-0243 Military Hours
-Tartarus Base, Northern Outskirts

The loud concussive bursts continue, never relenting in its intensity. Guiding my every move, the thin film of rage steers me towards a single objective. Make them, regret.

The violent surge from each bullet spurs me into overdrive, further adding to the crescendo of emotions. Everything is on the table, after what they did to everyone here. Each gram of pressure applied to the trigger is accompanied by a grim undertone of realization.

'Beyond all reasonable doubt, they're hostile to us.' The phrase echoes inside my head like a religious mantra. I pause after firing a short burst, tilting my head closer towards the scope, stopping to finalize the minor adjustments. There is barely any distance left between the visor and the scope's outer rim. This is a close as I can go, and that suited me fine.

The corners of my vision fades into obscurity as I get mentally accustomed to the role of a sniper. After a few heartbeats, everything outside the rim seems irrelevant. My whole world now is through this narrow field of view. In other words, the massacre ahead has my full undivided attention.

Administering an invisible pressure on the trigger, the loud applause of weapons fire returns. The ballistic nature of rail weaponry, meant any deviations would be mostly lateral. Projectile drop is functionally none-existent, or at least small enough to not be perceivable to the human eye even at a distance of over eight hundred metres.

Small arms rounds streak off in groups of three and four, easily finding their mark on the winged-reptilians ahead. The Silverwings presented a large centre mass, making them easy targets to engage when factoring in the decidedly open nature of the airpads.

Most had already been neutralized, their wings deflated with a handful issuing calls that seemed to approximate a dying wail. Had the situation been anything else, it would have made for a disheartening sight.

Maintaining the team's lethal tempo, Douglas issues a lengthy burst down onto the airpad, neutralizing the last of the armoured banshees armed with a degree of purpose that couldn't be slowed, halted or ignored.

"That's the last of those things," he sounds off, targeting his weapon away from the kill-zone.

"Just in time too," Robert continues in response, jutting a hand to the front over his weapon. "I'm seeing lots of movement over on the far side, nearest to airpad three. Looks to be infantry types only. We should be expecting CTEs to be present in the formation."

I lift my hips up, sliding right to get myself reoriented squarely behind the rifle after angling it towards the far end of the occupied base. The angular swell of multiple prefab structures looms over the opposition force as they gathered on the southern edge.

Presenting itself as a unified legion of armour, the formation hoisted up several military standards of the same design. A black fist, etched against a background of dark crimson. Pacing into quick march, a forward element detaches from the main force, eagerly closing the distance without regards to our weapon capabilities.

"Hope you've got a decent plan for us, they're starting to move up west," Douglas inquires. He angles his head to spare me a brief look, the opaque visor displaying a blank canvas of ambiguity and nothing else.

I reply with a reasonable amount of assertion. "I do, I'm not expecting this to be easy. Might... be our most difficult predicament yet," I admit, getting up to a crouch.

Scanning the approaching group again, I identify several possible commanders in the tight line of armor. 'Six', my observations produced. The presence of a larger, more elaborate cape makes that assumption a reasonable take on their command structure.

I exchange glances between my two companions, intending to receive their inputs, if they have any to provide.

"We survived that god awful ambush in Ethiopia, we can handle whatever they've got," Robert answers, voice lacking a definitive edge. "Or at least, I hope so. They're dumb enough to leave their air assets defenseless."

I roll my eyes, finding that jab at the Euralians and reference to the mishap in Bahir Dar out of place. The latter only serves to bring back bad memories. Not the kind of input I would classify as particularly encouraging.

Going back to the general idea, I sink my eyes back onto the dim outline of a lone prefab building located at the northern tip of Tartarus. It was the closest defensible position, and the most optimal point to start pressuring the opposing force from a safe distance.

The large stretch of open terrain between it and the rest of the compound will work in our favor. In the few seconds I had to analyze other possible courses of action, they all led back to this. This is the best option available. Even if it isn't exactly ideal, it is what we have to work with.

"Armory, it's only a short hike down to it. It will give us a good field of view as they approach. Odds are, we'll be looking at a frontal engagement. Doesn't look like they're routing additional forces to our sides for a pincer," I explain, urging the two on their feet.

"I'm taking point," Douglas says, sounding less of an comment and more of a declaration. He strides to the front, several metres ahead of me.

"Taking point, got it," I echo his words in agreement, seeing him take the position.

