, as though he already knew how awkward this introduction might feel.
Sawyer blinked. The half-giant looked like he could lift a tank and throw it across a ravine, but his vibe was less "intimidating brute" and more "giant Labrador with a tech degree."
And he was covered in tech.
Strapped across his chest and braced along both forearms were complex rigs of wires, metal plates, sensors, and small devices that blinked steadily with multicolored lights. A few buttons flashed in patterns Sawyer couldn't decipher, while a miniature screen near his wrist displayed scrolling code at high speed.
It was like staring at a walking, breathing, fully operational computer lab.
Before Sawyer could speak, Sarah chimed in from where she stood several feet away, her eyes still glued to her phone, fingers dancing rapidly.
"Oh, hey. That's Mark," she said, only half-paying attention. "He's our... well, he's basically our resident IT guru."
She paused to swipe at a particularly stubborn candy cluster, then added dryly, "If it beeps, blinks, or needs more than two brain cells to operate, Mark's your guy."
Mark gave Sawyer a brief shrug as if to say she's not wrong and then gently patted the younger man on the shoulder—though even his gentlest pat nearly knocked Sawyer forward.
Sawyer steadied himself with an awkward chuckle, already feeling the first real twinge of what it meant to be the weakest link in a team like this. Everyone around him moved like they belonged here, from Sarah's steel confidence to Mark's calm competence. And him? He still didn't know how to load a plasma pistol.
"Good to meet you, Mark," Sawyer said, trying to project more confidence than he felt.
Mark didn't speak. He simply gave a thumbs up and pulled a small, flat tablet from a side pocket on his utility vest. A 3D map of the Red Desert shimmered to life on the screen, and he turned it toward Sawyer with a quiet nod—an unspoken offer to help, to explain, to be the support Sawyer might need without asking for it out loud.
Sawyer exhaled slowly. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.
"Nice to meet you, Mark," Sawyer said, tilting his head back slightly to meet the towering man's gaze. He had to raise his voice just to be heard over the deafening roar of the nearby jet engines, their constant hum a steady reminder of the mission's looming departure.
Mark responded with a low, warm chuckle—a sound so deep it practically vibrated through Sawyer's chest like a soft percussion beat. There was something comforting about it, almost paternal. Without a word, Mark reached into one of the many compartments on his vest and pulled out a sleek set of futuristic noise-canceling earbuds. They were matte black, compact, and smooth to the touch, designed for utility but still surprisingly stylish. Alongside them, he handed over a minimalist wristwatch with a polished black face that caught the sunlight just enough to gleam.
Sawyer accepted both items with a nod of thanks, already fumbling to plug the earbuds into his ears. The effect was immediate and almost surreal. The roar of jet engines, the clatter of gear, the clipped voices of the crew—all of it melted into a soft, distant hum, like hearing the world from underwater.
The silence wasn't just quiet; it was soothing, as if someone had finally hit the mute button on his anxiety.
"Better now, kid?" Mark's voice came clearly through the buds—deep, gravelly, and far gentler than Sawyer would have expected from someone who looked like he could tear through a steel door with one hand.
"Much, much better. Thank you," Sawyer replied, the words tumbling out on a sigh of genuine relief. For the first time since stepping onto the airfield, he felt like he could breathe without being overwhelmed. He glanced down at the slim watch now clasped around his wrist. "So, uh… what's the watch for?"
"Ah, that little beauty," Mark said, his tone taking on a proud, almost fatherly lilt, like a parent showing off their child's first science project. "It's more than just a timepiece. That thing's monitoring your vitals in real-time—heart rate, body temperature, hydration status, and even fluctuations in your… well, let's call it your magical frequency."
He scratched the back of his neck, clearly searching for a way to explain it without diving into full-on technobabble. "Basically, if your mana levels spike or drop too fast, the watch pings us. It also functions as a tracker, just in case we, you know… get a little geographically challenged during the mission."
