The question repeats throughout the standoff, uttered in a tone entirely foreign to the man in front. With a sidearm planted squarely against his captive's temple, he echoes the question again... this time with an audible click.

The two troopers responsible for ensuring the safety of our Euralian medics have long since stood aside. One of them displays a light grin as he observes the scene unfold, the subtle look clearly showing his stance.

"Where... did you fuckers place them," Douglas seethes, his act now escalating to an actual threat.

Sliding past the hesitation, I move around to his side. This is something I will not condone, even if it means standing against him. His actions are irrational, made only in the heat of the moment. This was likely a state driven by a combination of stress, shock, and sleep deprivation.

Hopefully that assumption turns out to be right. It would make getting through to him reasonable at least.

"Put shit down," I snap. Douglas offers no resistance as I grip him by the arm. "They did something to pull your strings, I get that. Still doesn't give you the right to shove that gun up her head, so stand down."

He returns a defeated glare, eyes betraying a conflicted muse. "All the rooms are stripped, ours included. Bastards hauled out everything. Literally everything!" he yells, lips curled back from the outburst.

"They've got to know something, where they stashed it," the operative tentatively reasons, pulling his temper back to the trembling captive. She spares a furtive glance at me before sending out another plea, this time more coherent.

"N-Nonth, pli-"

The woman's protest is cut short as Douglas shoves the pistol against her temple, forcing the head to an angle.

"Quiet," he cuts her off with a snarl, reducing her constant whimpers to a muffled gasp.

Her eyes resign and lose its edge before retreating behind closed lids. A single tear escapes through the corner as she shudders beneath her one-man jury. Her façade breaks away, falling silent to reveal a defenseless woman completely undeserving of this.

The frown solidifies as I press on, searching for a way out for both sides. "What did you lose anyway?"

"Pictures... mementos. That's all you guys need to know," he reasons, letting out scowl.

I nod, quick to gather the full context from his retort. There were only two people in existence that could shake the man's rigid composure. Ares and Dawn-his wife and daughter respectively.

Douglas is still the only person on the team to have went through the vows of marriage, sometimes that fact slipped under the radar even after the revelation almost a year ago.

"We won't gain much intel from a corpse," the trooper beside sneers, "not that I'm against what you're doing."

I hold back the urge to return a glare at the offending Corporal. His comment sweeps through the room, garnering approval from his comrades. All three carry a mask of resentment, directed solely at the women kneeling on the floor-their wrists crossed and bound with zip ties as they endured the soldiers' muted ire.

It was subtle, but easily recognizable. The spectable highlights the general consensus among the regular troops-the ones still alive.

"Take it easy. We're all tired, and sure as hell exhausted," I carefully begin, pulling gently on the operative's arm. He relents, shifting away from the woman's temple-his pistol following suit.

"We'll get them talking eventually. This ain't the way to do it. Those two wouldn't approve and you know it," I pause, appealing to the man's softer side.

The brief encounters with his wife and daughter can only be counted on a single hand-and those were just brief respites the team had between missions. They rarely lasted more than a handful of days, and most of that time was spent recuperating from the constant mess in an increasingly inhospitable Africa. But I knew enough about them to get a rough gauge on their personality.

They were good women. Sweet, thoughtful, and kind. That much I know for sure-and he knows that.

"Fine," he sighs, shoulders deflating. The others visibly relax as the threat of further escalation subsides. "I wasn't gonna pull it. Just scare them-I don't know."

I slowly pull the pistol out from his grip, capitalizing on the chink in his proverbial armor. "Good, take it easy."

"Sorry," Douglas mumbles, though it did not seem directed at me. He glances down at the woman, then turns around, steps thumping with a calm rhythm.

"Hold up, h-hey," the soldier from before interrupts, "don't leave this behind again."

"Thanks," Douglas replies, still holding a sunken expression through the exchange. He takes the rail rifle back from the trooper, slinging it around and proceeding out the storage room.

"Could have gone a lot worse," I murmur, hearing the operative's muffled steps fade beyond the lobby. Hopefully, this is only an isolated affair.