Robert comes in over local communications. "Drone feeds are good, all sectors clear. No banshees over our heads for now," he confirms, assuming the rear position behind me.

I look in his direction, answering in kind, "Hit us up on comms if that changes."

He nods, "Will do, wait a few." The Signals' Specialist rifles through his pouches, deft hands selecting an interface and inputting a series of taps in quick succession.

"Done. I've prepped the drones to signal me if anything unidentified flies over Tartarus airspace. We're good to go," Robert sounds off through his helmet, giving Douglas the green light to proceed.

I turn around, coiling my legs in anticipation to move off. The hot waves rolls across my skin, flushing out to the extremities and keeping my nerves consolidated. Echoing with increased vigor, the muted flush of blood runs through my ears as I wait for the silence to be broken.

"Alright, on me." Douglas breaks the stalemate and leads off, setting a hard pace down the forested hills.

I decide my best role will be to provide left side coverage along with the occasional sweep of the rear every twenty seconds or so. Blades of fine grass rolled across the mountainous landscape in soft waves, producing the visual infractions that kept my eyes on a constant swivel.

Nature's domineering presence made sure there were plenty of places for enemies to hide in. There might be an enemy observer in the midst, and the visor's thermal overlays would be none the wiser.

Each new step represented danger, a gleaming opportunity to spring an ambush. While the Euralians were different on a genetic and physiological level, some things were bound to be universal no matter the circumstances.

"Watch for blips in movement, could be someone out there," I call out over comms, registering a heightened sense of alert.

The fireteam assembles into a partial wedge maintaining our tactical spacing as we enter familiar territory, crossing onto the single road leading up to our destination. No ambush along the entire route, I considered that a blessing.

"Watch the windows," Robert breathes out, verbalizing the basics we all know by heart.

The armory lay ahead, its entrance flanked by a pair of eerie paper lanterns. They ride the subtle winds, silently resisting their emplacement atop a wooden shaft under a bright shade of yellow.

"What's our ROE?" Douglas whispers, keeping the sector ahead cleared.

We stop for a tactical pause forming a security perimeter, allocating the next few precious seconds to discuss the topic in brief detail, our tones hushed. It was bitter to think of Tartarus as hostile grounds now. A place of refuge representing weeks of fascination and disbelief, stolen from us.

"Shoot on sight for those armed, or if you think they're armed. Same applies to anything unknown, don't take any chances. No changes for anyone that's unarmed, we take them in as prisoners when and where we can," I answer, zooming in on the enemy's forward most units, already within effective engagement range.

"Alright, simple enough. Door's up ahead," Douglas says, flanking the adjacent wall. "... back me up."

Keeping a firm lid on my lips, I respond through actions instead. Moving up behind the self-designated breacher, I crest along the concrete wall inching to an optimal position for the eventual forced entry. Robert follows a similar routine to my rear, his steps audible as I keep my weapon posted at the front.

"On your mark," Robert declares, urgency riling up in his muted voice.

I tense my arms further, waiting for Douglas to make the first move. My index is already tracing invisible shapes across the trigger, eagerly waiting for an opportunity to take the plunge.

"Breaching!" A hint of movement followed by a howl and he rounds the entrance, disappearing into the armory. I immediately follow, hugging the wall and soon finding myself past the threshhold and surging deep into the damaged building.

"Positive breaching!" I yell, activating the weapon's auxiliary lights to supplement my situational awareness. Two more cones of light join up beside me before separating to conduct the aggressive posturing of close combat operations.

"Munitions' bay," Douglas calls out, identifying the main room. "Right side cleared," he says sweeping on my far right.

"Left side, likewise," I respond, spotting only disturbed crates and scattered rounds of discarded ammunition. I ignore the implications of the latter, pulling the plug on any deviating thoughts for now.

Sweeping ahead on my own accord, the reinforced door to the armory's highly secured weapons acquisition bay comes into view. To the surprise of no one, it was badly disfigured.

"Weapons storage over here, door's compromised," I relay the observation through local communications, waiting for the others to join up behind. Aside from the main bay, this was the only other place left to clear before the armory as a whole can be secured.

Its interior layout was roughly consistent with the letter 'U'. Each of the two prongs housed their respective bays, with the corridor serving as a link between the two. The design was painfully simple, but easy to recall. It essentially was just a slight derivative of the standard layout found in most of the other prefabs, nothing more.