Sawyer blinked at him, slowly processing that last line. "Lost by accident?" he repeated, his voice flat, eyebrows knitting into a tight, concerned line. There was something about how casually Mark had tossed out the phrase that made his stomach twist in quiet protest.
Mark just grinned and shrugged his mountain-like shoulders with surprising ease, the motion fluid despite his size. "Hey, you know how it is. The Red Desert isn't exactly famous for its tourist guides and friendly signage. It shifts sometimes. Terrain changes. Storms happen. Time gets weird. You could walk in a straight line and still end up where you started, or worse—somewhere entirely different. Fun, right?"
Sawyer didn't answer immediately. He glanced toward the plane, then back at Mark. That crawling sensation of unease was growing roots in his chest now. His palms had started to sweat, and he wasn't sure if it was from the heat or the realization that he might be walking into something far more unpredictable than anyone had warned him about.
"Have you… have you actually been there before?" he asked softly. There was hesitation in his voice, but it was no longer just fear—it was a fragile strand of curiosity stretching toward something unknown.
Mark's expression shifted. The smile didn't disappear entirely, but something behind his eyes grew quieter. Older. He looked down for a moment, then nodded once, slowly.
"Yeah," he said. "Once."
The way he said it—short, simple, and without a trace of humor—was enough to tell Sawyer everything he needed to know. Whatever Mark had seen in the Red Desert, it hadn't been something you joked about.
"Just kidding!" Mark suddenly called out, raising both hands in mock surrender, a wide grin splitting his bearded face.
"The Red Desert? Nah, man. Not personally," he admitted, his voice easing into a low chuckle, laced with self-deprecating humor. "This is actually my first real outfield deployment. Can you believe that? Apparently, every self-respecting IT tech in the organization's gotta clock at least five field missions before they even start whispering about promotions."
"Promotion?" Sawyer echoed, his tone a mix of confusion and intrigue. The idea of bureaucratic hoops and internal office requirements in the middle of a potentially world-saving operation struck him as both oddly mundane and hilariously absurd.
"Yeah, man," Mark said with a grin that lit up his whole face. There was a boyish sparkle in his eye, the kind that made his hulking, armored frame seem a little less intimidating. "Gotta climb that corporate ladder, you know? These gigs aren't just about glory or explosions or saving the world from eldritch horrors. It's about those pay bumps. I just got myself a new girl—she's something else, man. Real pretty. Smart, too. Honestly, she's way out of my league."
He laughed again, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly shy at his own confession, his tone shifting from playful to genuinely heartfelt.
Before Sawyer could respond, a familiar voice cut crisply through the comms system, sharp and impossible to ignore.
"Alright, alright, break it up, you two lovebirds!" Sarah's commanding tone sliced clean through the warm moment like a blade. Her voice, while brisk, still carried a trace of dry amusement beneath the professionalism. "Save the heartwarming confessions and office romance dramas for the extraction debrief, gentlemen. We've got a plane to catch. Move out, now!"
"Already?" Sawyer asked, eyes widening as he glanced instinctively toward the looming aircraft. His breath caught slightly in his throat. The suddenness of the order struck harder than expected. "That was… surprisingly quick."
"Yes, buttercake," Sarah replied, her tone switching seamlessly to playful mockery. Her voice was tinged with humor, but her words still carried weight. "Your luxurious, slightly terrifying, and potentially doom-laden carriage awaits your royal presence."
Laughter echoed softly through the comms from various corners of the hangar. It wasn't mocking, not exactly—just the kind of shared levity soldiers found before a mission. A release of tension, brief and welcome.
Sawyer forced a chuckle, though it sounded thin even to his own ears. He strapped the sleek black watch onto his wrist, the metal oddly cold against his skin. It clung there like a quiet promise of the journey ahead—silent, firm, and unflinching.
As he stood at the edge of the wide hallway that led toward the aircraft, his eyes lingered on the open entrance just a moment longer. He could feel the wind from the turbines, the buzz of readiness all around him. But somewhere beneath that—deeper—he felt the flicker of doubt. The step he was about to take wasn't just physical. It was commitment. It was trust. It was no turning back.
