Outer Colony – Bastion 12
UCIC Combat Zone – "Glassen Ravine"
Planet: Kharon III
Status: Nest Proximity Confirmed
---
The Wardrail shuddered as it slammed over a jagged ridge, the treads grinding against loose stone, hover skirt hissing with pressure equalization. Inside, the air was stale with recycled oxygen and the faint chemical tang of disinfectant gel. The walls vibrated with every bump. Racks of weapons lined the left side, sealed and labeled. Foam-padded benches bolted to the floor held fifteen UCIC soldiers, strapped in and braced for drop.
No one spoke.
Only the low mechanical hum of the Bastion-997 filled the compartment — and the sharp click of armor plates as soldiers checked each other's Lineward gear.
Israel Johnson sat third row, left side, cradling his Harrow against his chest like it could protect him from what was waiting outside. He stared at the floor between his boots, bouncing slightly with the vehicle's rhythm.
His helmet rested between his feet. His hands were sweating.
Across from him, Isaiah tapped a rhythm on his knee plate with one finger. His helmet was already on — HUD active, soft blue glow illuminating the edge of his jaw through the visor.
"You good?" Isaiah finally asked.
Israel didn't look up. "Define 'good.'"
"I mean... not throwing up like the last time."
"That was a training sim."
"And it still smelled like real bile, bro."
Israel managed a weak smirk, but it didn't last. The Harrow in his lap felt heavier than usual. Or maybe he just felt smaller.
---
Sgt. Carl Jenkins stood near the door, one hand on the overhead support bar, the other clutching his Baradiel helmet at his side. His exo-frame was sealed from the neck down — massive plates of composite armor locking around him like a personal tank. Scar over his right eye made his expression seem permanently grim.
"All UCIC— lock plates, check seals, verify HUD sync now. You got sixty seconds before boots hit soil."
Armor hissed around the cabin as everyone ran quick diagnostics.
HUDs flared to life. Vitals synced. Names and roles popped into the corner of each soldier's vision.
> UCIC SQUAD – HADES 3
Status: ACTIVE | Suit Support En Route
---
"Gideon's not in yet?" Isaiah asked.
"Thaumiel's out for maintenance," Jenkins muttered, adjusting a magnetic clamp on his arm. "So that leaves us with just me."
"Baradiel only?" Israel frowned. "No recon? No tech?"
"We're covering a dead zone. Nest's small. Mostly hatchlings and adolescent types. Nothing your rifles can't handle. Command says it's a sweep."
Israel didn't trust the word sweep anymore. Every time someone said it, someone bled out.
---
CLERK Mk.II, the Wardrail's onboard AI, spoke in a flat, unfeeling tone through the cabin's intercom:
> "ETA: 42 seconds.
Atmospheric conditions: dry. Wind minimal.
Terrain: rocky slope with limited cover.
Heat signatures ahead indicate biological presence.
Risk assessment: moderate."
> "Reminders: Lineward suits will withstand one direct strike to the chest. Do not test this."
Isaiah snorted. "Gotta love that optimism."
---
The rear door groaned and began to lower, light pouring into the dim hold. Dust swirled as the Bastion's internal fans kicked up grime from the ravine. Wind gusted once — then stilled.
Outside: jagged cliffs, bone-white rock, and something moving across the ridgeline. Just a shadow. Just for a second.
"Let's go!" Jenkins roared, slamming his helmet into place as the Baradiel exo-frame fully locked down. Motors whined. Power surged. He stepped out first — every footfall a small quake.
Israel exhaled, grabbed his helmet, and shoved it on. The HUD flickered to life — comms synced, vitals green, ammo at full.
Isaiah clapped him on the shoulder. "Let's kill something ugly."
"Let's not die trying."
They ran out together.
---
The ravine stank of rot and iron.
Not the kind of rot from decay, but something fresher — hot, wet, alive. It coated the back of Israel's throat through his helmet's filter. The sun above was a dim smear behind the yellow clouds, and the light that made it through cast everything in a harsh, chalky glare.
Kharon III's atmosphere was breathable. Barely. The Lineward armor's seals filtered out most of the spores and grit, but it didn't stop the feeling that the whole planet was wrong.
No birds. No insects. No sound, except wind scraping over stone.
And now, movement.
"Contact, north ridge," came a voice over comms — one of the UCIC riflemen, deeper in the formation. "Hatchlings. Five or six. Maybe more."
Israel crouched behind a rock slab, peeking over his sights. He could just make them out — hunched, pale things crawling in staggered arcs. Four-limbed, sickly fast, their gait like a broken spider trying to run. Eyes weren't visible. Mouths were.
Too many teeth.
"Don't fire yet," Jenkins ordered. His Baradiel frame clanked as he took position at the squad's front, shielding the advance. "Let them get closer. We drop them in the kill zone."
"They've already seen us," Isaiah said, checking the mag on his Harrow. "Not exactly subtle with a giant mech stomping around."
"Exactly why they'll charge," Jenkins replied. "And when they do, we make 'em regret evolving ears."
---
The hatchlings didn't hesitate.
One let out a shriek — sharp and high, like a saw biting metal — and the others followed, bolting straight down the ridge with reckless speed. Dust plumed behind them as claws dug into the slope.
Israel's breathing slowed.
You trained for this. You practiced. You survived sims. You passed the neural scan. You're not gonna freeze now.
Crosshairs settled. His finger tensed on the trigger.
Then—
> "Weapons free," Jenkins called.
---
The ravine exploded with light and sound.
Harrow rifles barked in bursts, controlled and brutal. The recoil slammed against Israel's shoulder, his HUD tagging each confirmed impact with small white dots.