The partially melted steel bars sank along the corridor's entrance like a twisted skeleton of silver, pushed aside by immense heat. The remains of a large deadbolt lock sat on the ground near it. The thing was functionally a shapeless heap of metal, with only its proximity hinting at the likely origin.

"I have our six," Robert calmly affirms from the rear. Time slows to a painful crawl as I lock my gaze forward onto the derelict corridor. It holds a sinister vibe as though something was there, waiting for an opportunity to pull me right into lethal danger.

A hand lurches onto my shoulder, clamping down with a vice grip. The abrupt sensation lasts only a split second, long enough to spur me into action knowing support is only a few steps behind. Our lights sweep through the horizontal abyss, revealing more scattered crates, assault rifles and signs of violent struggles.

Stepping and kicking over the debris, I spot movement behind a stack of crates near the corridor's end. The sudden emergence of a possible enemy jolts my senses into high alert, further distorting my perception of time.

The figure moves again, this time peering behind the same group of crates and exposing a discernable helmet, streaks of pale hair framing the wearer's cheeks. Above sat a pair of frightened eyes, flushed with a violent shade of purple from my weapon's forward mounted torch.

"Contact front, five metres. Right turn at the weapons' bay," I yell, providing the fire control order.

It was women judging from her hair, and quaint shoulders. She guards the entrance to the weapons bay, maintaining a defensive outlook even after the surprise encounter.

A strange hum resonates around her, followed closely by a chattering string of foreign words. An organized glint of blue erupts from the base of where her hands would be, forcing my instincts into the equation. I don't hesitate, reflexively curling my index and opening fire on the woman's centre mass hitting her through the crates.

Three precise shots, and the blue mist circling through the air quickly loses its vibrant shade. Her words die down, the clean chime of her voice now reduced to a distorted gurgle.

Several more bullets streak pass as Douglas joins in, forcing the female assailant down with a metallic clang as we surge through the final few meters to the corridor's end. I look down to see the downed soldier in a growing pool of blood, her hands trailing away from a scepter-like weapon.

She lays on her back, throat embroiled in painful wheezing. Blood seeps out her lips as they part to convey stifled cries of agony. Tears slowly trickle down the woman's sunken eyes as she cradles her stomach, weak hands offering token resistance to stop the hemorrhage. Her pale hair brushes gently against the crimson tide, the strands of pure white slowly eclipsed by dark red.

"She's down." I coldly infer, stepping over the fatally injured women.

Douglas takes up position beside me, likewise unaffected by the armed woman's suffering. Finally entering the weapons' acquisition bay, we come into contact with several more figures huddled on the corner.

Bodies are huddled together on the corner of the weapons bay, surrounded by a makeshift barricade of unopened weapon creates. Males and females alike sat with their backs arching against modular concrete, their equipment and uniform an unexpected departure from the first encounter.

Various tools and other none combat essentials are splayed around their vicinity, forming a makeshift work table on the ground. Restricted items are strewn all across the floor, dismantled into their individual parts in what is probably an initial attempt at reverse engineering.

Assault rifles, laptops and even a handful of the British made black viper drones were present in the disorganized mix. Based on initial impressions, it seems reasonable to assume they did not constitute a combat unit. The lack of viable armor is also another key factor leading to that distinction.

The assumption is further strengthened by the universal gesture of surrender. A few hands were raised, even without any verbal prompting on our part. They wanted no part in this, and it showed clearly through their eyes and faces. They were young, and afraid.

"Got a few live ones," I call out, keeping the lights on them.

"Five total. No staves, swords or anything," Douglas says, likewise scrutinizing the frightened bunch. "Just a couple of unarmed, white haired bastards."

Moving forward I let out a deep breath, taking the nearest Euralian by the arm. With a fistful of tough leather, I brute force the compliant man towards the corridor, yanking him tightly on the upper sleeve. The sheer momentum sends him crashing onto the floor as I motion the rest to follow suit, my gloved hand burning slightly from the rough exertion.

"All of you, get out now," I yell, exaggerating my hand gestures to get the point across. The harsh words fall on deaf ears, but my tone and aggressive body language told them more then enough of what I wanted.

In the absence of spoken language, none verbal communication will always remain a viable substitute in conveying basic instructions. From my first months in basic right up to the recent deployment on the African theatre of operations and everything between, the old adage has always been relevant no matter the circumstances. It still rings true now.

