Yes, this is a double update. First time for everything eh? (45 and 46). So if any of you returning readers jumped straight to here, please head to 45 first.
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-1734 Military Hours
-Callisto Island, Safehouse

The sky resonates brightly with a clear blue as I look up to it. My lips held a steady frown as I slowly pull away from the familiar sight above. It reminded me so much of Earth, that it was depressing to consider the reality now.

I drop a sigh, following through with a basic read on the current airspace. It was a quiet afternoon, with only a few... heated interactions with the locals to break up the monotonous drone of day. "They're not here yet," I say.

"Likely won't be, for the time being I'd reckon. They had to scrape through the rubble," Robert answers with an equally defeated tone. "Most of the equipment's been taken. Doubt med supplies will be any different, even if those dumb fucks don't have the slightest clue on what they are."

I shake my head slightly, reminiscing about the damage sustained by the defunct outpost. "We'll just need to manage, somehow," I remark, pushing a heated glare at the passing locals.

Feeling increasingly restless, I nudge Robert on the shoulder, earning his attention. "Keep an eye on the Valor for me, I'll check on the others inside," I say.

"Go for it." He acknowledges my intent with a shrug as I head towards the safehouse.

A sense of palpable anger rises as I mull over the conditions the survivors of Anvil were put under prior to my team's arrival. It was all behind in the past now, but it did little to extinguish the resentment building at the back of my head.

I stop just before the entrance, pushing aside the tapestry-like curtains to proceed ahead. The red fabric easily parts away to one side, briefly allowing a portion of the interior to be lit up by the sun's rays. Inside the pitiful remnants of Visegrad's security detachment shot a cautious look in my direction.

Only a few were relatively unscathed, able to take up positions on the windows for all around surveillance. The rest were injured to varying degrees, all requiring some level of medical attention.

"For God's sake," a brash voice at the far left remarks. "It's almost out."

Huddled over a makeshift bed, James applies a conservative layer of Biofoam onto the upper left torso of his patient, a surviving Corporal from the barely functioning second squad. The medical Sergeant quickly wraps up the bandages before moving onto the next, barely noticing my presence, if at all.

"Hey," I call out to him, waving a hand in his direction to further prompt a reaction.

James turns slightly, only offering a cursory glance in my general direction. "They better pull out something useful from Visegrad, I'm burning through the last of my med-canisters," he announces.

I take a momentary look over the military survivors of the Taskforce, reflecting on the weakened state most are in. "Douglas and the others won't return empty-handed, they know we're gonna need anything they can scrounge up."

Deciding to provide a temporary set of hands, I follow him to the next wounded soldier. He was barely conscious, eyes glazed over with a distant look as James takes up position diagonal to me. I look down at the shivering mess beneath, heaving out a sigh.

The wounded man's tattered uniform is partially removed, and stained with old blood, revealing the bare skin underneath. His deltoid and pectorals are marked by several large gashes, covered mostly by a slew of field rated dressings, all of them tinged dark red.

I push the pixelated clothing aside, placing a palm lightly on the man's chest and upper arms, checking my hands shortly after for fresh blood. Rubbing my fingertips against one another, I feel a distinct wetness running between them.

'Not good,' I thought, taking a breath to gather my observations into a relevant assessment. His condition's worsening by the hour.

"Does he need a change?" I ask, feeling helpless as the delirious man releases yet another anguished groan. If need be, I will be willing to assist.

"Not for another twelve hours or so, did the dressings last night," James curtly answers, monitoring the Corporal's vitals without missing a beat. He goes over a portable med-panel once again as it displays a series of numbers indicating the man's pulse, blood pressure, and hemoglobin/oxygen saturation levels.

"Sepsis may have already set in," the stone-faced medic remarks across the incapacitated soldier.

I look at him, feeling my blood run cold. "How bad?"

"Very, the weapons dug deep," he frowns, brows locked in a furrow. "Biofoam's rated for keeping those wounds in check. Not so much against a severe infection. We'll need to get Isaac to Tartarus, there's only so much I can do with field supplies."

Another raspy groan escapes from the critically wounded Sergeant, tone raspy and dry. He sounded dehydrated. Looking at his lips, the flaked and dried up appearance told me enough to verify the previous assumption.

"Nine patients, including one in critical thanks to the likes of them. They didn't bother to dress up their wounds or anything of that sort, just simply left them to rot inside a dark cell. Can you believe those fucks," James snaps with a sharp tone, ending on a rhetorical statement.

"A part of me still doesn't," I admit, a frown crossing my lips. It was too late to change any of it, but it did not stop me from wishing that was not the case. If only we all knew this would happen.