One hatchling dropped immediately — a clean burst to the chest caving in its sternum. Another staggered when Isaiah's rounds shredded its foreleg, tumbling into the dust where a nearby UCIC soldier finished it off with a vibro-blade jab to the neck.
The rest didn't even flinch.
"They're adapting!" someone shouted.
"No, they're not," Jenkins said. "They're just not scared."
One lunged.
Baradiel met it head-on — a thunderous crunch as Jenkins shoulder-slammed it mid-pounce. The exo-frame's weight sent the thing skidding ten meters into a stone outcrop, where it twitched twice and didn't get up.
Israel saw another D-Born sprinting at full tilt on the right flank. Its legs moved in a blur. He didn't have time to think — just reflex.
Three-round burst. Two missed.
One hit.
Not center mass — lower jaw. The impact snapped its head sideways mid-lunge, just enough for Isaiah to drop it with a second volley.
"Nice shot, Izzy!" Isaiah shouted, already pivoting to cover the rear.
"I missed two out of three—"
"Doesn't matter if the third hits the brain stem."
---
The last hatchling made it through the line — smaller, faster, weaving between the rifle fire. It scrambled over the corpse of another, leapt high, claws aimed straight for one of the backline riflemen—
—and vanished in a mist of black and bone.
Jenkins had thrown a C.V.B. Mk.II — the squad's combat vibro-blade — straight through its side. The blade was still humming, pulsing deep in the creature's ribs where it had landed. Jenkins retrieved it without a word.
"Five down," Israel panted.
"Six," Jenkins corrected. "Seventh never made it past the ridge."
He turned toward the rest of the squad. "That was just the vanguard."
---
CLERK Mk.II chimed in again.
> "Incoming heat signatures detected.
Estimated size: adolescent.
Quantity: unknown.
Direction: subterranean vector — possible tunnel breach."
Everyone tensed.
"Tunnel breach?" Isaiah said, reloading. "You mean they're coming from below?"
Israel felt it before he heard it — a deep tremor through the soles of his boots.
"Fan out," Jenkins ordered. "Form half-circle on me. Keep your eyes low. If they break surface, hit 'em while they're exposed."
The squad moved fast. They were well-drilled. UCIC grunts didn't survive long if they weren't.
Dust trickled from the cracks between rocks.
The ground shivered.
And then it burst open.
---
Four D-Borns erupted from beneath, flinging dirt and shattered stone as they burst free like bullets from a chamber. These weren't hatchlings. These were adolescents — nearly seven feet tall, black-green carapace thick, and mouths wide enough to bite a man in half.
The squad fired.
The D-Borns didn't stop.
---
The first adolescent hit the ground running — claws digging in for traction, black saliva trailing from its mouth as it barreled toward the closest UCIC rifleman.
Private Leena Harrow barely had time to pivot.
"Left flank, MOVE!" Jenkins bellowed, surging forward in Baradiel.
Israel watched in horror as the creature closed the distance in two seconds flat. Its mass was impossible for something moving that fast — it should've been clumsy. It wasn't. It was all motion, muscle, and murder.
Leena got off a single burst. It hit the chest and ricocheted. Useless.
The D-Born lunged.
WHAM.
Jenkins caught it mid-air with a gauntleted fist to the sternum, his Baradiel exo-frame absorbing the full brunt of the impact. The force sent tremors through the soil. The D-Born hissed, lashing out with both claws, carving deep gouges into the side of Jenkins' shoulder plate — but the armor held.
He grabbed it by the throat and slammed it headfirst into the stone until it stopped moving.
Blood sprayed. Bone cracked. Israel felt it in his chest through the comm static.
"NEXT!" Jenkins roared, already spinning to meet the second.
---
The others weren't idle.
Two more D-Borns came from the rear, forcing the UCIC squad to split attention. Israel dropped to a crouch, bracing against a rock, Harrow rifle tucked into his shoulder. His hands weren't shaking. Not anymore.
He fired.
Three rounds into the kneecap of the closest one — a soft joint. Armor-piercing.
It stumbled. Isaiah was already behind it, slamming his incendiary canister into the creature's open flank and pulling the igniter.
FWOOM.
It went up in shrieks and flame. The heat wave washed across Israel's visor, flaring his HUD for a second.
The smell was worse. Burning keratin and blood.
---
The last one reached the squad perimeter — moving faster than anything that size had a right to. Its jaws unhinged mid-run, revealing rows of twitching, blackened teeth. A UCIC soldier named Mendez stood his ground.
Too long.
The thing hit him like a truck, driving him backward into the ravine wall with a wet crunch. His armor held… for half a second.
Then it collapsed inward with a metallic scream. The D-Born pinned him and began to tear. Israel heard it all — the gurgling, the coughing, the bone snapping beneath flesh.
Mendez's vitals flatlined on HUD.
---
"FOCUS FIRE!" Jenkins barked. "Get that thing off him!"
Three rifles opened up. The Harrow's 6.8mm rounds punched through the creature's exposed back. Blood sprayed — thick, tar-like. It didn't stop. It just turned, bloodied and breathing like a wild animal, its chest heaving as it scanned for the next target.
Jenkins moved to intercept — but too slow.
That's when Israel saw it. The creature's left arm — thicker than the others. Swollen. Mutated. Like a blade of natural armor wrapped around dense muscle.
This one had been growing longer than the rest.
---
"Alpha candidate," Israel whispered into the mic.
Jenkins heard him. "Not enough growth. Just a rogue. Stay in formation!"
The D-Born screeched — low and guttural — and charged.
---
This time, it aimed straight for Israel.
---
He raised his rifle, finger on the trigger — but the thing was already in motion. It bounded forward, using the corpse of another D-Born as a launch pad. Dirt and bone exploded from the impact. Israel flinched back instinctively—
A blur passed in front of him.