Stumbling back to his feet, the man proceeds onward to the exit in accordance with my explicit instructions, shooting a hateful glare in my direction as he went. Following his example, the rest of the group begin moving, racing across the weapons bay under close observation.

I raise a hand up to my temple, keeping the Euralians under tight surveillance. "Heads up, we've got five unarmed indigenous troops. I've got them heading out the corridor so don't shoot," I say, directing that order to the operative back on the munitions' bay.

"Understood, I'm hearing their footsteps now," Robert echoes back over communications. "But... what am I supposed to do with them?" He asks, pausing for effect.

"There's only three of us on the ground," I say, compressing the train of thought into a curt reply. "Point them out the armory, no use keeping them on a leash. I need all hands on deck for this one..."

"Alright, in the meantime I suggest you two make your way back here. They're beginning to open fire on the armory."

"Already on it, out" Douglas interjects, thrusting back to the corridor. I follow suit, mindful of the pool of blood sweeping across the floor.

My pacing falters for a moment as I crane down to spare a glance at the female soldier, unable to stifle that surge of morbid curiosity. I purse my lips as her armoured figure comes into focus, feeling the dull throb of nausea approaching.

The woman's muted cries has since crawled to a screeching halt. Over her bloodied chest, limp arms are locked in position, frozen at the moment of death. Her eyes, once screaming a defiant purple now gazes indifferently at the ceiling. The blood oozing down her cheeks reflects the grim reality of consequences, both mine and her's.

She looked young, and carried an air of innocence that did not seem to belong here. The scene clings to my conscience, but otherwise did little to shake my resolve in the matter. The young woman was the first, and definitely will not be the last.

'She's only the beginning,' I muse, tearing my gaze away from the soldier's recent demise.

I pull back to the front under furrowed eyes, coming to terms with the bloodshed ahead. The lengthy corridor is mingled with bloodied footprints, forming a constant facet of the journey back to the munitions' bay.

Douglas turns left at the ingress and disappears into the bay, I stride the last few metres and do the same. Sporadic weapons fire rakes through the air as I race across the munitions' bay. Muzzle sparks erupt over a window as a dark figure postures behind it, arms cradling the familiar visage of a GD-45.

"Positive hits on enemy troops, even with barriers up." Robert affirms under a sharp tone, pausing briefly to deliver the observation. The thunderous rattling then resumes, quickly ending the brief audio respite.

"Heads down, down!" Douglas yells abruptly, his panic stricken voice evident through the renewed chattering of gunfire.

I don't question it, instinctively breaking the run, dropping to my knees and then belly as the air assumes an unpleasant warmth. Pain registers on my knees after the controlled descent, adrenaline dampening the sensation to a dull sting.

Looking up through the shattered windows ahead, I find the reason for the forewarning. Responding with equal intensity, the enemy's retaliation has matured into a constant spasm of brightly lit flares. Keeping my weapon tucked safely in both arms, I creep through the surge of thermal and radiant energy blasting overhead.

Each frantic hit on the armory sets the room alight in soft orange as though dawn had just broken through the horizon. Veils of smog begin to consolidate above as I spring my legs forward to cross the final meters to relatively safe cover. I assume a defensive crouch leaning partially against the battered wall, heaving a sigh of relief.

"We have good effect?" I ask, voice registering a hint of optimism.

"Yeah, managed to down several my visor listed as HVTs," Robert answers. He adds in a nod for good measure, standing by that statement.

I let out a knowing grunt. "Good, I was somewhat counting on that."

'That's one unknown pulled out the equation,' I muse in satisfaction.

Looking back, I search the room for signs of the unarmed Euralians finding no trace of them. "Where's the five?" I ask, bracing a forearm against precast concrete and feeling the sweltering heat emanating from the enemy's unconventional, but no less lethal means of retaliation.

Robert juts a thumb over the nearest window, indicating the enemy's general direction. "Scared shitless, took off towards their own lines," he answers without much inflection to his voice. "They won't be a problem."

Expressing a nod, I shift the topic to more immediate concerns. "Any changes on their position or tactics?" I ask, earning a detailed response from the composed operative.

"Currently separated into three distinct groups, closest one is roughly a hundred and fifty metres away and advancing. The rest are holding position further out at the Residential building modules. It's the former that's laying the heat on us, literally I might add."

As if to emphasize the point, another strong hit devastates the wall denting its integrity further. A smoldering red blotch glows dimly through the armory's inch thick concrete, stemming from the Euralians' particular usage of concentrated thermals. Columns of smoke rose around the heated swell, joining the already prevailing cloud above.

