Above Thrysa,
the velvet-black canvas of the night sky was pierced by a million distant stars—cold pinpricks of light adrift in a vast cosmic ocean.
More prominent still were the twin moons, hanging low and full in the sky, their cratered faces bathed in pale, diffused glow.
They loomed side by side, casting an ethereal sheen across the world below. Amid that quiet majesty, the silhouettes of Xarcarion's battleships drifted across the void, lurking in orbit like silent predators, their hulking shadows barely distinguishable from the surrounding black.
On the planet's surface,
the living darkness of the Thrysan forest consumed all but the strongest light. Every tree loomed alike: tall, primeval, surreal—massive trunks rising like silent sentinels into the gloom above.
Bioluminescent mosses and hanging vines clung to bark, casting a sickly glow that warred with the pale moonlight filtering through the dense canopy.
The air was thick and warm, drenched in the scent of damp earth and decaying alien flora, mingled with the cloying sweetness of the glowing fungi.
Now and then, a sharp tang of ozone drifted by, hinting at distant energy discharges or the presence of unseen predators.
The ground beneath was treacherous:
slick mud that clung to boots with soft schlorps, gnarled roots like petrified serpents coiled across the path, and spongy organic matter that yielded with an unsettling squelch. A cool mist lingered just above the earth, brushing bare skin like a ghost's breath.
Then came the sound—rhythmic, distinct.
Splash. Splash. Splash.
Boots broke the jungle's quiet symphony, trudging forward through muck and shadow.
Crackle...Whizz!
"This is Vox-Operator Crimson(Assault) Zamrad(Squad) Seven—repeat, C.Z. Seven! Can anybody hear me?"
A soldier's voice crackled through the gloom. Clad in crimson carapace armor that swallowed what little light touched it, he spoke into his Vox-caster, voice taut with urgency and rising dread.
Sizzzz.
Only static answered his plea, a maddening hiss of empty air.
He sighed, the sound heavy with resignation, and lowered the vox unit, its screen flickering uselessly in the gloom.
Turning around, his gaze swept over the immediate surroundings, met only with the stark, brutal reality of their situation: the wreckage of an Arvus Lighter.
The transport had gone down hard—its Mephiston Red hull scorched and scarred, a jagged tear running along its side.
It lay on its side like a gutted beast, cockpit shattered into glittering shards, one wing torn clean away from its fuselage and now impaled into the trunk of a massive, fungal-laden tree ahead, a grotesque monument to their crash.
From behind the shattered mass of the wreckage, another soldier emerged. His armor was scuffed and grimy, but he moved with a strained determination, his shoulders hunched under the weight of an injured comrade he carried.
The injured man was limp, his own carapace battered, and a dark, spreading stain marred his side.
Then,
from the Vox-Operator's right flank, a third man walked forward, his posture authoritative despite the dark, alien environment.
He held a laspistol loosely in one hand, its barrel gleaming faintly in the sparse light.
His gaze, sharp and assessing, immediately fell upon the injured soldier.
"How many survived, Olan?" the man before him asked, his voice low and gruff, cutting through the damp air.
—
Olan, carefully putting his injured friend down against the cold, scarred metal of the wreckage, let out a ragged sigh.
He shook the excess blood from his gauntleted hand, the dark drops vanishing into the muddy ground.
"Just us four here, Rylos."
He looked towards the pale, unmoving form of the injured man.
"Kars should wake up soon, though one of his ribs is fractured."
—
"Mhm." Rylos nodded, a grim line set on his face. He then turned to meet the Vox-Operator's gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly in the dim light.
"What about you, Selka? Any injuries?"
—
"None physically, Lochagos (Squad Leader)." Selka answered, his voice steady despite the obvious strain of their situation.
He instinctively touched the vox-unit on his shoulder, a silent testament to the failure that weighed on him more than any wound.
—
"Good, then man the fuck up and help Olan carry Kars."