Isaiah.
He tackled Israel sideways just as the thing's claws raked the space where his head had been. The Lineward armor screamed from the glancing hit, sparks flying as the two brothers slammed into the dust.
"Izzy! Get up—!" Isaiah shouted, already turning with his pistol raised.
Too late.
---
The creature was on top of them.
It raised its bladed arm to strike down—
And Jenkins crashed into it from the side, shoulder-first, driving the beast into a nearby rock outcrop. The stone cracked. So did the creature's ribs.
Jenkins didn't stop. He lifted the D-Born by the neck with one arm, slammed it down, and used his boot to pin it while he plunged his vibro-blade through its eye socket.
It stopped moving.
Just like that, the dust began to settle.
---
Silence, broken only by the wind scraping over rock.
Eight D-Borns lay dead.
One UCIC soldier didn't get back up.
Mendez's name blinked red on the squad roster.
---
Jenkins knelt beside him.
Removed the helmet.
Closed his eyes.
Then stood.
"Pull the body. Tag it for evac. We'll send him home clean."
---
Israel sat against a rock, catching his breath. Isaiah beside him, helmet off, sweat dripping down the side of his face.
"You alright?" his brother asked.
Israel nodded slowly. "Yeah. You?"
"Better than Mendez."
They didn't speak for a while after that.
---
> CLERK Mk.II:
"Area secure. No further heat signatures detected.
Nest proximity: 940 meters.
Estimated composition: adolescent-heavy, Praetor unknown."
---
Jenkins looked toward the ridge. "Mount up. We're finishing the sweep. You want to live through this war, you don't stop moving."
No one argued.
The nest was close now.
And whatever guarded it... wasn't going to be hatchlings.
---
940 meters.
That's what the HUD read.
Distance to the nest — straight-line, no frills.
The reality was worse.
The terrain between Hades 3 and the hive wasn't flat or clean. It was a broken mess of fractured stone, sun-bleached bones, and ribbed stalks of bio-organic residue half-fused to the ground — the kind of stuff that didn't come from any human process. It oozed in spots. Shifted in others. Israel didn't like looking at it too long. His visor kept glitching at the edges when he did.
They moved cautiously, eyes scanning every crevice, guns raised. Even Jenkins stayed slow, Baradiel's heavy boots crunching over the red-tinged gravel with deliberate weight.
Mendez's body was sealed in a black evac shroud, strapped to the back of the squad's cargo sled. The weight dragged behind them, silent but undeniable.
No one spoke.
Even Isaiah kept his thoughts to himself now.
---
They reached a natural chokepoint — a stone arch half-collapsed into a narrow pass, only wide enough for one at a time. The rock around it was jagged, flecked with what looked like black fungal growth. Vines? No. Veins. Some of them throbbed.
"Biostructure?" Isaiah asked, aiming his rifle at the rock. "You seeing this?"
"Confirmed," Jenkins said. "Nest perimeter markers. We're in it now."
Israel's stomach tightened.
---
> CLERK Mk.II:
"Toxic spore levels rising. Seals advised. Minimal exposure duration recommended."
Helmet seals hissed. Filters clicked active.
The squad stepped through the arch.
---
The temperature dropped instantly.
No sunlight reached here. The cliffs formed a natural shadow. And beneath that shadow… was the nest.
It pulsed.
A sprawling, tumor-like growth of resin, bone, and muscle fused into the ravine wall. Multiple entrances — none of them natural. One looked like a jagged mouth. Another had a membrane-like layer stretched taut across it, veins twitching just under the surface.
There were no guards outside.
Which was worse than having them.
---
Jenkins raised a fist. The squad halted.
"Weapons hot. No grenades. This place breathes gas."
Israel adjusted his grip. His Harrow felt suddenly inadequate.
"They watching us?" Isaiah muttered.
"They always are," Jenkins replied. "They just don't care until you step too close."
He scanned the nest perimeter, then pointed to a shallow incline on the left.
"Standard breach pattern. I'll lead. Izzy and Isaiah— rear flank. Move with intent. We breach, we sweep, we burn. You see red-shell movement, call it. Praetors don't yell when they kill. They just do."
---
Twenty meters out.
The resin beneath their feet started to flex slightly underfoot. Like stepping on muscle.
Ten meters.
A faint hum now. Not mechanical. Biological.
Five.
---
CLERK Mk.II:
> "Motion detected. Inner cavity. Large mass. Estimated height: 10 feet.
Heartbeat signature suggests low aggression.
Radii trigger zone: 15 feet."
Everyone stopped at once.
Jenkins didn't move. Neither did the squad.
Then a new sound emerged — soft at first, almost subtle.
A slow, wet click-click-click.
Then breathing. Deep. Controlled.
Red eyes opened in the dark.
---
And out stepped the Praetor.
---
Ten feet tall.
Blood-red armor plating across a matte black underbody, smooth like obsidian and slick with biofluid. Its head was low, slightly hunched, limbs coiled like springs. Two massive claws rested at its sides, motionless.
It didn't roar.
It didn't charge.
It just stood between them and the nest.
Watching.
---
Nobody fired.
Not yet.
The Praetor didn't move — not even when Jenkins took a single step forward.
"Fifteen-foot rule," he murmured into comms.
"Yeah, I know," Isaiah said, keeping his rifle on the thing's legs. "I'm just saying, we can see it. Shouldn't we light it up now?"
"It hasn't attacked."
"So?!"
"So if we miss the kill," Jenkins said, "we're not surviving the response."
---
The Praetor shifted slightly, adjusting its stance.
Every gun snapped tighter onto it.