"Alright," I throw up a hand, getting everyone's attention. "Everyone aside from those two," I pause, sending a sharp glare at the pair that did presumably nothing to stop this incident.

"Back to your assigned posts, nothing left to see here. There's still a few indig' bodies inside HQ, bring those out and search them outside. Anything that looks important, hit me up over comms."

The troopers respond with their affirmation and file out the improvised holding cell. I part ways with the men at the lobby and head back outside.

Given the extensive damage, I have to assume the electrical grid is severely compromised. The likelihood of the AC generators being deliberately targeted was a possibility that did not seem that far fetched. The Euralians evidently learned much during their stay with us-too much in fact.

The sun's warm gaze looms overhead, interrupting the muse. I take a deep breath, pushing aside the exhaustion that only seemed to grow with each passing minute. Just an hour more-to settle the aftermath. Or not-the temptation certainly is there.

After pondering for over a minute, the forbidden fruit eventually wins me over. "Davis," I raise the former Angle Team operative over on comms, "this is Simmons. You read?"

"Crystal," he replies, "what is it?"

"You able to hold the fort for a few hours? My guys and I could use some downtime, we're all running close to our limits."

"Already made the arrangements with Turner. We've got the shifts planned out, none of you guys are on for patrol or body retrieval till afternoon, 1300 hours. Go get some rest, you definitely need it."

"Great," I sigh, voice grappling with exhaustion. No use hiding it if he already knows. "Just... raise us if anything comes up."

"Will do, don't worry."

After sending his final regards, Davis cuts off communications. There is nothing left to pull out from the channel, allowing the natural ambience to take over. The slight rustle of leaves occasionally breaks the peace as I wander through the remnants of Tartarus.

It was empty, and desolate. There is no other way of spinning that tale.

The clandestine base was once a potent melting pot of talent, filled with many different professions, all catering to the one thing we had in common, curiosity.

The constant drive to shed light on the unknown-manifesting in the UNs overall mission of scientific exploration and research. It was here we took our first steps, thrust with an opportunity unlike anything before it. A priceless miracle. That was what this should have been.

That hopeful image was a far cry compared to this. There is nothing I could do to bring back those days.

Over the newfound silence, an unfamiliar lump wells up in my throat. The sensation quickly spreads, darting past frozen lips and prompting tears to form as images run a gauntlet through my head.

Through glazed eyes, the memories race-forming and leaving just as fast as they appeared, their intensity akin to an electric shock across frayed nerves.

Cygnus station stood out from across the Antarctic landscape as I stepped out the aircraft, the cold air sinking deep into my skin for the very first time. Next came the remains of Expedition six, their bodies decomposed and charred beyond recognition as a certain Euralian stood with her back turned on the gruesome scene-the forest canopy shedding its last vestiges of sunlight.

My heart races as I find myself back on the Island, surveying the coastal waters of Visegrad. The former outpost was silent, defeated. The days blur together into a crude timeline that fed the growing resentment within. It simmers to a crescendo as I remember pacing through those narrow halls, comms buzzing with callouts as the ship lurches beneath violent waves, that rescue eventually concluding with only a handful of survivors-all of whom were non-military.

So many other images came and went. It finally stops with a distant boom and flash as I gazed down at the former outpost, the air billowing across my helmet as I peaked out the Valor-detonator in hand. The flush of relief that followed as we left the island chain for good now fills me with despair. It was all for naught.

A lone tear spills over with a single blink, cascading down my cheek. I raise a hand to wipe it away, only to be prevented by a thin film of polarized glass. Embarrassment then takes over, pushing me back into order. The last time this happened was at a funeral, almost two years now. This was unwarranted, like a misfire during a routine exercise.

I rid the muse upon sighting my destination. The brief ordeal leaves behind an aftershock of sorrow even as I focused on the present. Multiple prefabs cross into my vision as I pause over a slight elevation. Aside from the rubble, this place is exactly as I remembered.

