-2132 Military Hours, 5th May

It was quiet, except for the wind's slight rustling. In the midst of this solemn occasion, I find myself staring at the haunting visage of a tombstone. Grey and cracked, its deteriorated surface holds little uniformity upon closer inspection. The numerous little crevices, an unavoidable consequence from years of exposure to the elements.

Still, the inert piece of stone meant a lot. Its sentimental value remains the same to me, to the both of us. It was hard to forget the man who raised us, but harder still to accept things as they are. Even now, years down the road.

I raise a hand to wipe away the few offending tears obstructing my vision, reserving the other to comfort the quivering shoulder of my sister. Catherine settles over the tombstone, kneeling with her bangs masking her expression from me.

Ragged sniffles broke through her lips as Catherine places the small compliment of white flowers on our behalf, tracing her fingers lovingly over the letters carved onto the granite template.

'Andrew M. Simmons'

The name looms over my thoughts like a tarp, further trapping the sadness already present around me. The grief never lost its edge, not when it concerns him.

"We're here, Dad," Catherine begins meekly, wiping away coarse dirt from the tombstone. "Mom's on a double shift, so its only me and Jerome this year."

Remaining tight lipped, I kneel down beside Catherine, offering my sister a concerned look as she spirals into a troubled sob. Her soft wails continue for several minutes, showing no immediate signs of ending.

Breaking out of this silent demeanor, I turn to the final resting place of our Dad, issuing our heartfelt congratulations. "H-happy... birthday, Dad." I remark, the words sounding hollowed even with my best intentions.

There was no reply, and the tombstone remains silent. As I heave out a defeated sigh, a warm hand creeps up to my thighs.

Catherine gathers her composure, wiping the last of her tears. She exhales, facing me with an unusually attentive look.

"Promise me you won't end up like Dad. I know, it's too late to change your mind about the Marines. But please, take care of yourself," she pleads, her glistening eyes staring deeply into mine as she awaits a response.

"I will, you can count on that," I affirm. For Catherine, I will try to make that a certainty, she deserves that much at the very least. "You deserve this much from me." I say, vocalizing my internal monologue for her benefit.

She hums quietly, her lips gaining a slight inclination. "I'll still worry about you, nothing can change that. Even now."

A cold flush of air dips overhead as Catherine stares at me, her demeanor growing increasingly suspicious as she moves her hand up to my left cheek.

"Please be safe," she remarks, echoing the words methodically with increasing intensity. The hint of a frown on her lips never left, even as the environment breaks up into an indiscernible blur.

"Please be safe," Catherine repeats one last time hugging me tightly, allowing something else to fill the ambience, something familiar even if it was just a dull rumble. The constant drone of something blankets the surroundings as I look around, jolting up with my thoughts in partial disarray.

The metallic, dimly lit red hue of an aircraft's interior ferries me back to the present situation. My heartrate stammers briefly in the ongoing silence as the initial bouts of confusion dissipates over the next few seconds. The events over the past few hours run through my head, the mental scenery drifting by in mere seconds, the details coherent like a neatly formatted slideshow.

That experience was not real at all, Catherine was not real. She couldn't be.

'Just a dream, nothing significant,' I infer with a frown, drawing the conclusion as cold sweat breaks out over my skin.

Under normal circumstances, the experience would have piqued my curiosity. But now, it only serves to highlight the likely possibility of being cut off from Earth indefinitely. There is no option to return home, the statement is factual, and it was truly terrifying to consider for all of us, not just me.

The Valor dips slightly to the left, indicating a change in the aircraft's bearing as the intercom system issues a brief chime. The shift in inertia redirects my focus up onto the ceiling, expecting an announcement to chime in from the overhead speakers.

"Visegrad Outpost just ahead, looking as destroyed as ever," the lead Pilot informs with a hint of satire. "Stand-by for touchdown in two."

Conversation within the confines of the passenger cabin remains minimal, even as the ground comes up into view, visible only through night optics. The sparse greenery of the island fills up the windows on both flanks of the aircraft, the small openings offering a snippet into Visegrad's local topography.