Rylos muttered, his tone clipped and unforgiving, before his attention shifted to the gleaming laspistol in his hand, checking its charge pack with a practiced, almost bored flick of his thumb.
Selka moved as commanded, walking over to Olan. Together, with a grunt of effort, they carefully lifted Kars. The abrupt motion woke the man up, still dizzy and confused.
He blinked slowly, his eyes trying to focus on the dim, alien shapes around him.
"Selka? Olan? We are alive?" Kars rasped, taking a deep, shuddering breath that ended in a wet cough, a fleck of blood appearing at the corner of his lips.
—
"Take it easy, Kars. Your rib is broken," Olan interrupted, his voice hushed but firm, already reaching for a med-pack on his belt.
Cough-Cough.
Kars shook his head, wincing, then squinted his eyes, looking around at the surreal wreckage and the unfamiliar, glowing jungle.
"Where is everyone else?"
Rylos walked forward, his boots squelching softly in the mud, planting himself directly in Kars's blurry line of sight. His voice was flat.
"All dead, but we still need to finish our mission. Can you move by yourself, Kars?"
—
"Yes. Yes, I think so."
Kars responded, his voice weak but firming, and he nodded at Selka and Olan to release him.
Slowly, they removed their arms from under his armpits. Kars swayed precariously for a moment, then slowly regained his footing, his crimson armor creaking faintly. He reached a gloved hand to his side, touching his fractured rib, and winced slightly as a sharp stab of pain lanced through him.
—
"Check your equipment, take extra mags from the fallens if you need to," Rylos ordered, his voice cutting through the humid air with unwavering authority.
"I have no idea where we are, but this place will soon attract unwanted attention, we need to move."
—
"Aye, Lochagos."
They answered in unison, voices laced with exhaustion, depression, and pain. A common feeling in this galaxy.
As they checked their gear, loading their las-rifles, the metallic clicks sharp in the pervasive quiet, and gathering necessary equipment from their fallen comrades, a grim efficiency settled over the trio. Pouches were inspected, power packs swapped, and spare grenades secured.
Each movement was a silent acknowledgment of their predicament, a desperate preparation for the unknown.
Rylos, meanwhile, walked back to the fractured ramp of the Arvus Lighter. The interior of the downed transport was a tableau of horrors: twisted bodies, bones poking grotesquely from the fresh, dark wounds in flesh, organs spilled across the mangled deck plating, and jagged metal frames pierced through some of the fallen.
A chilling, metallic odor mingled with the humid air.
Rylos reached into his utility pouch, retrieved a single incendiary grenade, and with a soft click that seemed deafening in the silence, pulled the pin.
"This is the best I can do, I'm sorry,"
he whispered, his voice barely audible above the chirping, a private apology to the dead.
He tossed the grenade into the ship's ravaged maw before turning sharply and walking back towards the living his silhouette briefly illuminated by the faint glow of the Thrysan fungi.
Boom!
The explosion blossomed into a huge bonfire, a searing orange and yellow against the green bioluminescence of the jungle.
Flames immediately consumed the ship, a final, brutal farewell to the fallen. The heat washed over them in a sudden wave, making the humid air shimmer.
"Our watches should be calibrated for local time,"
Rylos spoke, his voice cutting through the roar of the fire as he produced a small, utilitarian chronometer from his wrist, examining its display.
"Morning will come in about 40 hours. Let's find shelter and bunker down 'til then."
He finished, his gaze sweeping the alien tree line, before moving past the three, leading them away from the pyre.
Olan followed suit, his heavy boots squelching in the mud, his eyes fixed on Rylos's crimson-clad back.
Selka and Kars fell in right behind him, their movements slower, more deliberate, but without hesitation.
The inferno of their transport cast long, flickering shadows, momentarily illuminating their grim faces as they stepped away from the wreckage and into the deeper, oppressive embrace of the Thrysan night.
The rhythmic splash-splash-splash of their boots began anew, a faint counterpoint to the distant crackle of the fire behind them.