As I gaze over the buildings, a flicker of movement catches my eye. I pause my tracks again, senses heightened as I look to the source, sighting a figure emerging from one of the habitation prefabs.

The brief panic subsides once the figure raises a hand in my direction, its identity revealed beneath the sun's rays.

Robert continues to beckon me over, his helmet tucked beneath an arm. The man's chin harbours a visible stubble, a testament to our time spent away from Tartarus. I head over to him, slinging my weapon to the back.

"Heard what happened over comms," he says, thumbing past the threshold, "I won't say much but, we've got to keep an eye on Douglas."

I nod, keeping the last vestiges of grief from showing. "Must be hard on him, not knowing if he'll ever see them again."

"There's always that slim chance right? Earth's just on the other side of that thing," Robert returns, tone optimistic as he glances over the modestly sized Rift.

"He was holding all that in since it closed up on us," he continues, lips pursed in thought, "can't say I blame him." He retracts his steps back inside and gestures at me to follow suit.

"I got us a window up till 1300 hours," I trail behind, moving past the entrance into the building. Lanterns were stationed at the corners as expected. With that same observation making the list again, it is same to assume this was standard operating procedure from our enemies.

None of us speak as we ascend the stairs, and it remains that way as we pass by the bunks of our former colleagues. We spend the next minute in silence noting the small plaque beside every room, briefly stopping to read each name like a quartermaster running down an inventory list on a slow night.

Some I remember from the early days, names that were never removed either out of respect or ignorance. Johnson, Gregor, and Zhang-the garrison's first losses. After that midnight incident, the assault was rarely mentioned again without bringing those men into the topic.

"That felt like a lifetime ago," Robert trails off, voice falling into a sigh.

"At least they didn't have our shit to deal with," I remark, bringing out a defeated smile at that poor attempt at humor. That was terrible, that I will admit. Too soon for a joke.

Those names still leave behind a dull ache. It is a constant reminder of how we are all one step away from becoming a memory for those that remain. A pained expression settles on Robert's face as he steps in front of the plaques, his hand gently brushing against their engraved names.

After a moment, he continues. We both pause at the junction where our bunks should be. "Home sweet home," Robert softly murmurs, staring into a particular room, his hand parting its curtains. A glance over his shoulder reveals this room is his. Robert J. Higgins.

"Bed's gone," he groans, his head dipping through the white blinds. He slips past without offering anything else. A visible thump and a sigh of relief follows as the fatigued operative finally succumbs to exhaustion inside his personal quarters.

I continue onward towards my own, stationed just around the next curve. Pushing through the curtains, a clutter of tangled bedsheets and spare fatigues is there to greet me. The nearby closet lies overturned by the corner, its contents emptied to form the absolute mess beneath.

It's hard to believe this is mine given the state it's in.

Across the quint room stood a lone dresser, an entire bed missing by its side. I glance around, sifting through the clothes and items in hopes of finding that box. The hope persists, but fades as I direct my search towards the ransacked closet, peering into its empty interior. It was gone-likely stolen.

I slump down to one side, giving up the search entirely. The phone is entirely replicable, but not those vintage pictures. Still, I was too tired to care. I sink into the pile of clothes, already on the brink of crossing the threshold. I push my helmet off using the last of my strength, tossing it somewhere in front.

The day's events weighs heavily as the world around me drifts into obscurity. The overwhelming pull of slumber is at its strongest as the clothes surround me-a bundle of extreme softness that promises only a deep, dreamless sleep.

Finally.

======

Muffled footsteps trail beyond the curtains as the fog lifts over my eyes. The ceiling stares back with a lifeless tinge, an almost bleak reminder of our situation. I pull myself up as a gloved hand appears through the curtains.

"That's a personal team record," James recites with a glazed look, yawning loudly afterwards. "Four days without sleep, or maybe five. I wasn't keep track at all."

"Where's the rest," I reply, getting my bearings and standing up from my makeshift bed. The groggy mist clears up and I pick up my helmet and slide it back on, trotting towards my companion as he leads the way down.