"Final stop," Robert comments with a monotone voice, stepping out onto the smooth, sandy terrain of an alcove, his steps audible against the fine particles of sand.

I proceed with him, intending to leave the others inside. After giving a few details to keep those soldiers in the loop, I begin heading towards the outpost, trailing behind a few steps as the night sky reigns overhead, cloaking the shoreline in near complete darkness.

Spotting a peculiar shade through the green tint of night vision, I move closer to it, compelled by idle curiosity. "Found something," I say, passing off the comment as nothing but a brief show of interest.

Robert stops and turns around, offering an intrigued remark. "What is it?" He says, deciding to get closer.

Partially buried in the tidal zone of the beach, the unknown object was evidently malleable, its shape contorting with each passing wave. Crouching down for a better look, I activate the helmet's non-tactical auxiliary lights, the artificial rays beaming down on the unknown object with microscopic focus.

Across the short span of a few seconds, my mood takes a steep plunge upon coming to a stark realization. The exact nature of this thing was immediately apparent with the added clarity.

Disappointment fizzles out my lips in the form of a sigh, tapering off at the sides with a scowl. I stand up, turning off the auxiliaries.

This is something I've seen all throughout my life, a material present in almost every aspect of civilization. Though undeniably useful, it was not without its drawbacks, especially when it concerns the environment.

"Fucking plastic," I say, shaking my head in exasperation. This thing won't degrade for at least a few hundred years.

"Not even surprised. Seems like one of these zip-lock types the researchers use for samples," Robert answers with a small grunt, hardly fazed by the revelation.

"Come on, the Major's waiting for the two of us. X4's all ready to blow this place apart," he adds after a short pause, continuing his trek towards the defunct outpost.

Further signs of human habitation stretches across the dark, and ragged alcove, culminating in the unmistakable visage of the outpost just over fifty metres ahead. Without the specific demands of an ongoing scientific mission, the handful of prefabs comprising the outpost lies dormant, rendered irrelevant over something the researchers had no way of predicting.

I pan around, eyes pacing back and forth across the outpost, its eerie state complimenting the general mood of the Island's dark, and barren coastline. Cold air breezes by, the tips of my fingers picking up the chilling sensation. The temperature was low, maintaining a rough constant alongside the swelling waves on my right. It was nature, in her most pristine form. Something like this is an extreme scarcity of Earth.

I understood why the researchers pushed so hard for Visegrad's mission approval, had it been me in a similar position, I would likely be inclined to do the same. No one was to blame for this. We always were meant to push beyond our own capabilities, even if it had its risks.

'It's what makes us who we are," I absently conclude, letting the thought settle over the next minute or so, "For better, or worse."

"They, didn't have a chance," Robert offers, tone indicative of a scowl beneath his helmet as he surveys the dark expanse of terrain ahead. We are at the outskirts, staring right at the failed remnants of human habitation.

It was hard to quantify with words, exactly how I felt. Everywhere my eyes wandered, there are hints pointing towards the tale of a hard fought, but ultimately lost battle. Most of the prefabs still bore vicious signs of the assault, one way or another.

"Of course not," I answer back, unwilling to sink my thoughts deeply into that particular field. "How could they."

Rounding across a mostly intact habitation module, a sprinkle of artificial lighting in the distance catches my attention. Positioned sparsely against one another, the lights were accompanied with loosely humanoid figures, their general visage clear enough to surmise their identity.

Closely in line with my thoughts, the helmet's onboard IFF transponder systems positively identify the group, classifying them accordingly as friendly. These men were few, but a sight for weary eyes, even if they just were silhouettes marked in a thin blue outline.

Robert prods my upper arm, issuing a brief glance. "You do the honors?" he quips, the brief rhetorical enough to convey his intent. The operative advances without pause, taking measured steps along the paved concrete connecting all the major prefabs into a cohesive base of operations.

"Sure," I shrug, not thinking too deeply over his request, immediately alerting the group ahead through open communications. "Desert Actual, on final approach from your east."