Leaving the conversation as it is, I turn around, deciding against further interactions with my team's Medical Specialist. James needed to concentrate, and I wouldn't do him any favours by further dividing his attention.

Pulling away, I drag myself to the nearest window, finding an unoccupied chair positioned against it. I sit down, giving my legs an instant reprieve from the strain of a full night on over watch. Soreness slowly kicks in, the tight knots on my calves beginning to ache in a slow burning fashion. It was almost painful.

I felt exhausted, and not just physically. Things were slowly, but surely getting to me.

Looking out, I set my sights toward the nearby house, unable to smother this tinge of hostility as I stared directly into the eyes of the bickering couple. A man and a women, their ears a constant reminder of their peculiar race.

The intense dislike I felt for the soldiers extended, even to the civilians. I would never lie, nor change that aspect of myself. Deep down, I entertain the notion, accepting it as an accurate rendition of my personality. This was the one thing I kept the same, through all these years.

Dad was right about that at least, God rest his soul.

======
-1843 Military Hours

The sudden emergence of static on open communications immediately catches my attention. I listen intently, intercepting only a garbled transmission from the air waves. A voice was there, but barely readable. Still, it provided some comfort.

"Outrigger-2 isn't in range yet," Davis surmises, pausing briefly. "Anyways, my point still stands."

I look at him intently, attempting to get a read on his thoughts for any indications of a joke. "With that helmet on, it's hard to tell if you're being serious. What you're proposing is, quite the stretch," I remark, tilting my head slightly to affirm skepticism.

He answers with a sigh, stiff hands now visibly tighter around his weapon. Pacing about, assault rifle fielded with constant alert, the wounded operative opts for the silent route as the disturbing theory settles in my head.

Davis was the only survivor of Fireteam Angel, carrying the legacy and accomplishments of his deceased teammates. After having gone through so much, I could hardly vocalize any amount of criticism against that line of thinking. Even if it does seem questionable.

"You don't have to believe any of it. All I'm saying is, the Major isn't acting right. Not since they last took him from his cell. From the rest of us," Davis shoots back, ending with a defeated sigh.

"I'm hoping nothing comes out of it," I say, pulling out a neutral stance. "We're already short on hands as it is."

Glancing at the tired operative to gauge his reaction, the restless Lance Corporal abruptly takes off to the exit with a slight limp to his steps. I follow his lead, slightly curious as to this particular course of action.

Was he miffed at my casual disregard, maybe even offended? Guilt wounds up as I head over to his position, intending to rectify this probable mistake.

He raises a hand to part the curtains, stopping at the doorframe. "Prep the wounded Lieutenant, flight's here," he calmly elaborates, quickly dissipating my confusion.

"On it," I reply, quick on the heels. Heading back to the improvised triage, I go over the news mentally once again, finally seeing a complete end to the 'Southern Expeditions'.

"Exfil's here," I call out, focusing everyone's attention on me. "Walking wounded out first. Turner, have the guys stay in position and sound out on any possible CTEs. Warning shots if necessary, but nothing more than that."

"Will do," Turner acknowledges, the weary Sergeant turning around to help bounce the order off to everyone in the improvised triage.

The room lights up with a buzz of heightened activity as the few able-bodied soldiers from Anvil reaffirm a state of heightened alert, weapons aligned out through their assigned windows.

"West window clear, just a couple of kids and five soldiers in visual for the moment," an unscathed soldier announces on the far left. He shifts slightly to rest his rifle at the base of the window's frame, eyes positioned forward at all times.

"Any of them look like CTEs?" I ask.

The UN trooper shakes his head, "Negative. They're equipped for short range combat, and I don't see any staffs on them," he surmises.

The relief alleviates a portion of my burdens as the first few wounded make their way unassisted out the door. They only amounted to four. That leaves five to deal with.

"Lieutenant," someone calls out behind. The harsh, monotonous voice immediately garners my attention. Through the hustle of activity, James briefly directs me to a downed soldier with a finger.

"She's yours," he calmly states.

I waste no time heading towards the incapacitated soldier, taking note of her injuries. Her right leg sported a field cast, highly indicative of a bone fracture of some kind. Nowhere near fatal, but enough to warrant medical treatment.

"Mind giving a hand?" She jokes with a weary smile, supporting herself on the left side with an elbow. The distinctly Californian accent brings forth a small wave of sadness as I lend my fellow countrymen some much needed assistance.

"Of course," I reply, slinging my weapon behind. Positioning both hands beneath her worn out figure, I wrap an arm around the small of her back, taking extreme caution on her legs in light of the solder's existing injury.