Israel's heart was pounding. Sweat rolled down his spine inside the armor. One wrong twitch. That's all it would take.
Then the resin wall behind the Praetor pulsed.
And a new sound joined the air.
Egg sacs. Hatching.
---
"Command," Jenkins said through long-range. "This is Hades 3. Nest is confirmed active. Praetor on-site. Hatchlings birthing now. Requesting immediate support—"
> CLERK Mk.II:
"Signal jamming initiated. Neural spectrum interference detected. Uplink lost."
"Goddamn it," Jenkins muttered.
"Orders?" Israel whispered.
"We don't get a choice," Jenkins replied. He lifted his vibro-blade and pointed it straight at the nest.
"Line up. Light this thing the fuck up."
---
The instant Jenkins gave the order, the nest came alive.
The walls pulsed violently — membranes stretching, bursting, releasing hatchlings in clusters of four to five. They tumbled out like spiders from a split egg, each one shrieking in sharp, chittering pulses.
The ground flexed beneath the squad's boots.
Israel opened fire first.
His burst cut through two hatchlings mid-sprint, the Harrow barking tight three-round groups. One hit square in the mouth. The other took rounds to the shoulder and kept moving—until Isaiah put one in its side with his own rifle.
The squad fanned out into formation.
Jenkins surged forward, Baradiel frame cleaving into the left flank of the nest. His vibro-blade hummed like a chainsaw. One hatchling lunged—
WHAM — the blade split it from neck to sternum.
The others didn't hesitate.
---
The Praetor moved.
Not fast.
Not yet.
It stepped forward — one claw lifted, the other dragging, casual and deliberate. No fear. No rush.
Its eyes never left the squad.
As hatchlings poured from the walls, it simply watched.
---
"Form wedge!" Jenkins shouted. "Isaiah, Izzy—cut down anything that gets too close. Keep distance from the Praetor. Do not break the 15."
"You think it's waiting?" Israel said between bursts.
Isaiah fired, then replied: "It's measuring us."
---
Hatchlings flooded the ravine — nearly twenty, maybe more. It was hard to count in motion. They were fast. Too fast for normal formations. But UCIC had trained for this.
Leena and the others pulled tight into the wedge, using Jenkins' Baradiel as a mobile wall while firing over and around him. The Harrow rifles flared hot. Shell casings bounced off rocks. Muzzle flashes illuminated resin-coated walls in stuttering intervals.
Israel dropped three more. Center mass. He aimed for the softer joints now — elbows, hips, underarms. He was adjusting.
Becoming efficient.
That scared him more than the hatchlings did.
---
Then one of them exploded.
Fire and black ichor burst outward from its chest. Everyone ducked.
"What the hell was that?!" Isaiah shouted, wiping viscera off his visor.
"Explosive vest," Leena said through gritted teeth. "They're evolving tactics."
"No. We're seeing old ones," Jenkins corrected. "This nest isn't new."
---
The Praetor shifted again.
Only a few meters out now.
Still not attacking.
Still testing.
---
"Jenkins," Israel said. "It's moving in on us."
"It's holding the line," Jenkins answered. "It's guarding the hatchery. It'll attack once we cross the—"
Israel stepped forward.
One foot.
Onto the bio-resin threshold.
Fourteen-point-nine feet.
---
The Praetor's head tilted.
Then it charged.
---
Everything happened in a blur.
It didn't roar.
It didn't posture.
It launched.
Straight at Israel — claws down, knees bent, jaws wide.
Israel fired mid-run.
The bullets sparked harmlessly off its red shell.
"IZZY—!" Isaiah screamed, lunging sideways again, trying to drag his brother clear.
But the Praetor was faster this time.
---
BOOM.
The whole nest entrance shook as Jenkins intercepted — shoulder-first, slamming into the Praetor's left flank like a tank. Sparks erupted as shell met exo-armor.
The force sent both crashing into a stone pillar, pulverizing it.
Dust. Screams. Fire.
Israel blinked, disoriented.
"Jenkins—!"
The Baradiel was already rising. Jenkins' breathing was ragged through comms.
"I'm fine," he growled. "But this thing hits harder than it looks."
The Praetor stumbled once — then locked eyes with Jenkins.
No hesitation this time.
It charged again.
---
The squad scrambled.
Isaiah dragged Israel behind cover. "That thing's not a scout. It's a reaper."
Leena and two others opened fire from the far ridge, targeting its exposed legs. The Praetor took hits — one round found soft tissue at the inner thigh — but it didn't care. It kept coming, shrugging off damage like it was shedding skin.
---
Jenkins raised his blade, bracing.
The Praetor faked high—
Then dove low, claws scything through rock and catching Jenkins mid-kneel.
Metal screeched.
The Baradiel's left leg buckled.
"Armor breach!" Jenkins roared. "Left knee's gone!"
"Get him out—!" Israel shouted.
"Negative!" Jenkins barked. "I'm locking it down here!"
---
The Praetor climbed onto the exo-frame, slamming into Jenkins' chestplate again and again. Sparks flew. The vibro-blade flashed once—
The Praetor caught it mid-swing.
And snapped it.
---
It was about to finish him.
Until something slammed into the Praetor's side — an HE grenade.
Boom.
The detonation blew the Praetor off Jenkins, sending it skidding backward, one arm scorched and twitching.
"NOW!" Jenkins shouted. "Burn this bitch down!"
---
The squad let loose.
Full barrage.
Rounds. Canisters. Flames.
A coordinated burst of human defiance in the face of a perfect killer.
---
The Praetor screeched for the first time — not in pain, but in frustration. It flung itself toward the nearest exit, dragging its damaged limb, its body crackling with heat.
"IT'S RETREATING!" Leena shouted.