A few healthy seconds pass before the expected reply comes in. "Understood. Please confirm, that you're advancing from habitation module three's direction, over," a male voice answers.

I turn back, squinting at the registered letters engraved onto the manufactured, gray-tinted exterior of the building. The prefix and associated numbers remain visible, the optics working reasonably well against the dark, monotonous night.

'HBT-03' It read, the characters coinciding nicely with the latest response on the radio.

"Affirm, that's us. Out," I acknowledge, lightly nodding to no one in particular.

We both make it to the group's position, visually identifying the Major alongside three other men. The first two are represented by members of Second Squad, their equipment a messy conglomerate of the standard UN battle dress. It was evident some parts were salvaged from whatever was left of the armory wing.

"There's bad news," the third, and final person speaks up. "None of them are flight-worthy. They technically are, but their internals are screwed up by whatever their soldiers did. We'll need more technicians and infrastructure to handle this, because I can't do it on my own."

"So they're a lost cause then," Robert deduces, throwing a glance at the aerial inventory of Visegrad. "That's really a waste," he shakes his head, muttering the candid expression with a sour tone.

The sole technician responds with a mirrored tone, begrudgedly steering the conversation ahead. "Unfortunately, yes. I suspect some sort of electronic interference by their CTEs. Though I doubt it's intentional, the effects aren't consistent when they attacked us. They could have done a lot worse," he states, almost factually so.

"These things only happen when their abilities are at play, probably a by-product. Whatever the case, they're dangerous folk," Robert interjects.

The technician scoffs, crossing his arms. "That's putting it lightly. Damn bastards were able to knock our birds out of commission."

One of the soldiers then steps forward, garnering everyone's attention. "X4's are set. The locals will be working with scrap by the time we're off this heap," he says, directing my gaze towards the loosely centralized network of wires running beneath our feet.

The weary soldier continues after a short pause. "We obviously don't have enough to completely destroy all sensitives. But it's the best we can do."

"Still better than nothing," I muse. At the very least, we adhered to standard operating procedures to the best of our ability. With one, pressing exception.

Turning towards the Major, I squeeze out that little hint of accusation from my tone before addressing him formally. My suspicions are mounting, but it will have to wait.

"Major," I begin, addressing him with the necessary respect. "All military survivors accounted for. The injured are on Outrigger-2, speeding back towards Tartarus at full speed. Outrigger-1 is on station nearby, and will be able to extract us once final explosive checks are done."

Taking my report with a stern façade, Fullerton offers slight nod. "Then let's not waste any more time Lieutenant. You're Demolitions' Spec, you've got the final word on the X4 charges."

"We'll make it quick, should be as simple as one final look over. X4's relatively simple to work with," I remark, padding Robert on the shoulder to assist with inspections.

We head over to the networked bundle of high-impact explosives. The improvised wiring was crude, forming a rudimentary web spanning a good portion of the outpost. Individual packets are placed at intervals no more than ten meters from one another in a loosely grid-like pattern, making our job slightly easier.

Still, we had a lot of ground to cover. And so we begin the lengthy process with the minutes piling up, until eventually I lost count entirely. It was tedious, but it had to be done.

======

Satisfied, I give the group confirmation. "Everything checks out, charges primed and synced correctly. It should respond to the arming signal," I announce, brandishing the detonator carefully in my hand.

The safety latch covering the button is still closed for safe measure. From this point on until the moment of detonation, this thing is incredibly dangerous, and should be handled with the necessary precaution it deserves. With the X4 charges ready, I wasn't taking any chances of an accidental misfire. Working with live explosives is always a dangerous affair.

"Anything else we need to do?" Robert inquires.

One of the soldiers answers, "No, I think we're done here. We've rifled through this place hours ago. Only found some research docs, barely anything else left for us," the Corporal relates, shrugging under an air of despondency.

"Then, I guess we can go now," I remark, turning to face the Major for his input.

"We can," the man affirms.

Reaching an agreement, everyone proceeds towards the resting Valor, myself included. This will be the last, and final time any one of us would be here. To me, this is a weight off my shoulders, but at the same time, a bittersweet moment.

