Russ Talen stood at the edge of the ridge, the wind tearing at his coat, carrying with it the scent of rain and steel. Below him, the valley stretched like a battlefield from an old nightmare—scarred earth, blackened craters, and the distant flicker of fires that refused to die. He'd been gone from the heart of the conflict for too long, too many days spent in the shadows gathering what he needed. But now… he was back.
His comm crackled. "Talen, you reading this? You've been dark for forty-eight hours."
"Had to be," Russ replied, his voice low. "If I stayed on the grid, they'd have picked me up before I could finish what I started." He glanced down at the small black case in his hand, its reinforced edges humming faintly. Inside was the one thing that could change the entire war—a device he had nearly died three times to retrieve.
He started down the slope, boots sinking into the loose soil. Every step reminded him of what he had missed: allies lost, territory burned, the growing grip of their enemies tightening around what little hope remained. The last time he saw Kiel and the others, they were locked in desperate fighting. He didn't know who had survived. But he intended to find out.
Halfway to the base, movement caught his eye. A figure emerged from the smoke, limping, weapon drawn. Russ froze, hand on his sidearm, until he recognized the stance.
"Marik," he breathed.
The soldier looked like he'd crawled through hell—armor dented, visor cracked—but when he saw Russ, a grin broke across his bloodied face. "I thought you were dead."
"Not yet." Russ grabbed his arm, steadying him. "Where's the rest of the squad?"
Marik's grin faded. "Scattered. Some didn't make it. The others… captured." His gaze dropped to the case in Russ's hand. "Tell me you got it."
Russ nodded once. "It's here. But we'll need the right place to use it. Somewhere they can't reach us before it's activated."
Marik's voice was a rasp. "Then you'd better move fast. Command thinks we've got days left before they launch the final sweep. After that… there's nothing left to save."
The urgency lit a fire in Russ's chest. He had been running operations alone, dodging patrols and cutting his way through enemy checkpoints, but now it was clear—this wasn't just about striking back. It was about survival.
They made their way through the wreckage of what had once been a forward camp. Burned-out transports lay on their sides, their hulls twisted. The silence between the crackles of fire was deafening, broken only by the distant thump of artillery. Every sound reminded Russ of the clock ticking in his head.
When they reached a collapsed comms tower, Russ stopped. "We can get a signal out from here. Short range, but enough to reach the resistance cell in the mountains."
Marik raised a brow. "You're thinking extraction?"
"I'm thinking we can't win this fight in the open. Not now. We pull back, regroup, and hit them where they can't see us coming."
Russ knelt beside the ruined console, prying open a scorched panel. The circuitry inside was fried, but he'd worked with worse. As he rewired a bypass, he couldn't shake the weight pressing down on him—not from the mission, but from the memories. The faces of those who had trusted him, those who had died while he was away.
Finally, the console sputtered to life. A green light flickered weakly. Russ keyed in the encrypted code and sent a burst message: "Package secured. Request immediate rendezvous. Extraction priority one."
He shut the system down before anyone could trace the signal.
Marik adjusted his grip on his rifle. "Now what?"
Russ looked out toward the burning horizon. "Now… we make sure this isn't all for nothing." He tightened his hold on the case, feeling the faint thrum of power within. The war wasn't over—not while he was still standing.
And Russ Talen had no intention of falling.