"You're not suddenly getting cold feet and thinking of bailing on us now, are you, Sawyer?" Sarah's voice broke into his thoughts again, but this time softer—less teasing. There was a curious sharpness behind her words, as though she could sense his hesitation, read the uncertainty gathering behind his calm exterior. Her single visible eyebrow arched just slightly.
Sawyer straightened instinctively, trying to push the nervous flutter in his stomach back where it came from.
"No, no. Of course not," he said quickly. Too quickly.
The words felt hollow even as they left his mouth. He tried to project the confidence expected of him, to stand a little taller, even though his knees didn't quite agree with the performance. The truth was, he didn't know what lay ahead. But there was no time left to hesitate. The mission had already begun.
"Excellent," Sarah said, her voice brimming with unmistakable confidence. A wide grin stretched across her face, and her eyes sparkled with a dangerous mixture of excitement and barely restrained mischief.
"The main event simply cannot commence without its star, now can it?" she added, stepping aside with a mockingly grand gesture toward the waiting aircraft. "So, hop on into your slightly less-than-glamorous chariot, and let's get this potentially world-saving show on the road!"
Sawyer sighed audibly, rubbing a hand down his face, the palm slick with nervous sweat. His heart was pounding harder now, louder than the whine of turbines echoing across the tarmac.
"One more 'buttercake' or 'star of the show' comment," he muttered under his breath, casting a sideways glance in Sarah's direction, "and I swear I might just consider taking my chances with a leisurely stroll across the scorching desert."
The sarcasm in his voice was a thin veil. Underneath it, the apprehension was raw, gnawing steadily at the edge of his thoughts. Every step he took toward the aircraft felt heavier than the last—like wading through wet cement. The kind of heaviness that didn't come from the weight of his boots or gear, but from the cold knowledge that he was walking toward something entirely unpredictable. Something real. And possibly fatal.
The sharp scent of fuel hung thick in the air, mixing with the dry, dusty wind that whipped across the open runway. Behind the aircraft, loading crews barked orders and moved with sharp, mechanical precision, their movements a practiced dance within the chaos.
From a short distance away, near a cluster of transport crates, Sawyer caught sight of Joe waving. The older man's arm moved with enthusiasm, his trademark grin wide and sincere, his posture relaxed in a way that made Sawyer irrationally envious.
He raised a hand in return, the gesture half-hearted, almost distracted. Through the gusts of wind and the low, vibrating thunder of engines, he thought he heard Joe shout something—"Good luck, kid!"—but the words dissolved before they reached him.
Sawyer gave a tight nod and turned away.
Climbing the steep, narrow steps of the aircraft was more awkward than it should've been. His legs didn't want to cooperate; his knees were stiff, his movements uncertain. Every rung brought him closer to a moment he couldn't delay any longer.
The interior of the transport plane swallowed him in an instant—vast, metallic, and impersonal. The air was cooler inside, but it did nothing to ease the heat crawling beneath his skin.
He paused at the top of the stairs, casting one last glance behind him. The airfield looked like a movie set from up here—people in motion, planes poised to take off, the sun burning gold across the sky. And yet, nothing about it felt safe.
The moment his boots hit the floor inside the aircraft, it hit him—full force, like a punch to the chest. This was real. This wasn't a simulation or a training scenario. The Red Desert wasn't a map on a screen or a name in a briefing report anymore.
"I have a very, very strong feeling," he thought grimly to himself, fingers tightening reflexively around the strap of his bag, "that I'm going to need an absolutely monumental amount of luck to get through this in one piece."
******
Note:The Association of Anxious Saviors would like to remind all members that while looking stylish during a potential world-ending event is admirable, it does not, in fact, provide any actual protection against interdimensional gate malfunctions or grumpy desert trolls. Prioritize survival. Maybe pack a spare pair of less conspicuous socks, just in case.