I turn around one last time, capturing the bleak scenic landscape into memory. The structures lie dormant, their organized visage directly contrasting the natural outline of sparse greenery. No one would make that observation again.

'Not any human at least," I mentally add, continuing to survey the area.

A small unnatural outcrop situates itself along the outer rim of my peripherals, partially embedded between a set of trees further inland. Drawn to the oddity, I redirect my eyes to it. The act proves to be a mistake, something I could do without.

Heated anger settles over my vision, a tinge of clouded red strewn against the calm green of night optics. It was an improvised mass grave, little more than a footnote at first glance. This was where they were laid to rest, the unfortunate members of Taskforce Anvil. More than twenty confirmed dead.

"Godspeed people," I murmur, imparting a brief prayer for those who ventured into the Rift, and will never return home. At the very least, the Elven inhabitants had the decency to bury them. Good on them to consider that, even after their disproportionate casualties.

Keeping those people close to heart, I turn around, leaving this all behind, forever. It didn't matter if this left a black mark over everyone's record, it is over. As bleak as things are, there is a semblance of comfort to be felt upon reaching the mission's conclusion.

I am still alive. Breathing and going strong. This was my light at the end of a long, and disastrous tunnel.

Arriving at the Valor's familiar visage, I conclude the retrospective with a clearer state of mind. Still nested between my fingers, I remove the detonator's safety latch in preparation to fire the signal.

Getting a foothold onto the passenger cabin, I spring myself up and onto the aircraft's crowded interior, navigating around the mass of bodies and left over equipment.

"Fourteen, thats all of us," someone chimes over the engine's constant reverb, referencing my arrival. "We're ready to go."

"He's in, we're cleared. Get us up, and away from this hellhole," another voice instructs, originating at the cabin's opposite end. The urgent, and obviously deep tone suggested it was Robert who made that call.

Under a slight shift of gravity, the ground rapidly trails out of sight, racing away as the Valor climbs higher into the atmosphere. Gripping a handle tightly to compensate for the inertia, I bounce along a brief remark before partially reopening the side door.

"Head's up everyone," I announce, yanking the metallic barrier to the side a few inches, enough to poke my head out into the rushing winds. The high altitude winds hurtles past my helmet, buzzing around the exterior and producing a deafening howl.

Facing the rear, the barely discernable visage of Visegrad outpost hovers beneath, appearing as a murky outline against the Island's retreating visage.

With the observation settling at the forefront, I inch my thumb towards the detonation lever. This is it, the final mark of our presence. The locals would have hated this, but their opinions are irrelevant. If not for asset denial, I would have still agreed to this out of spite at least.

Flicking the switch up, I hold the position for several tense seconds, my hand registering a mild buzz in the process. Violent flashes of light springs up on the island's northernmost regions, the resulting shockwave impacting my senses after a considerable delay.

"Is it done?" Robert interjects over local comms.

"Done and dusted, outpost is history," I respond in kind, pulling up the night optics for a more natural perspective. The raging fires quickly settled, sinking into the midnight scenery. Not even a hint of rubble remained visible through the thick blanket of darkness, so I did not bother squinting.

This certainly is an anti-climactic affair all things considered. The island's misty outline soon sinks over the horizon, bleeding into obscurity, eventually forcing my gaze elsewhere. The glimmering specks above would be the next to draw my attention.

The stars above shone with unmarked clarity. Easily numbering in the thousands, the far off celestial pinpricks of light pierced through the cloudless sky, anointed under every shade imaginable. Peering deeper into the cosmic field, I could even picture what seemed to be distant nebulas, cast in an endless array of shapes.

None of the cities back on Earth could ever amount to this level of detail. There was just too much light pollution. The dark expanse above was different, but still beautiful, even though its stars are different from Earth's.

"Just... incredible," I murmur, keeping a firm hold on my bewilderment, pulling my head back into the confines of the passenger cabin. I shove the door back into position, engaging the locking mechanism.