"LET IT!" Jenkins growled. "We're not equipped to finish it!"
---
As the Praetor vanished into the dark of the nest, the hatchlings scattered — shrieking in terror. The hive pulsed erratically. The walls began to spasm. A low rumble vibrated through the rock.
---
> CLERK Mk.II:
"Nest destabilizing. Evacuation recommended. Structural collapse imminent."
Jenkins' voice came in hoarse and low:
"Hades 3… fall back. We'll torch the remains from a distance. Leave the dead."
They didn't argue.
Not this time.
---
Extraction Zone – 3.5 km from Nest Site
Kharon III, Outlands Sector 7
Time Since Engagement: 2 hours, 14 minutes
---
The evac field was dead quiet except for the low hum of the Raptor VT-99 as it circled once overhead before dropping into a hover. The landing skids hissed when they hit the earth, pressurized seals snapping open as its rear bay extended with a hard clang.
Dust kicked up around the remaining members of Hades 3.
Israel's legs ached. His HUD kept flashing low hydration warnings. His armor had dried streaks of ichor sprayed across it, some of it still tacky. He ignored it.
Isaiah walked beside him, visor up, cradling his rifle across his chest with both arms. No swagger this time. No grin. Just silence.
Behind them, Jenkins limped forward in his damaged Baradiel Exo-Warframe, one arm locked across his chest and the shattered left leg dragging with a sharp screech. Sparks danced from exposed servos.
The Praetor had almost killed him.
Had they not tagged it with that final grenade…
No one said the words, but they all thought them.
---
"Get him aboard first!" Leena barked, waving over the med drone.
Two UCIC medics in full Lineward armor moved in sync, using a powered lift to load Jenkins and his exo-frame into the Raptor's secure hold. Foam-sealant hissed into the breach in his thigh as the Baradiel clicked into mag-locks on the floor.
"Vitals stable, but his left leg's trashed," one medic muttered. "We'll get it rebuilt."
"If I wake up with a new limb and a civilian tag, I'm putting you through the bulkhead," Jenkins rasped, lips cracked.
Israel actually chuckled under his breath. It didn't last long.
---
As the Raptor doors sealed and pressure equalized, CLERK Mk.IV — the onboard AI — spoke softly through cabin speakers:
> "Tactical withdrawal acknowledged.
Confirmed D-Born Nest presence: Category Red.
Praetor identified.
UCIC Hades 3: one KIA, one WIA.
Commencing return to FOB: Gorgon Point."
---
They lifted off seconds later, turbines screaming against the wind.
Through the slotted side panels, Israel could see the plume of smoke rising from the ravine they'd left behind. Flame was still spreading along the outer resin wall. Whether it would take the nest down was unclear.
But the Praetor was still alive.
---
Back at Gorgon Point — Forward Operating Base
Three hours later
---
The medical bay smelled like antiseptic and ozone.
Jenkins lay on a reinforced gurney, armor peeled open around the damaged limb. The medics had already removed the leg below the knee. Cybernetic anchors were being fitted. He didn't seem to care.
He was awake, helmet off, scarred face still and expression unreadable.
Israel and Isaiah sat nearby. Helmets off, Harrows racked. They'd been debriefed once. A second round was coming.
Everyone knew what was coming next.
---
A holopad near the bed flickered.
A symbol appeared — the black eagle of the United Coalition Command — followed by a voice filtered through heavy distortion.
> "Sergeant Jenkins. Squad Hades 3.
This is Command Directive Black Echo. Your encounter with the Praetor has triggered escalation protocol."
Jenkins didn't blink.
> "Confirmed."
> "The nest was not marked high-risk. Why was a Praetor present?"
"Unknown. It was guarding hatcheries. Showing restraint until we entered proximity."
> "You say it retreated?"
Jenkins nodded. "Tactical withdrawal. It recognized threat. Responded with control. That wasn't an animal. That was a soldier."
> "...Understood."
---
The holopad clicked.
A new figure replaced the previous — this one in full command regalia, face visible but severe. Rear Admiral Yara Voss, head of Outer Colonies Conflict Oversight.
> "New orders are being prepared. Kharon III is being upgraded to Frontline Tier-2.
More UCIC assets are inbound, including a new Eidolon recon frame. You'll be receiving additional support."
"Understood."
> "And Sergeant—your squad engaged and survived a Praetor. That means you're either very lucky, or very good. Either way…"
She leaned closer into the feed.
> "…you're not done."
The feed cut.
---
Outside, a soft rain began to fall — acrid and cold.
The kind of rain that came with nests nearby. Tainted by airborne spores and filtered through poisoned clouds.
Inside the tent, Israel turned to Isaiah.
"Do you think we made a difference today?"
Isaiah stared ahead, quiet.
Then said, "I think we pissed off the wrong one."
---
FOB Gorgon Point – Eastern Landing Pad
Three Days Later
---
The storm hadn't let up.
Kharon III's rain came down in chemical sheets, streaking against every surface and hissing wherever it met exposed metal. The Lineward armor's visor automatically filtered out the downpour, but it couldn't mask the smell — sulfuric, electrical, and bitter. Like ozone and rot fighting over dominance.
Israel stood beneath a partial awning at the edge of the landing zone, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the sky.
He could hear them before he saw them.
Engines. Big ones.
A new shape breached the clouds — broad wings, angled turbines, a predatory silhouette carving across the low fog.
Raptor-class VT-99. But this one wasn't standard.
It was marked in black and steel blue, larger than any of the previous models they'd seen deployed. The tail boom bore a custom sigil — an open eye with a vertical blade down the center.
"Looks like we got upgraded company," Isaiah muttered, stepping up beside his brother.