"Robert's already up and assisting second squad with overwatch at Eden's pass. Turner and a few guys are checking inventory, I think Douglas is with them. We'll have to tackle that silly flare-up of his at some point," James explains as he paces down the steps.

"When the time is right, not now though. Keep it hush for now," I say, finding nothing to refute his statement.

"Better sooner than later-else that dumbass is just going to keep it all in," James replies, officially back to his wisecracks. This was one trait I would normally be indifferent to, but it now elicits a brief smile from me.

We emerge outside where the sun shone with a promising sheen, a silent agreement in place to discard the delicate topic surrounding our friend.

Across the short venture towards the Operations' Wing, a messy row of iron-clad corpses runs perpendicular to the entrance almost like a crude mockery of a runway. They lie in the dirt, their crossed legs indicating they were thoroughly searched and cleared of weapons and valuables.

Their sunken faces stare into oblivion, unmasked and so young. Now little more than cadavers awaiting a mass burial, if we ever decide to do it. They slowly drift by as I went, their embellished armor a waning testament to whatever creed or oath they stood by in life. The scene is familiar grounds, even if the attire is different.

Past them stood a pair of troopers, shoulders deflated and weapon barely at a position to respond effectively. Not exactly an effective deterrent for anyone with hostile intent.

"Still first shift?" I say, noting the obvious fatigue radiating from their posture.

One of the troopers nod, huffing loudly. "Four hours in, two more to go."

James steps past, waving us along. "How's our guests?"

The corporal motions towards the storage room as he trails behind. "All good so far. A little quiet though, haven't heard a sound from them since your guy shoved that gun up that woman's face. It's really quiet without all that construction work."

"Good," James exhales, turning around. "I'll get back to their wounded down by their triage. What about you?"

I shrug, noting the painful absence of an organized command structure. So far the tasks are assigned based on a whim, without any reference to a specific schedule or procedure. That will have to change.

"I'll be more useful topside," I reply, trotting up the steps, "still plenty of things to sort out."

"Alright," James answers, his steps fading alongside the accompanying soldiers.

As the familiar halls glide past, a distant hum resonates just beyond the next curve. Past the sharp turn comes the sharp intonation of several voices. As I approach the doorway, the chatter becomes more prevalent, morphing into a heated discussion just out of sight.

I pause for a moment, hand lightly resting on the partially opened door. After several knocks to indicate my arrival, I step through the doorway, entering an ongoing conversation. The chatter drops, as did the atmosphere. The people within stop to address me, all neutral in their expressions. Long shadows loom over their figures, adding a layer of uncertainty to an already awkward entry.

Not even a hint of courtesy follows as I take my place at an empty spot by the table. Even without any cues, it is clear the topic up for discussion is a serious one.

"What is it," I flatly say, already anticipating an interesting development. Among the small gathering stood Turner, along with Douglas who resigned himself to a flat expression, only meeting my eyes momentarily with a hint of guilt.

"Does the Major know you're here?" Turner presses.

"Haven't seen him since I left the armory," I pause, thinking back to the turbulent battle. "I don't even know what the hell he's doing now."

"Exactly my point," the Sergeant answers, slamming a palm onto the table, "but not only that." He turns around to the projector at the front, an antic but reliable addition to any office. The device was powered by a small generator, filling the room with a steady hum.

He gestures to the projection on screen, an infrared overlay from someone's point of view. Multiple silhouettes were housed in the still image. The figures stand out in vibrant red against their surroundings, forming that stark contrast in the image.

With the lighting grid still out of commission, it is the only source of light in the room-a mesmerizing ocean of dark blue flushed against bright red, almost captivating to the eyes.

"Visuals are all from my helmet," Davis explains, eyes glued to the screen. "Right now there's four guys on thermal. But compare that to the regular feed."

At that instance, the image switches to its normal counterpart revealing the context of the image. The moment was captured inside the armory, likely sometime after our departure based on those crates stationed just beside him, barely visible at the far left.

"Thermals were on when I looked back to check on everyone, good thing I did," the operative continues, slightly limping towards the front.