"So, what now," Collins reflects, her eyes cast at mine. The woman's injured leg lay fixed in position, tight wraps securing her wounds from sight.

"Sit tight, and wait," I reply, referencing the flight's duration. "It's a long trip, several hours." Acquiring an empty seat adjacent to Collins, I entertain a few passing thoughts before addressing the awkward silence.

Lowering my pitch, I spare a momentary glance at the Major before proceeding. The subject is a little dicey, but deserves to be addressed eventually. Better now, rather than later.

"Can't say I condone the things Fullerton's done. He's going against multiple directives just telling the locals who we are," I secretly divulge, giving the woman a brief show of honesty.

"He's been acting like this ever since they dragged him away," Collins admits, returning her thoughts with a whisper. "A few of us tried asking, but he won't budge. It's like, talking to an entirely different person. But he got us out alive, that's got to count for something at least."

I fold my arms, not impressed with the revelation. "Doesn't excuse him though. But its not my job to drill him on that," I counter with a shrug. "Brass will handle it once we get back to Tartarus."

Sinking my back into the seat, I secure myself further using the buckles streaming out from the side, clipping the straps over my hips and chest. With several hours of flight-time separating us from Tartarus, it meant ample opportunities to address the pressing concerns of sleep deprivation. Everyone appears fully intent on taking advantage of this peaceful interlude, and I am no exception.

Flicking the safety back on, I dip a hand underneath my weapon, unloading the magazine. I peer from the top to gather a rough estimate. The small caseless fero-magnetic rounds glinted slightly underneath my gaze.

'Roughly a quarter left, that amounts to around 20 or so bullets.' I mentally infer, placing the unloaded magazine into one of my unoccupied frontal pouches.

The others are tired, most having their heads dipping. No one made the effort for idle conversation, there was no energy left for such an activity. The overall mood, although cold, is somewhat amicable.

With nothing left demanding a state of constant alert, my lids eventually grow weary. This is a good time as any to pass out. With each passing moment, the clarion call seemed ever more enticing, beckoning me to let loose.

The rumble of engines slowly faded into obscurity. Consciousness soon leaves, drifting into the dark cradle of slumber, pulling me along with it.

======
-0142 Military Hours, 6th May

Yawning to get the fog out of my system, I head through the cabin door, greeting the two pilots.

"Just checking in," I say, affirming my intentions. Sparing a brief look at the time, my estimates put the elapsed travel time to be almost four hours. That should mean this was final leg of the trip.

"If you're curious, we're back in friendly airspace," the Co-Pilot answers, attention steady on the various flight control instruments. "Recently passed over Easter's Ridge, so Tartarus isn't far off from where we are now. Fifteen minutes out, give or take a few."

"Good, everyone's itching for an actual bed. Maybe even a shower, if there's enough water for it." I comment, peering through the aircraft canopy, attempting to discern any semblance of detail through the acrylic glass. There is still nothing but stars, and the black void between them.

A monotonous silence soon follows after the observation, lasting for several minutes. The pilots evidently did not mind my prolonged stay, eventually opting for idle conversation. The topics discussed were light, and at times random. It made for quite a bit of entertainment, and several grins manage to break through my façade with the ice defrosting between the three of us.

Taking the reigns unexpectedly, the lead Pilot shifts the conversation down a serious road, addressing my question head on with a startling revelation.

He briefly turns, curiosity latching onto his voice. "Halfway through, we spotted a few ships in transit, low tonnage class. It's the only thing of note while you guys were asleep back there. Hard to miss something like that out in the middle of the ocean," he answers.

I raise my voice slightly, "The locals?"

"Definitely," he confirms, still keeping that side glance going. In spite of the implications, the pilot's tone remains steady as he continues.

"Current heading estimates puts those ships right on course with those coastal ruins I mentioned earlier. Likely a screening element for the rest of the main fleet, at this rate, it's looking like a full invasion force."

I hide the growing scowl, relaying a sigh out my lips instead before answering. "We've got the Major to thank for that. Only God knows how much he kept his tongue rolling."

"Still can't believe it," the Co-pilot remarks after a scoff.