"There were ten."
Kars muttered, his voice hoarse, the reality of their losses settling over him like a cold shroud despite the warmth of the burning Lighter. He sighed, a shaky breath that hitched on his damaged rib.
—
"And then four,"
Selka replied, his own voice heavy with a profound sadness, the memory of his failed vox-casts undoubtedly echoing in his mind.
—
"At least they won't come back as corpse-starch!"
Kars pushed Selka forward gently, a morbid attempt to lighten the suffocating mood with a grim jest.
"We can only move forward, my friend."
—
The dark humor, however brief, seemed to prickle the heavy air, a tiny, defiant spark in the vast gloom. The tension in Selka's shoulders eased, almost imperceptibly, and even Olan, walking ahead, seemed to square his stance with renewed purpose.
With the atmosphere now a fraction less burdened, they continued moving.
—
"What do you think caused the ship to crash?" Kars asked, curious.
—
"I don't know," Rylos answered, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
"It could be anything from a shitty pilot to an engine failure. Doesn't matter."
—
"It might not be so," Selka answered.
"When I looked out the window, there was a shimmering blue light coating the wing, it looked like it was pulling the wing from the ship." He speculated morbidly.
—
"It could have been the ship's shield reacting the re-entry, right?" Kars spoke, trying to brush it off.
—
"But we were too low to get any friction, though" Selka whispered, more to himself.
—
"Just forget about it, it doesn't matter" Rylos stopped this discussion from distracting them any further.
—
They continued progressing through the Thrysan forest. The ground, perpetually slick with mud and hidden roots, made every step a careful calculation.
The bioluminescent flora, while providing some light, also created disorienting patches of shifting color – glowing moss that looked like spilled viscera, bell-shaped fungi that pulsed with an internal, sickly green, and vines that shimmered with an unsettling violet.
The humid air, thick and cloying, seemed to resist every breath, pressing in on them. The constant symphony of unseen life, the chirps and distant howls, felt less like a natural chorus and more like the watchful murmurs of a hostile world.
They kept their weapons ready, scanning the undulating shadows that writhed between the glowing trees, each snap of a twig or unseen rustle setting nerves on edge. Kars, despite his assertion, occasionally winced, a quiet gasp escaping him, but he kept pace, a testament to grim discipline.
"You have kids, right, Mister Olan?" Selka asked, his voice breaking the strained silence, a sudden, almost vulnerable question echoing amidst the alien chirps and croaks.
—
"Two girls," Olan answered, his voice a little softer than before, a rare warmth seeping into his tone.
He met Selka's eyes for a moment over his shoulder, and a determined smile, faint but unmistakable, touched his lips before he turned back to the arduous trek.
"And I wish to see them grow up."
—
"Don't you have a girl that you fancy? What is her name again, Milla?"
Olan then asked, his voice returning to its usual gruffness but tinged with a hint of curiosity, shifting the focus from his own personal longing to Selka's.
—
Selka touched his helmet in awkwardness, a visible flush creeping up his neck despite the dim light. A small, shy smile played on his lips.
"Her name is Millie—"
—
Before he could elaborate, or even finish the name,
Rylos's right fist shot into the air, a silent, sharp command.
The conversational murmurs died instantly. The boots ceased. The alien chirps and croaks of the forest, which had been a constant, oppressive background, now seemed to fade, replaced by an unnerving, profound silence.
Rylos's left hand signaled swiftly, a rapid sequence of gestures: a flat palm down, then two fingers tapped against his helmet, then a sweeping motion towards the ground.
His voice, a low, guttural whisper that seemed to absorb the very air around them, followed the silent commands.
"Footsteps. Locals. Ready to shoot."
They formed a tight circle, their backs pressed against each other, the hard ceramite of their armor a cold comfort. Las-rifles were brought up in unison, muzzles aimed into the surrounding gloom, safety catches clicked off with hushed finality.