The VTOL rotated, dipped, then hovered into a controlled descent. Landing gears flared open, slamming into the permacrete hard enough to rattle loose bolts in the overhang above.
When the bay ramp dropped, four figures stepped out.
---
Suit Users.
Not just UCIC grunts. These were Exo-Warframe pilots.
The first was lean, sharp-shouldered, and wore the white-and-black armor of Eidolon — the recon frame. Unlike Jenkins' heavy Baradiel, this one was streamlined, its limbs layered in reinforced fiber, tech ports glowing faintly blue along the spine and helmet rim.
The helmet visor was a smooth black T-shape, flanked by two small drone ports.
The pilot stopped just before reaching the ground, crouched, and leapt — landing in perfect silence.
The second figure wore a matte green variant of Gideon, compact and rugged, utility pouches strapped across the thighs. The suit bore slight damage — one pauldron was mismatched, old battlefield scoring visible.
The third… was a Thaumiel.
Sleek obsidian, plated like armor forged from scorched glass, with a single horizontal crimson visor that pulsed faintly.
Israel had never seen a Thaumiel in person.
He swallowed instinctively.
The fourth? A UCIC Lineward captain — unarmored, but scarred and grizzled, with a relay uplink on his shoulder and twin pistols strapped crosswise at his back.
---
They approached without ceremony.
The captain was the first to speak. His voice was deep, measured.
"Lieutenant-Colonel Hadrian Locke, Special Recon Detachment. I'm assuming command of the Kharon theater effective immediately."
Jenkins, now upright on a cybernetic brace, stepped out from the med bay's rear ramp, still partially armored in Baradiel's chestplate. He didn't salute.
"Sergeant Jenkins, Hades 3. We'll cooperate."
Locke nodded. "Good. I'm not here to micromanage. I'm here to kill nests. I've read your report. You tangled with a Praetor and lived. That's not normal."
"No," Jenkins said. "It's not."
---
The Eidolon pilot stepped forward. Their voice came filtered through a sleek, modulated tone — genderless and professional.
"Designation: Echo. Eidolon FRAME, Mk.X. Recon, infiltration, electronic warfare."
"Neural sync ratio?" Isaiah asked, half-sarcastic.
"98.7%," Echo replied.
"Damn."
"You're rookies," Echo continued, glancing over Israel and Isaiah. "And you're still alive. That means something."
"Means they learn fast," Jenkins said.
---
Locke spoke again.
"You've held the line here longer than most. But the game's changed. Command has authorized use of high-yield incineration. Any nest located is to be marked for orbital strike if unable to breach within 12 hours."
He looked toward the sky.
"But orbital assets are stretched thin. We're one of seven active Praetor sightings across the Outer Colonies."
"Seven?" Israel said. "I thought we were the first."
"No," Locke replied. "You were just the first to survive."
---
Inside the command tent, the new ops table flickered to life.
Dozens of red markers blinked across a 3D map of the outer rim — nest activity rising across nearly a dozen colonies. Several marked "Silent Sectors" — zones where entire populations had gone dark with no warning.
And one of them…
…had a signal attached. A faint ping. Classified.
Gideon's pilot stepped forward. She tapped the edge of the signal.
"That's Sargasso Station," she said. "Old R&D outpost. Lost contact six months ago. UCIC wrote it off."
Jenkins frowned. "Wasn't that where—"
"—the anti-D-Borne weapons were prototyped?" Echo finished. "Yes."
---
Locke looked around the room.
"We leave for Sargasso in 72 hours. Eidolon goes in first. Then Gideon. If it's salvageable, we recover blueprints and rearm the war effort. If it's overrun… we burn it."
"Sounds like a suicide run," Isaiah muttered.
Echo turned slightly. "Only if you don't run fast enough."
---
Outside, the storm intensified.
Inside, plans were forming.
And far away, something massive stirred beneath a rust-colored moon.
---
FOB Gorgon Point – Tactical Briefing Room
T-minus 48 hours to Operation Sargasso
---
The lights dimmed.
A holographic projector in the center of the table snapped to life, casting a faint blue shimmer across the hardened plastisteel walls. Everyone present had shed their helmets — even Jenkins, who sat with his arms crossed, expression cold and unreadable.
At the center of the display hovered a schematic of a large derelict facility: Sargasso Station. An R&D outpost located on the storm-wracked moon of Tarnis IV — one of the outermost colonies lost during the first wave of D-Born expansion.
"Lost" was a polite word. What really happened was no one came back.
---
"Four decks," Echo said, voice level and clinical. "Primary foundry on Sublevel 2, neural labs above. Exterior defense grid is inactive. Internal power reads intermittent. Last signal was six months ago."
Locke stood at the head of the table, pointer in hand, stubble shadowing his jaw. "Whatever killed contact did it fast. Command red-listed this place, but someone higher up flagged it last week when a data burst leaked from the comms relay buried under two miles of ash."
He tapped the blinking icon.
"Sargasso might still have operational tech. Weapons. Blueprints. Things Command tried to keep buried when the war began."
Jenkins spoke up, voice low.
"You're talking about the Sargasso Arsenal."
Locke gave a slow nod. "That's right."
---
Israel leaned forward slightly, eyes scanning the floor plans.
"I thought the suits already used the arsenal?"
"They do," Echo said. "But only a fraction. Command pulled what they could carry. Sargasso was mid-development on Tier-3 Anti-D-Borne weapons — high-yield plasma, neural-disruptors, spore-resonance charges. Most were still in prototype phase when the D-Borns showed up."
"And if any of them survived," Jenkins said, "they could turn the tide."
"If," Echo agreed.
---
Silence settled over the group for a moment.
Then Isaiah asked the unspoken question.
"Why didn't Command go back before now?"
Echo and Locke shared a look.