Aware of the inherent behavior of concrete at high temperatures, I knew right away this was an abnormality stemming from the Euralians forces. It is not above me to completely disregard idle curiosity, but the observations left questions that were simply inappropriate to consider for the moment.

"Fucking relentless aren't they," Douglas remarks with a gruff tone, peering slightly out a recently shattered section of wall. "This place won't cut it."

"Never doubted that," I breath out, hiding just beyond the enemy's line of sight.

Where the situation permits, I dip forward putting my head and upper torso in harms way to execute a few meticulous shots at the enemy before sliding back into cover. I decide to spread away from Robert and Douglas, mindful of our tactical distancing as the shared cover continues to degrade.

Beads of warm sweat crest over my brows as I press the initiative, retreating back to the main entrance on the right. Streaks of malicious blue fly overhead as I crawl out the besieged armory, sticking to the carpet of partial safety the grass was able to provide.

I slowly turn left before continuing forward, flushed against the adjacent wall. Elbows finding purchase in the dirt, I tighten the lid on hesitation and dig in for the turbulent exchange of fire ahead.

Feeding me the necessary information, the visor constantly keeps me updated on the enemy's disposition. Distance, estimated numbers and suggested high value targets, the helmet's onboard algorithm executed its intended role dutifully as I prepare to issue returning fire from this new position.

With an inrush of anger, I hover over the scope and pull the trigger. I feel the recoil stomping on my right shoulder, and am rewarded with a short burst of magnetic rounds rushing out the rifle's coiled interior.

The high velocity rounds runs its course impacting into the supposed shield of the formation's frontal barrier. Despite the brief glint of hexagonal gold, I catch a few bodies dropping within the tightly packed legion.

Emboldened by the success, I redirect my fire onto the enemy's outer flanks, intending to target those likely responsible for assuming a leadership role for the surrounding troops. It was a solid hunch, and I firmly stick to that opinion.

The assumptions I made prior to heading down the hills was further supported by the algorithm's near parallel assessment on troop composition. Of the six original I identified previously, only four remain standing. Intending to add one more to the tally, I empty my lungs, and jerk the trigger back fiercely.

Bleeding the magazine dry, the final four or five bullets race eagerly onto my target of choice. The rounds swiftly cross the contested field, rushing past congested streaks of fiery orbs with their unstoppable momentum poised to deliver the lethal ultimatum of a GD-45 Rail Assault Rifle.

Through the scope, I watch the man fall limp under the influence of gravity, his distinguishing cape sprawled messily over his torso.

Confirming the kill, I roll slightly to allow my hand brief access to the magazine pouches on my chest. Pulling a fresh one out, I bring the new magazine back up to replace its now empty counterpart.

I resume the constant stacatto of weapons fire as the terrain around me descends into a new level of destruction. A hazy orange spreads over the night sky, complimenting the vast pockets of greenery set ablaze by the occupying Euralian forces.

The few trees nearby crackled in the battle, their branches swaying and christened with flames. Wilting leaves sail across my vision as the ongoing scene before me settles into an unforgettable memory.

A shower of light hurls past me, close enough to render blind spots across my vision. I shut my eyes reflexively, temporarily blinded by the proximity. A graze runs across my left shoulder, the sudden warmth biting into my skin.

The small ache quickly spirals into a bed of white hot pain. I hide the grimace, teeth gnashing vigorously against each other. I refrain from palming a hand over my shoulder even as the throbbing intensifies.

It was so painful, that the simple act of maintaining a cool head becomes a test of willpower. Had the others faired better, or were they hit?

"S-sound off, status!" I painfully wheeze, voice drafting a tone of intense discomfort.

Despite the surging pain, I did not relent the systematic rhythm of combat. Acquire target, and engage. Rinse and repeat. The mental sermon keeps me focused for the next few seconds before my helmet issues a muted buzz to signal an incoming transmission.

"I'm good, same with ammunition," Robert responds, muted gunfire chattering through his mike.

"Visor's screwed, had a close call. Still good to go," Douglas takes over, voice armed with a slight tinge of panic.

"Copy... c-continue engaging individual targets... at your desecration. We're almost out of this," I declare, wrinkles clustered above my eyes.