He raises a finger, pointing at each soldier on screen. "There's the four guys I mentioned, but look here," he says, sliding his digit all the way to the distant right.

A cold wave rips through me as Davis continues. "Fullerton's clearly visible here. Not on thermal though."

The image switches back to infrared, showing a faded silhouette where the Major stood, barely distinguishable from the ambient background-a ghastly figure present amidst the backdrop of deep blue.

"So what does that mean?" I fold my arms, looking back at the thermal overlay. These findings made no sense, but it definitely points to something. I just have no idea what it might be.

"Heck if I know," Davis sighs, limping back with a weighted expression. "It might be that twat's an imposter. That might explain why he's cold as a corpse based on the comparison."

"For the moment, Fullerton's still holed up at the armory doing fuck all," the British operative continues his barrage, "my recommendation is we interrogate him there, and squeeze out whatever he's hiding from the rest of us."

Slowly, all eyes turn to me. "What?" Though it seems obvious, I had to make sure.

"This discussion will not leave the room," Turner sternly elaborates.

I nod, unable to present a counter. If anything we should have done this sooner. "And it won't."

"Good. We bounce in half an hour. Assuming you aren't needed elsewhere, we could use an extra man."

"What about our schedules? We need a thorough reassessment based on our existing numbers," I interject, shooting a concerned glare at a spot on the table.

"We've already gone through the planning essentials, it's not perfect but it should bring back a semblance of order. Anyways I'll give you a brief rundown on our plan."

From that point, Turner goes into detail regarding the proposal. Various different contingencies have been drafted and set in place. The occasional comment files in from the others as he explains the ins and outs, each contributing their own opinions and recommendations as the discussion slowly resumes its natural course.

Soon the general guideline for this short venture is embedded in my head, its details meticulously rehearsed through numerous mental repetitions. All possible scenarios and risks are taken into consideration. From a mild altercation to a serious escalation, we all are prepared to adapt as needed. Even if it means pulling the trigger as a last resort.

The Major is unpredictable, that is the consensus. With the clock running down its final minutes, the conversation grinds to a halt. Everything is concluded, and everyone slowly shuffles towards the door-weapon and gear present, checked, and accounted for.

Davis stays behind owing to his legs. Although physically unable to commit to his very own proposal, the stone-faced operative sends us off in a rare display of emotion as we begin hustling past the door.

"Good luck, guys." He affirms, words infused with a genuine sense of camaraderie and encouragement.

Soon the scorching rays and open air surrounds us as we leave behind our shelter. The distant mountains stand tall, a sprawling metropolis of imposing gray in all directions. Much of the vale's outer edges are spared from the carnage, framing the landscape with a healthy tapestry of lush greenery. The scenic view is a reminder of the idyllic state the valley once had before the Rift came into existence.

As a small team of five we proceed in a single file, marching across the unkempt expanse between the cluster of buildings that form the heart of our base and the distant armory.

Several unclaimed Euralian bodies pattern the gritty terrain, easily distinguishable from the grass-streaks of dark red and white hiding amidst endless green.

No one stops to acknowledge them. There is no guilt or regrets to be had concerning those people. Simply a lingering indifference that grew over everyone's thoughts-idle or otherwise. We did what we had to do, that was the rationale.

Everyone steps closer together as the distant armory grows with each passing step. Soon we will have our answers.

The anticipation hangs in the air, a palpable surge fueling our legs across the final stretch. A soldier is stationed by the entrance, his unease growing as we approach.

The trooper's eyes flicker with confusion, his gaze roaming across our faces, pausing briefly on each of us. "What is it?" he asks.

"Is the Major inside?" Turner presses, pacing right up to the soldier.

A tense moment follows as the man considers his question, face locked in deep contemplation. "So, that's what this is?"

"Yeah," Turner replies, moving past the man, his voice down to a murmur. "Enough of whatever he's hiding."

The soldier steps aside, pointing an accusing finger right down the entrance. "Those knife-eared assholes definitely messed with the CO's head when they took him away, because he sure as hell ain't acting like one."