Sensing my intent to raise her up to the fireman's carry position, she drapes both arms over my neck. I take her hands from the other side, using them as leverage to pull her entire body up and over my shoulders. She releases a small grunt of discomfort as I wrap my left arm around the back of her knees.

"Too much?" I ask, loosening up slightly.

"N-no, it's okay. Your armor's sharper than it looks, it's digging into my stomach," she shakes her head, switching to an urgent tone. "Just go, get us out of here."

"Alright," I respond, standing up fully with her in tow.

With the additional weight seated firmly on my upper back, I turn around to the exit, spotting the soldier's unattended helmet nearby. I crouch down, retrieving it with a spare hand before continuing onwards.

Rifling through my head, I go over a mental list of names, attempting to recall the women's identity. Knowing she was the only female soldier on Taskforce Anvil greatly narrowed the field of search, leaving me with her surname after some considerable recollection.

"Collins is it?" I say, deciding to fill the moment with idle talk.

"Yes sir, first squad. Or... what's left of it," she whispers, voice trailing off into a sigh. She seems receptive to small talk, but is still reeling from the loss of her unit, the tragedy stuck in her head. Taking a sympathetic alternative, I shelve off further communications, letting the silence hang over us in memory of those who died on that day.

Pushing the curtains aside, the sun's glare temporarily impairs my sights as I look up to the sky. The returning Valor gracefully descends through the canopy, its dark silhouette weaving through the tightly packed confines of vegetation.

Its rotors rattled overhead, the resulting downwash stirring up a small cloud of dust as it descends over the landing site. Slowing its approach, the lone rotorwing hovers over the last few metres, landing gears poised to touch the ground momentarily.

It lands just ahead with a noticeable thud, the taildragger configuration wheels rebounding slightly against the uneven terrain. On one side the door skids open, pushed aside by its occupants. Douglas, accompanied by a handful of surviving troops rush out, scavenged medical bags and a folded stretcher in tow.

I direct their attention to the safehouse, yelling over the newly arrived Valor's still running engine. "Inside now. And get Isaac on that stretcher!"

They oblige, quickening their pace with the supplies as I head towards the other Valor. I hop onboard to the passenger compartment, removing Collins and placing her on an unoccupied seat.

She centres her focus on me, expressing her gratitude with a hint of a smile. "Many thanks, Lieutenant," she remarks, her defeated look absent for a brief moment.

I place the helmet on her lap, taking the woman's genuine thanks to heart. "Don't mention it," I reply, patting her shoulder once.

Leaving her to the safety of the aircraft's metallic interior, I step back out slinging the GD45 back to the front, coiling both hands tightly against its familiar chassis, getting reaccustomed to the weapon's front heavy build as I advance back to my original position.

Robert throws a quick glance to acknowledge my approach before I could vocalize, highlighting the situation ahead with a quick gesture, directing my focus towards the isolated settlement's population. I scan ahead, rifle running a close parallel with my eyes.

The same set of females from the past few hours held position along the array of houses to the east, their faces hesitant, but equally mixed with bravery as they passed under my line of sight. They were their version of medics from the main city, and genuinely wanted to help. Even if that is true however, it was better to stay on the side of caution.

"Those women are at it again, holding steady at ten metres," the Communications Specialist remarks with an irked tone. "They're still holding onto those weird green flasks, probably meant for our wounded."

I raise my weapon at them, lining my sights just below their feet, feeling slightly guilty, but mostly emboldened by the need to maintain a secure perimeter. We have to maintain complete disassociation from them.

There are no exceptions, it was the only way to ensure these people could never harm any of us ever again.

I lock my focus onto those women, brows creasing under a slight pretense of anger. As if sensing my ire, a few of them take several steps back, their eyes drifting to each other as they whisper in their language, worry laced in their soft tones.

"Hold steady," I say, repeating the phrase again on open communications. "Just hold steady, we're almost out of this mess."

Moving back a few steps, I crest around the Valor's cockpit signaling the pilot and co-pilot to spool up the engines. They both acknowledge the cue, initializing the aircraft's various systems for takeoff, following through the procedure with a few associated preparatory checks.

The engine quickly stammers to life, producing a familiar rumble as its rotors begin to sweep through the air, speed increasing with each revolution. Satisfied, I trace my steps back to the perimeter.

Possibly drawn by the increasing disturbance, more of the locals gather outside, watching as we proceed with the exfiltration. The five soldiers present stood further away, still nesting at the tip of those massive roots, their considerable size an abnormally even when compared to the rest of the island's well-developed megaflora.

Robert and I maintain the constant vigil, entering a sudden agreement of mutual silence as time went about its course over the next few minutes. The surrounding ferns and trees fell victim to the increasing downwash provided by both Valors, their leaves and other extremities oscillating violently.