"That goes for almost everyone else," I say, feeling a headache creeping along my scalp.

Giving these men a parting remark, I head back to the passenger cabin, stepping into its tight constraints. Everyone looks to be asleep, and is presumably none the wiser about my prior absence. It felt good to know everyone is enjoying this much deserved rest.

The monotonous drone of the Valor's twin rotors lulls my senses as I waited. Only one thing held my focus as I sat, encased in my own thoughts. Tartarus Base is a bastion of rational and familiarity, the only thing I knew as a certainty amidst all of... this.

As it stands, these exceptional circumstance are uncalled for. And that list kept growing with each passing day, showing no signs of alleviating, much to my dismay.

An unknown amount of time passes before I register an abrupt change in the Valor's inertia. The aircraft executes a rough bank to the left, forcing me against the seat. Several shouts ring out across the cabin as people are roused from their sleep, heads drifting hazily from the sudden interruption.

"The hell was that about?" Robert says, getting up to his feet.

Further adding to the tension, the bone chilling shrill of klaxon alarms burns away the peaceful interlude. The sharp cries ring out from the ceiling, echoing fiery inside the cabin, amplifying its volume. Still glowering dimly above, the red tactical lights offered a grim constant as the ambience rapidly descends into controlled chaos.

"Lads, we may have trouble ahead, someone get on the door gun. Right side, two o'clock and incoming," the urgent, lighter pitched voice of the Co-pilot relays over the intercom.

Immediately springing into action, I skirt around the seating configuration to reach the cabin's right side. This had me pondering on what exactly had the pilots spoked. We were so close to Tartarus, the implications this held was nothing short of alarming.

Before my thoughts can spiraled out of control, I shake myself out of it, shelving this for later. Whatever the case, it was out of my hands.

"I got the door, everyone brace for pressure loss!" Douglas interjects, swiftly disengaging the locking mechanism. He pushes the door aside, the frame quickly disassociating itself from the rest of the fuselage.

I rush straight towards the Valor's standard issued DX-37 door gun, releasing several latches and bolts along its exterior in quick succession. Fitting myself with a safety harness, I clip the strand-like buckles to an external junction on my belt.

Thrusting the mounted weapon out towards the windy exterior, I conclude its deployment by swiveling the inactive barrel out into the distance, armoured cheek resting gently against the stock. The cold, turbulent winds immediately came to assault my forearms upon exposure to the elements presented outside.

Thankfully, the advent of some much needed adrenaline further emboldens my resolve against the rapidly decaying warmth as I held onto the handle with a tenacious grip, not daring to look down for even a moment.

"50 Cal's on me," I yell, resting an index against the trigger, watching over the skies for anything of note, specifically in the direction specified by the Co-pilot.

On local comms, I voice out an inquiry, "Gentlemen, what's the situation. What are we up against."

"Unidentified fast movers, at least three contacts engaged in active pursuit. Unlikely to be wildlife, too organized. They've got Outrigger 2 cornered, she's trying to speed back southwards."

A cold wave of dread lurches forward as I stammer back with a reply, "W-what about Tartarus."

Worried glances are thrown between everyone as my question hangs in the air. The next few seconds seemed to stretch as I wait for an answer, worry piling on with the palpable tension draped overhead.

"... no response, dark on all frequencies. We can't raise anyone," the pilot replies, drawing out the revelation over what seemed like an insurmountable amount of time. In reality, it barely went past five or so seconds.

Time slows to a crawl as it dawns on me, that the absolutely worst case scenario might have happened. I immediately shift the night vision googles back into position, the familiar tint of green supplementing my efforts in maintaining a constant vigil ahead.

Appearing as little more than an indiscernible mesh, the rapidly approaching form of the twin Valor enters my outlying peripherals. Banking a hard left, the aircraft executes a swift turn, hurtling past my vision with her three pursuers mustering their own appropriate course corrections to continue the chase.

"They're banshees, those are indig' forces," I murmur, eyes widening under a glint of recognition, and growing concern. The animal's aerodynamic profile, coupled with the familiar glint of an armored individual centered on the animal's back made it impossible to assume anything else.