I step up, urging the rest to press on. "We're here to fix that."

"He's all yours," the soldier offers, ushering us through with nod. "I'll just be here, unless things go bad."

At his approval we swiftly file past the door, our footsteps and voices reverberating through the armory's confines. A good portion of the occupants are our wounded, with a handful of acting medics-those competent enough to take up the role. They all stare back, a crowd of stunned figures barely able to process the sudden commotion.

"Everyone stay calm!" I declare, raising a hand up to placate any fears. "Anyone see him?"

"Visual, right there. Right there!" someone replies, trotting between a pair of stunned troopers.

"Major Fullerton sir!" Turner hollers as he follows the soldier's advance, "hands up, no sudden movements. Now!"

"W-what?" His face twists into a sea of confusion. Unbridled fear takes up residence in his eyes as he backtracks, inadvertently placing himself against the wall.

Douglas approaches the cornered man, holding out a thermographic camera. I peer over his shoulder, seeing the device mapping the scene ahead in vivid hues of deep blue. The heat map reveals nothing but a cool background, even with the Major directly in front. Just pale deep blue.

The strange revelation hits me hard, sending a cold shock through my veins. The thermals do not lie.

The man's trembling hands shoot up in self defense, his eyes unfocused and almost feral. Shallow breaths escape through parted lips, conveying only desperation as all eyes converge on him-the spotlight unrelenting.

"What does he look like," Turner questions, his weapon slightly raised.

Douglas keeps his silence at the mention, but eventually responds with a weak voice. "Cold, just cold. Something's not right with him."

I reach out, planting a firm grip on the Major's forearm. His hand still trembles as an icy chill seeps into my fingers, easily passing through the tactile gloves in mere seconds. The frigid sensation almost makes me recoil, but I bite down on the instinct, determined to unravel this enigma. This is what we came here for.

"You're gonna answer some questions," I say, forceful and demanding.

"No," the Major's eyes glaze over, a sinister smile creeping up his face, stretching unnaturally. In that moment, he loses all traces of personality, the sudden glint in his eyes casting an almost spiteful look with the added grin. A brief chuckle ensues as gray mist streams past his lips, its swirling tendrils carving through the air, an icy touch left in their wake.

Reacting swiftly, I twist his arm around intending to incapacitate the Major. The others move in amidst the chaos, their hands reaching past the growing fog. His arm slips from my fingers amidst the struggle as voices hollered and yelled, the intensity spiking as the Major is quickly swallowed up by the ethereal fog.

Multiple hands surge into the fray, their movements fueled by a sudden desperation to restrain the man hidden within. The swirling mist seemed to almost mock our efforts, obscuring any sign of our Commanding Officer. It twists and coils around our fingers, a cocoon of deep gray that only grew with each tenacious second.

"Back off!" a soldier clamors amidst the confusion, a distinctive clink resounding.

We all stand back, watching the lingering fog from a distance, forming a line against the sudden entity-weapons raised. Distant howls echoed within, the sharp painful shrieks a chorus of dozens, if not hundreds of ghastly voices.

As we maintain our defensive stance, the swirling gray mist slowly recedes, as did the hymn of voices leaving behind an eerie stillness that inspired only more unease. Soft rustling permeates within the dying fog as a vague outline settles beneath, the hushed descent barely audible even through the fading chorus of screams.

The fog eventually dissipates, revealing a pile of clothes at the base of what was once an impenetrable wall of misty gray. Before us is a ghostly echo of the Major's presence. A pungent stench of decay fills the air, assaulting my senses and intensifying the confusion burning through my mind.

Silence settles overhead, broken only by shallow breaths and hesitant footsteps. The Major's clothes are the only reminders of his existence, his physical whereabouts all but lost during the short but frightening ordeal. New unanswered questions loomed in the air as we all stood on the precipice of a hidden, darker truth.

Something sinister was at play. And we were nowhere close to finding the answers.

======

The only hope for the defeated, is to be treated with the barest of honor and dignity.