In the distance, the five soldiers still leered down, their expressions hard to discern beneath their dark green hoods. They remain perched, an adamant fixture like the massive tree situated behind them.

"We're almost done!" Someone shouts from the rear, partially audible against the constant drone. The remark further encourages me to hold my stance, even as my mental reserves are nearing total depletion. My eyes are heavy, weighted down by several sleepless nights. By now, it was almost impossible to fight off the winks.

Military-issued caffeinated gums, although effective for ensuring sustained wakefulness, is not a substitute for genuine sleep. The bioengineered consumables simply will not cut it after three days.

Robert nudges me on the arm, breaking me out of the lapse. "Let's go," he says, urging me to break off as he heads away from the perimeter clearing.

With a brief glance to acknowledge my companion, I turn back to the front, intending to capture one last look. After this, they will not be seeing any of us, and vice versa. I have to imprint this unique experience to memory, if nothing else.

Fear, anger, and even regret. Those pent up emotions cut through the air like a sharp knife through butter, the inhabitants on their part didn't feel the need to hide their feelings. It was a small token of comfort, still overshadowed by the rest of their actions.

The female medics tried one more time, advancing further than they did in all their previous attempts. I sigh, deciding to take a more reasonable course of action, just to quell my conscience.

I move up, blocking their path and issuing an outstretched palm at them. The universal sign stops them in their tracks at the same time my radio crackles to life, the harsh tone invading my ears.

"Permission to fire warning shots?" A soldier inquires.

"Negative, hold fire," I respond after a moment of deliberation. "They're not worth the escalation."

"Copy," the soldier acknowledges on the channel.

Sighing at their expense, I shift my gaze elsewhere, yet again locking eyes on the familiar couple, unable to quench the sensation of being watched by a pair of unusually hostile eyes from their general direction.

'It isn't them specifically, but someone else stabbing me with their eyes,' I mentally conclude.

The two adults immediately take notice, turning around and vanishing into the crowd. There it is, crowned with a hateful look, her young eyes exuding a constant gleam of anger. It was her again.

The same girl from Visegrad Island. The culprit of the drone incident, back in the early days. The young girl glares back, even stronger now upon sensing my unbridled attention on her. The intensity is enough to even take me by surprise, her downright furious expression easily standing out from the rest of the local population like a blip on a radar.

'How is she here on Callisto, and why the continued hostility,' I muse, as the girl's unsettling behaviour strikes a particular cord in me.

Whatever her reasons, it was clearly personal. That much is evident, at the very least. While far from being an adult, she was by no means a child either.

I turn around, centering my eyes on the nameless girl until the very last second, imprinting her face into memory. It was one thing to receive a spiteful look from a captured insurgent, and another entirely to receive that same damning expression from a young girl. To me, it was a first.

Climbing aboard the nearest Valor, I wipe away her hateful features from my head, wanting a clean mental slate as I close the side door.

"Last man in," Robert yells from across the passenger compartment. There were seven other soldiers huddled around the Valor's seating configuration, including Collins.

Over the cabin comms, the co-pilot acknowledges the remark. The aircraft soon achieves lift, climbing into the evening sky, rapidly gaining altitude with noticeable thrust, the force of gravity pushing everyone into their seats.

The Island soon fades into the distance, its northern-most sections the last to disappear over the horizon. Further west, the sun eventually follows a similar fate, dipping into the ocean as the last traces of its rays consolidates just above the water.

The two Valors enter a formation as they head towards Visegrad, the tragedy at the outpost was still a dark cloud hanging overhead.

No one dared to speak up, even for idle conversations. Any verbal communications ended as soon as it began, leaving the journey a mostly silence affair.

There is one last thing to do over on that God forsaken island. Just one more obligation tying us to the archipelago.

I was more than happy to see the demolitions of the outpost conclude. It meant, leaving everything behind. And finally going back home, back to Tartarus.

'I'm sure the others feel the same.'

===End===

Announcement: I will be making some changes to the names and other small things over the entire story to make it better. ( In my perspective )

Character names :

Leida Ver'Elyott >> Inora Ver'Riya
Maira >> Mirria Greyshear
Gareth > Jirell

Place names: Gemini Island >> Callisto Island (human term)

Animal Names:

Lurkers >> Titan Crabs ( human term)

Frilled Raptors >> Red-maned Psuedoteryx (human term)

Military terminology:

Mentions of 'Mages' >> CTE ( In most cases, depending on context of dialogue)
[Acronym for "Critical Target Entity"] To keep in line with the spirit of quick, and brief way of communications that characterizes standard radio procedure.