"Only Euralians have them," Douglas offers, filling in the context for everyone. "They aren't suppose to have these creatures flying over our airspace, that wasn't the deal."

"Fuck it," Robert lets an expletive, bolting off to the opposite side of the Valor. Quickly assuming the role of door gunner on the cabin's opposite side, he readies his attention out the exterior for any signs of aggression, the turret mounted DX-37 swiveling periodically in systematic arcs.

"Thought you said we had some kind of deal with those nutters?" Collins offers her opinion, getting up from her seat with a limp.

"We did," Douglas answers with a hollowed tone, casting a reminiscent look outside. "Always thought that was a mistake by command," he says.

Tracking the contacts, I zero in on the target closest to Outrigger 2. At this distance, there was nothing I could do but observe the situation. I felt powerless in preventing what might happen next. The Banshees draw closer to the aircraft, their gaping shrills etched in the background as I mentally prepared to witness the worst.

In a surprising turn of events, flashes of light erupt from the distant Valor. Tracer rounds bleed out into the night, filling the sky with a sudden display of orange streaks as the chatter of high caliber gunfire reaches my ears.

Almost immediately the three Banshee pursuers break off, heading southwards with the one in the rear constantly loosing altitude. I curl into a firing stance, bracing my finger against the trigger, ready to fire at the slightest hint of hostility.

"Targets breaking off, circling around," the Pilot informs over the local channel.

"I'm on them," I return, keeping the weapon trained on the aerial group.

The three Banshees glide closer, still maintaining their trajectory. The last was still falling further behind, dipping well below a hundred feet. It was safe to assume the animal and its rider were hit buy a round or two.

Soon enough, the two surviving Banshees glide past my vision, making a beeline towards our destination. There it lay just within limits of my vision, the definitive peaks surrounding our home base. Something horribly wrong happened inside that mountain range, I could feel it radiating as a fact as I lose my gaze to the familiar outline of jagged peaks and rolling hills.

I weigh my options, contemplating for some time before sticking with a particular course of action. A resigned expression settles as I turn to address everyone in the cabin.

I let out a cough to gather my nerves. "There's no doubt about it. Tartarus is compromised. To what extent, it's anyone's guess. We'll need to change that," I say.

"Then what do you suggest, some kind of special recon, maybe direct action?" Davis counters, limping to my position. The others held a distance, maintaining a silent façade, as if unwilling to be placed in a position of accountability.

"No one's in any condition for that. Desert's the only unit left still at full strength," the British national reasons, shooting me a pensive look. "You're not seriously..."

"I am," I answer, knowing fully what the operative meant. I turn to my Second-In command, fully immersed in adrenaline. "How's our ammunition and supplies."

He regards me with a straight posture, helmet visor keeping all but his voice a mystery. "We're good on Mag' rounds for our rail rifles. It'll do unless we're up against anything larger than a company sized force."

Robert interjects from the other side, relaying his assessment on the team's tactical drone inventory. "Our Black Vipers should be ready to provide whatever we need if we proceed with this. There's bound to be Banshees over our heads, they'll keep us on our toes against them if nothing else."

I turn on my heels, facing the windy exterior with a heavy heart. Frustration continues to build up as I lift a hand up to my temple.

Broadcasting my intentions over the channel, I keep a steady hold on my tone. "Pilots, bring us as close as you can to Eden Pass. We're fast roping in to ascertain the situation."

"Copy that Lieutenant, standby. We'll swoop in low and get you over to the target site."

Switching to open comms, I direct my next set of words towards the fourth member of the fireteam. The only operative with the necessary background to handle our wounded, and the one that needed to stay behind out of necessity.

"Desert Actual to three, continue to monitor casualties onboard Outrigger-2. The rest of the team will leg off to determine the state of Tartarus," I announce.

"Desert three to Actual, u-understood," James answers curtly, a hint of dejection present in that brief pause at the end.