I have that, and so much more. Through their stern faces and dispassionate glares, is restraint and compassion. The bloodshed is over. No more violence in the name of Lord Generals and Captains.

Heavy footsteps break through the muse, the sounds drumming and inspiring fear. Perhaps it is a herald to yet another outburst, where their horrible trinkets stood ready to rob us of life, as it almost did at dawn.

How long has it been since then?

A dark figure trances upon my vision, joining the two soldiers on their silent vigil. The other Life Menders gaze up, fearful murmurs present in the lightest of voices. In his hands are no weapons but clenched fists. The man held a dangerous aura as he gazes upon us, powerful and without weakness-like a conqueror would to distant lands.

We are their subjects, powerless to any demand. The dull ache in my knees yearned for reprieve, but I could no longer afford such comfort. The freedom to move on my own accord, is robbed and replaced by a searing promise of death or... worse things, should I break these unspoken shackles.

Hushed tones preside between the three, and I again chance a glance up. Even with quiet tones, they spoke with weight. It certainly is not drivel if these side glances are to be believed.

Soon, the masked one approaches, fists still clenched-perhaps guided by lingering rage. That accursed helmet hides his face, but I may assume it is the same warrior from before.

Tears prickle at the corners as thoughts of the worst comes to shore, relentless like a wave about to break. They could do anything to us.

"No, please," I begged, meeting his unseen eyes, uttering the same words that perhaps spared poor Yana from an execution.

More words form, a final plea to stave off whatever coarse demands would fall upon us. Upon me. Yet they hung in my throat, stifled by fear and hesitation. A short whimper is all I could muster in the face of his unseen glare.

As the stare persists, I shrink back. Nothing good would come from testing his ire.

"Come on assholes, get up. All of you!" he decrees, arms sweeping wildly.

His commanding tone compels me to rise, a meagre courage born of compliance and nothing more. My aching knees are grateful for the reprieve, like the flourish of dew upon parched lips.

The others slowly rise, returning to a semblance of dignity and poise more befitting of those swearing fealty to the Black Hand. Yana is the last, her face shadowed between unkempt bangs. I look around, threading upon murky waters as the two warriors shuffle behind us, their frowns cemented like ancient battlements of wars long past.

The gesturing continues, spurring a few forward, their steps heavy and cautious. The masked warrior turns around, shepherding us out from our place of holding. Yellow rays shimmered just beyond the exit, a tantalizing murmur of freedom now within reach.

But with a turn, the man leads us away, delving back to the other passage. We follow, exchanging furtive glances, the whispers growing bolder without punishment. The walls drift by like dust, quick and without bother.

Distant groans echo through the dark hall as slivers of light hung ahead. The twists and turns are familiar. Could it be? A lone bed then slips by, once placed as a marker to serve as guidance for us in these dreary confines.

The pounding within grows, beating defiantly against my chest. Did the humans have the honor to spare our wounded, or worse? The pain of not knowing their fates is unbearable. This veil is one I must unravel. Until then, peace will elude me.

I exchange further glances with my fellow Menders. Our differences now mattered little.

"W-why bring us back?" Yana whispers, her voice tangible amidst the silence. No one answers.

The walls drift apart to reveal our former place of healing. With a final click of his heels, the masked one turns around, raising his palm against us. I heed his decree, legs trembling with an unsteady resolve.

I turn away from the warrior's imposing visage. Rows of beds stretch out to the left, stained deeply with blood. More of that vile red settle on the floor, painting a scene that one could only assume is a slaughter of innocents-a mosaic of death.

The anger bleeds through, forcing my lips back into a rightful snarl. This was to be a sanctuary, and here they defiled it. Evil is what their actions amounted to.

My legs buckle, but the sneer holds steady. "H-how could they." Tears stain my vision, but it is a welcome reprieve from witnessing such a horrible sight. Sobs and whimpers fill the silence as we gaze upon their slaughter-menders in mourning.

Is this their desire? To shatter our spirits and revel in our anguish. They... are better than this. So why, why bring us here? The humans are anything but petty. Inora would think the same had she stayed by my side.