Then Locke answered.
"Because they were scared of what they left behind."
---
Gideon's pilot — a woman with cropped black hair and a burnt sleeve tattoo of the old Earth Defense Corps — spoke up next.
"Reports from Sargasso during the last days mentioned internal sabotage. Not just D-Borns. Dissidents. Cultists. Research staff gone rogue. There's evidence someone tried to transmit classified blueprints off-world."
Jenkins raised an eyebrow. "You're saying they wanted the weapons to fall into enemy hands?"
"No," she replied. "I'm saying they wanted everyone to have them. Even if that meant losing control."
---
> CLERK Mk.IV Tactical Alert:
"Preliminary forecast for Tarnis IV: high radiation storms, limited atmospheric filtration, intermittent blackout zones.
Exo-Warframes required for operational entry.
Estimated success rate of mission: 43.2%."
Isaiah let out a slow whistle. "Not great odds."
"You're not being sent to win," Locke said flatly. "You're being sent to open the door. Get us a foothold. That's all."
---
Outside the briefing room, prep teams were already hard at work.
Crates of resupplied Lineward armor — including urban-gray camo variants — were stacked against the bay walls. Fire-retardant foam, anti-spore filters, and med foam cartridges were triple-checked. A UCIC maintenance team ran diagnostics on Echo's Eidolon frame, which crouched motionless in the cradle like a sleeping panther.
Gideon's user — name tag reading "Hale, C." — quietly swapped her blade module for an autowelder and a neural probe.
Meanwhile, Baradiel sat dormant in the repair bay, its new leg still being press-fit into place by two mech-engineers using exo-lifts.
---
Israel watched it all from a distance.
He couldn't shake the feeling they were preparing for something worse than what the briefing suggested. Tarnis IV had gone silent. And whatever made it go silent had the power to shut down a full-scale war lab.
Isaiah nudged him.
"You thinking about what's waiting down there?"
"I'm thinking," Israel said quietly, "about what didn't leave."
---
Deep in the bay, the Raptor VT-99 assigned to Sargasso sat humming in its hangar slot — its hull still scorched from a recent run, its forward weapons wiped clean and reloaded.
Its serial number read:
WARBRD-17
Its nickname stenciled under the cockpit glass in faded paint:
"Glasswing."
---
UCIC Raptor VT-99 "Glasswing"
En route to Tarnis IV – 02:43 UCT
---
Turbulence rocked the cabin, rattling the crash bars and humming through the mag-locked boots of every soldier onboard.
The Glasswing wasn't subtle.
Its extended-assault frame was packed with heat-sinked plating, redundant boosters, and retrofitted spore-scrubbers that screamed under stress. Through the small side window, Israel could barely make out the blood-orange clouds of Tarnis IV gathering below like an open wound in the atmosphere.
The moon spun slow. Its surface was fractured, dry—marked by scars from old colony efforts and deep fault lines likely made worse by orbital bombardments from early war attempts.
Whatever it used to be, it wasn't habitable now.
---
"Final approach in ninety," called the pilot from the comms deck.
> CLERK Mk.IV (Glasswing Flight Core):
"Atmospheric entry vector locked. Radiation threshold nominal. Exterior hull coating at 92%. Wind shear within acceptable variance."
"Comforting," Isaiah muttered, tightening his harness.
"Keep your helmet sealed this time," Israel replied, checking his Harrow's breach loader. "Last run, you nearly choked on that spore cloud."
"I got excited."
"You almost died."
---
Jenkins sat near the rear bulkhead, helmet in his lap, new prosthetic knee locked into Baradiel's exo-harness. He wasn't speaking much. The new leg was still giving him trouble, and the flight turbulence didn't help.
Leena sat across from him, quietly calibrating her rifle scope. Nearby, Gideon's pilot — Hale — methodically went over the loadout stored in the thigh compartments of her suit. She said nothing, but the way she handled the tools suggested a ritual more than a routine.
Echo, as always, was silent. Their helmet never came off, visor still pulsing with soft blue light in sync with the faint drone of the frame's neural circuits.
---
Locke stood near the forward door, hands braced on the frame. He turned to face the cabin.
"Alright, listen up."
Every head turned.
"Mission is three-tiered.
Tier 1: Entry and perimeter breach. Eidolon scouts first. Clear outer deck corridors.
Tier 2: Gideon initiates relay scan and opens foundry access. Secondary support team provides cover.
Tier 3: If the foundry is intact, we extract core drives. If compromised, we sabotage remaining tech and collapse the bay."
He paused.
"If the place is overrun, you don't try to hold. You don't become a hero. You call for burn, and you fall back to the Glasswing. We'll torch the entire station from orbit."
---
"Any chance it's just empty?" Isaiah asked.
Echo spoke, voice as smooth as ever.
"If it were empty, the doors would still be open."
---
Atmospheric Entry
Tarnis IV – 02:57 UCT
---
The heat shielding kicked in hard.
Exterior armor plating turned bright orange from friction. The sky outside the windows blurred into a rushing red smear. The hull groaned from pressure, but the Raptor's inertial dampeners compensated.
> CLERK Mk.IV:
"Entry successful. No external breaches. Approach vector green. Deploy in T-minus 1 minute."
Echo rose from the bench. Hale followed. Jenkins stood with a wince, locking his chestplate in place. The others ran final checks.
Israel slid his helmet into place and sealed it with a hiss. HUD blinked once, then synced to Glasswing's tactical feed.
---
0:45 seconds.
Leena clipped her magline to the drop rail. "This reminds me of Deveros."
"That job went sideways in ten minutes," Jenkins grunted.
"Yeah. So don't let it remind you of Deveros," Isaiah added.
---
0:20 seconds.