The soldiers fall to the meticulous onslaught in droves, their constant wails chanting through the rumble of unified footsteps. Voices both deep and feminine register under the heavy symphony of combat, echoing against our tight band of ballistics.

The shrinking legion is reduced to roughly half its original size, barely able to maintain a semblance of order with its command structure annihilated. I reduce my rate of fire, seeing a drastic dip in the group's behavior.

The formation slowly halts, its troops infected with surging panic. The incoming barrage of thermals diminishes to a trickle, allowing the chattering tempo of gunfire to take the lead once again.

I rise up to a low crouch upon catching a mass of retreating bodies behind the group. Like an ignited spark, the sudden disruption spreads like a virus across the forward element, compelling the survivors into a messy retreat back to their own lines.

They trample over their own dead and severely wounded amidst the senseless rush, weapons flailing or discarded entirely.

The remaining banners they proudly held followed their regretful slog back, aloft as a retreating flock of fisted black. Glinting standards of a formation now rendered combat ineffective.

"Cease fire," I say, raising a hand to cup my wounded shoulder, enduring the flashing throb. "Let's not kill anyone we don't have to."

"Wished they followed the same principle," Douglas observes with a cold sigh. "It's gonna be hard tackling twice their numbers in the habitation modules."

"I'll bet," I acknowledge, lips rolling out a sigh.

Instructing the two to hold position, I bask in the newfound silence as fires scoured the natural terrain of greenery.

I take the time to inspect my shoulder, finding the composite plating slightly damaged. The impact site feels hot to the touch, scalding beneath the multi-layered armor. And this was only a graze.

The notion of taking an actual hit sends a shudder up my spine. It really could have been much worse. The welts on the armory's heat resistant walls immediately comes to mind, fueling the unpleasant imagery of what a standard wound might look like.

"Not good," I spill out quietly, instinctively rubbing the pauldrons, the soreness left unabated.

"Jerome. I've got a situation," Robert cuts in.

"What is it?" I reply, placing the pain on the back burner.

"Guys up top are on bingo, they're officially dry. I'll get the pilots to settle outside the mountains. Somewhere hidden, and reasonably close," the operative explains in-depth.

I shake my head, deciding against it after a few seconds of pondering.

"Have the guys land here instead. They've got a clean shot at touchdown," I propose, monitoring the Euralian detachment situated across the base.

I look up, skimming the dark expanse above for movement. Small friendly reticules trail across the sky, their altitudes measuring in the hundreds. The Black Vipers in question were stationed far beyond the limits of my vision, maintaining an uncontested position of clarity over the battlefield.

"Drone feeds still showing all clear, right?" I ask, anticipating a satisfactory answer.

"Affirmative, no sightings of Banshees just yet. But, are you sure?" Robert questions me intently.

"Positive," I confidently reply. "It will be tough to carry enough cans to get them refueled for flight. There's also the state of our wounded. Some aren't fit to stand. James would have our heads if he knew."

"He would, yeah," he chuckles audibly over the radio. "I'll bounce the order."

As Robert echoes my sentiments across open comms, I slowly inch back onto my stomach. I keep my eyes on the angular swell of the habitation modules, picking out one observation after another, each one equally important as the last.

The remaining Euralians consolidate their gains, reforming their defensive front across the habitation modules. After our devastating barrage on their last assault, I doubted the enemy had the wits to execute the same plan again and risk the ballistic retaliation that will surely follow.

Taking a more cautious approach, the soldiers keep a low profile hiding beyond line of sight. They take cover behind windows, buildings and doorways all in a concerted effort to mask themselves from view.

The night is still young, and harboured plenty of uncertainties. This is only the beginning. I knew there is more yet to come from the battle.

"There's more yet to come," I repeat the words, allowing the wind to carry them away.

Across the raging fires, the Euralians bid their time and assessed their options. Just like us, they are in it to win.

The first round belongs to us. We just need to maintain it, and never give up. This place is ours, not theirs.

Tartarus is the closest thing we have now to a home. That is worth a fight, if nothing else. For a chance at seeing Earth again. To escape this nightmare. Every bit of hope left resides here.

===End===

Random facts about the Author.

1) He is studying as an engineering student.

2) He has a surface level background in the military, seeing as Singapore has it out for us guys. It takes up two years of our time.

3) He has written Into The Rift almost exclusively on mobile.

4) He plays Minecraft Bedrock realms, and is part of one at the moment. So if you're interested... :D

5) Is an avid Singed main in League of Legends.