Bless her spirit.

The veil is lifted, revealing a harsh truth that inspired only grief and anger of what had become of our wounded brethren. Few remained, still in need of our care.

"Alright, we can cut them loose," a soldier decrees, yet his words carried not menace, but a hint of softness.

Their daggers gleam in the darkness, plucked from their sheathes with an almost hushed resonance. Fear stills my heart as the sharpened edge nears. I want to yell, to scream against such an end, to fight tooth and claw for the right to draw breath. But the strength has long since faded.

The binds sink into my wrists, a reminder of my place. The world vanishes, until only that gleaming steel remains, edging closer with every moment. Closer to the watchful gaze of those who came before.

Is this how it ends, to die under a mender's eternal oath to never abandon her or his kin?

I close my eyes, accepting fate's decree upon me. The darkness spreads, quelling all thoughts of resistance. No reason left to fight. This is the end. Alone and given no mercy. How many soldiers harbored these thoughts as they lay dying, their bodies pierced or flesh seared.

A quick tug pulls my arms away, and I brace for the stab that is sure to come. The knife would find its quarry between the plates. A quick jab in the right place, a sharp twist, and the deed is done. Agony would surely accompany my last moments.

My eyes flutter open and I jerk back, yet the man's iron grip remains steadfast. The knife slips beneath my arms, plunging out of sight. It swiftly returns between my bound elbows, glinting with certainty. With another rough tug, the knife captures the binds in its edge, freeing me from these tight restraints.

Relief floods through me, though it is overshadowed by confusion. I meet the warrior's peerless gaze, tending to sore wrists as he watches behind that dark pane of glass. Somehow, in this moment between us, I feel it. A spark of shared honor. This man is not the same as that crude person. Different, untethered, and so much more.

"T-thank you, for sparing me," I meekly offer. He stands up, pointing to my kin upon the beds, muttering a harsh thread of words in his own tongue.

"If that's an insult, fuck you," he replies after a moment, gaze dipping to mine. What did he mean?

Amidst his steeled gaze, a bag lands on my knees with a muffled thud, thrown carelessly by a soldier. My heart sings with relief and I swiftly reach out with both hands, stroking the satchel with a fondness that belies my plight. It matters not that it was tossed rudely, my herbs and wound-wraps are safe with me once again.

I stand up, clasping the bag and hastening towards the maze of beds. Blood sloshes with each step, pools of dark red-almost black, yet to dry. An aftermath I dread to even think about. I can still help those that remain. This unforeseen kindness will not be squandered, on this I swear.

"It's okay now," I loom over a patient, hands gentle against sunken cheeks.

"R-run, if you must," he groans, lifting a weak hand. "Our legions will return to put an end to this... farce. May the Herald grant us vengeance in due time."

I frown, merely annoyed by his bravado. "It matters not, my oath is to you and those that remain."

"So be it," he relents, reclining back down with a huff and allowing me to treat him.

'Men and their pride...' I shake my head.

Without my scepter, the delicate art of mending flesh and bone eludes me. Anything but the most basic of mending is out of question. All I have are soothing words and herbs to ease the pain. Yet they are not needed.

His wounds are dressed, and gone are my old wraps. In their place are clean white threads bound tightly to skin. This is the work of dry mending. Not us, but them. Perhaps him, should he step forth to claim such compassion.

More of my mending sisters join me, looming over their kin as the ever watchful gaze of our wardens shadow our every move and concern. Caged, and watched like cattle.

We could honour our oaths, but only because they allow it. A fragile mercy granted in the wake of our sins against them.

I have much to be thankful for.

===end===

Till from our bones our flesh be hacked
And our skin seared

We march onwards as one
United in cause and banner

For the Empire and her provinces

-Esteemed Lord General Mina Ver'Yella, Battle of the Twinned Bastions.

17th Day of Autumn, Starwheel 106th

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AU : I will get back to the tradition of almost monthly uploads. You can count on it being sorta regular.