"... fuck this," I murmur, thankful for the visor disguising my rapidly deteriorating demeanor. It's been one bad thing after another ever since we lost Expedition six, more than a month ago.

As the Valor descends below to the cover of the mountains, I take the chance to get my equipment back in shape. Undertaking the standard prerequisites, I reload my weapon, did a brief diagnostic over the armor's systems and doubled down on the two sidearms I had planted on both thighs.

I spare a glance on the other half of my team, seeing similar procedures being undertaken by Douglas and Robert in the calm before the eventual drop. Grim outlooks were cast between the three of us. The mountains offered a relatively low outline in the north, with one section dipping into a rough, but traversable gorge.

'That is it.' I realize, the thought echoing as I grab the rope, sending it tumbling down.

"Fullerton's been awfully quite, keep an eye on him. Haven't heard a word from him since the Banshees," I grab Davis by the shoulder, whispering the favour close to his ear.

He nods placing his helmet on, identical to mine in every way barring the Union Flag plastered at the back. "I will." The operative affirms, sending a cursory glance at the Major positioned at the rear end, face betraying a suspicious outlook.

The rope dangles before me, oscillating violently against the downwash present overhead. My hands cling to the military grade cords and I jump, allowing the tug of gravity to pull me down to the Earth. I land in the midst of a lush thicket of greenery, taking a few initial steps before going flat on my belly.

I tuck my weapon close to the chest while surveying the narrow pass ahead, taking note of general topography, possible ambush points, and unidentified heat signatures. I spot the base on the horizon, barely visible against the backdrop of inky darkness, its artificial lighting grid fully inactive. In its place, rose a system of yellow lanterns, murky pillars of smoke and roaming silhouettes trekking through the area.

None of them registered on the IFF system, this was bad.

Douglas and Robert comes up beside me, and I ease up to a standing position. We stay on the move, trotting slowly and inching closer to the valley ahead, weapons on full alert, forming a loose wedge that ended with me on the left.

My anticipation was building as we press into the gorge, advancing quickly through the narrow passage. We snake our way into the larger valley without any interference. From there, we had a complete view of the situation inside the mountains. It was worse than I imagined.

Multiple friendly tags flashed throughout the entire area, patterned on my HUD. They were scattered all over my field of view, unmoving, their small medical indicators flashing a constant purple, deceased.

Douglas and Robert takes up residence in a nearby depression in the dirt, setting up an overwatch as I identified a point of interest in the form of a nesting group of Banshees.

I take a knee by them. "Multiple KIA's on our front," I say, the rush compelling me to consider the unthinkable.

"Looks to be everyone," Douglas affirms, breaking through with a seething tone. "Burn marks everywhere, likely more inside those buildings."

Robert opts to let out a couple of Black Vipers as we skirt around to the west, setting up a new, more optimal kill-zone to overlook the Airpads and more in the relative safety of the hills eight hundred metres out.

He takes his eyes off the scope, frantically relaying his findings. "There's movement everywhere, don't know how but I think they're on to us."

"Relay what we've found to the pilots," I hastily urge, settling deeper into the sloped depression.

"Then what?" Douglas questions, setting up a bipod to support his weapon just like I'd suggested.

At the question, I look away, resigning myself to answering it as honestly as I can. Even then, I did not think it would suffice.

"Do what we have to." I scan the feed from the drones, noting the numbers of the Euralians in and around Tartarus. They were beginning to consolidate. It was still doable, only if the Banshees were taken out of the equation.

I aim my weapon down at an angle of depression, instructing the others to do the same. We were prepared to leap beyond the point of no return, and so we did.

I pull the trigger whilst hugging the ground, scope directly in line with those creatures. Their painful wails echoes just as loud as my rifle as the ambience explodes into a chattering mess of gunfire and modified tracer rounds.

===end===

As I write this, Ukrainian Forces are battling against their Russian counterparts for the very right to exist as a Sovereign Nation. The lines between both sides are blurred.

From now on, when people mention the battle for Kiev, there will be two. One from World War two, and now. History is upon us, and I hope this does not serve as a prelude to World War 3, or else I fear the worst.

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