The side ramp began to lower — not fully, just enough to reveal the swirling red-gray landscape below. Ash blew sideways in sweeping sheets. The sky overhead was a broken haze. Lightning flared in the distance, silent and ominous.
At the far edge of a broken cliffside, Sargasso Station loomed like a sunken cathedral — half-collapsed, metal ribs jutting from cracked concrete. The upper decks were intact but scorched. Antenna arrays hung limp. The air shimmered with heat from just below the surface.
Something pulsed beneath the rock.
---
> CLERK Mk.IV:
"Begin deployment."
---
The Eidolon was the first off the ramp.
It didn't jump. It fell.
Knees bent, arms tight, Echo dropped cleanly from the edge and disappeared into the fog, boots hitting rock with the grace of a shadow.
> Echo:
"I'm in. Perimeter stable. Movement inside."
Gideon dropped next, her landing rougher but no less confident.
Then the squad began to move.
One by one, boots hit dirt.
Baradiel hit last, landing with a deep thud, causing a shockwave of dust to ripple outward.
---
Sargasso had been silent for six months.
Now?
It was watching.
---
Tarnis IV – Sargasso Station Exterior
03:14 UCT
---
The entrance loomed ahead, half-collapsed and warped by heat — massive blast doors sealed shut and covered in black scorch marks. Dried blood and resin webbing decorated the ground like forgotten battle scars.
Echo crouched near the forward panel, fingers working across a rusted interface. Sparks flared, briefly illuminating a faded UCIC logo and a flickering terminal prompt.
> [ACCESS DENIED – BIOMETRIC OVERRIDE REQUIRED]
"They locked it hard," Echo muttered. "This isn't just a dead facility. Someone didn't want us getting in."
"Or getting out," Jenkins added darkly.
---
Hale stepped forward, unslung a neural probe, and jabbed it into the auxiliary port beneath the panel. Her Gideon suit began interfacing — running a silent handshake sequence.
Lines of foreign code scrolled across her HUD.
> [ERROR – INPUT CORRUPTED]
[WARNING: FILE "VEIL_PROTOCOL" DETECTED]
[…begin manual override?]
"Manual override initiated," she confirmed. "Give me a minute—this isn't UCIC standard security. It's been rewritten."
"Rewritten by who?" Israel asked.
No one answered.
---
03:17 UCT
The outer blast door groaned.
Then… it opened.
---
Inside: silence.
The air was thick and dry. Not spore-heavy — yet. But stale, wrong. The hallway ahead was lit by failing overheads, many shattered, wiring exposed. Signs of small-arms fire dotted the walls. Blood trails led inward and stopped abruptly.
A UCF flag hung limp and faded, melted at the edges.
---
> Echo:
"Movement ahead. Nothing confirmed yet. Thermal's unstable. Something's interfering."
> CLERK (Gideon interface):
"Localized static field detected. Source: Unidentified beacon, Sublevel 2.
Signal strength increasing."
---
The team moved in slowly, rifles raised.
Boots clicked on metal catwalks. Occasionally, Echo would stop, tilt their head slightly, then motion them forward.
They passed sealed labs, shattered glass, old test chambers. Inside one: the remnants of an exo-chassis, fused into the floor as if something melted through it.
Hale knelt near a locked console door.
"This lab was working on energy-stabilized ammunition. Look at the heat scoring."
"No bodies," Jenkins muttered. "No sign of a fight. Just… vanished."
---
03:24 UCT – Sublevel 2
---
The beacon was real.
It pulsed low and steady, buried in the center of what used to be a testing chamber.
A single console still glowed — blue, weak, but alive. And at its center was something the team didn't expect:
A helmet. Sleek. Matte gray. Inlaid with symbols that didn't match any known language. Its inner lining was pulsing with neural feedback.
Gideon's scanners went wild.
> CLERK:
"Unregistered Neural Signature Detected.
Classification: Unknown.
Compatible Interface: Present."
Echo tilted their head.
"That's not human tech."
---
Suddenly, the lights flickered.
Then—
> THUD.
From somewhere deep in the station. Heavy. Wet.
Followed by another.
Closer.
Everyone froze.
Echo's voice came low: "That's not static. That's a heartbeat."
---
The console flared.
Then spat out a data burst.
A full visual schematic of a weapon… one that wasn't in any UCIC database. It didn't resemble any of the twenty-three classified in the Sargasso Arsenal.
A new one.
A twenty-fourth.
---
"Take it," Jenkins said. "Now."
"I've got it," Hale replied, slotting it into her external drive.
Then—
Screech.
A sound unlike any they'd heard before.
It came from the vents.
High-pitched. Echoing. Clicking. Smart.
---
"OUT!" Jenkins barked. "We're not ready for this!"
Israel and Isaiah were already backing up, covering the corridor as Echo dropped a proximity charge near the console. Hale finished the transfer and sealed the casing.
The squad made it twenty feet before the corridor lights all cut out.
A hiss.
A shadow moved across the far wall — wrong in every way.
---
> CLERK:
"Entity Identified: Class Unknown.
Physical attributes match: Partial Alpha Dreadborne.
Defensive posture recommended."
---
"They're not supposed to be this deep!" Leena shouted.
"They're not supposed to be this smart," Jenkins shot back.
---
Then the wall exploded inward — and it came through.
Larger than a full-grown D-Born. Still growing.
Shell black like tar. Joints seething with heat. And eyes — too many of them — all focused on the one thing it shouldn't have been able to see:
The data core in Hale's hands.
---
"MOVE!" Jenkins yelled.
The team opened fire.
But even as rounds tore through the corridor, they all knew the truth:
This wasn't just a recon.
This was something else.
And it wanted what they'd just stolen.