The only sound now was the ragged breathing inside their helmets and the faint, almost imperceptible squelch... squelch... squelch of heavy, unseen steps growing closer.
The guttural murmuring, now distinct from the jungle's usual symphony, grew louder, suggesting multiple forms.
From Selka's side, a shadowed form, elongated and distorted by the pulsing lights of the fungi, suddenly cast itself upon the slick bark of a massive, glowing tree.
It was unmistakably humanoid in outline, but the shadow was crowned with jagged, sharp horns, and its bulk suggested a thick, shaggy fur.
A beastman was stalking, just out of their direct line of sight, its presence chillingly confirmed by the flickering, unnatural illumination.
Then,
the branches on the trees began to shake violently, not just from a single beast, but from multiple points above and around them.
A cascade of phosphorescent leaves, some glowing, some dark and decaying, rained down onto the muddy ground. The squelch of unseen footsteps amplified, now coming from all directions.
The guttural murmurs coalesced into a low, bestial growl that seemed to vibrate through the very air.
Enemies were everywhere. The glowing fungi around them, once a source of eerie beauty, now served only to highlight the monstrous shapes emerging from the deeper shadows, or the ominous, horned silhouettes shifting in the canopy above.
The locals were no longer just a distant threat, but a tangible, encircling nightmare.
"Duck, Keep your eyes on the ground!"
Rylos whispered urgently, his voice cutting through the mounting tension, a sharp command that admitted no hesitation.
They obeyed, dropping low, their gazes sweeping the muddy, root-tangled earth.
Just as the first low growl erupted directly overhead, followed by the heavy thud of something impacting a branch above them, Rylos, with a practiced, fluid motion, pulled a stun grenade from his belt.
Whoosh!
BANG!
The grenade detonated high above them, an explosive flash of blinding light and a concussive wave that ripped through the humid air.
The light was so intense it momentarily blanched the vibrant colors of the glowing flora, turning them to spectral white.
A chorus of shocked, guttural roars and pained yelps erupted from the canopy, followed by the heavy, sickening thump and splash of multiple large bodies plummeting from the trees and crashing into the muddy forest floor below.
The beastmen, caught in their elevated ambush, were knocked violently to the earth, dazed and disoriented by the unexpected blast.
"Now!"
Rylos roared, his voice cutting through the ringing echoes of the stun grenade.
A split-second later, a torrent of crimson light erupted from their las-rifles.
PEW! PEW! PEW! PEW! PEW!
The focused energy bolts screamed through the humid air, tracing bright red lines against the green and violet glow of the jungle.
The dazed beastmen, still struggling to regain their bearings, became gruesome targets. Black blood, thick and viscous, spattered across the glowing fungi and the slick mud.
Horrific, wet pops echoed through the trees as heads exploded and limbs were incinerated by the superheated plasma.
Five of the monstrous forms that had crashed down lay twitching, then still, their forms grotesquely twisted, their brief lives extinguished in a flash of concentrated firepower.
"Is that al—" Olan started, his voice a strained whisper, his eyes scanning the gloom, but his question was brutally interrupted.
SHOOK!
A spear, crudely fashioned from a dark, polished wood and tipped with a shard of bone or flint, lashed out from the shadows.
It slammed into Olan's right shoulder with a sickening thud, and got stuck to his flesh, right between the armor's opening. He grunted, a sharp intake of breath through gritted teeth, but remained on his feet, his grip on his las-rifle loosened, staggering.
Immediately,
from the very edge of the glowing tree line, four more beastmen exploded into view. Unlike the silent, hidden forms from before, these were fully visible now in the eerie light: towering, bipedal creatures covered in thick, matted dark fur, with horned heads that resembled brutish, distorted goats or bulls.
Their eyes gleamed with primal malice, and their mouths were twisted into snarls, revealing rows of sharp, yellowed fangs.
They wielded crude, wicked weapons—more spears, axes made from stone and bone, and heavy, knotted clubs.
Before Selka could even bring his rifle to bear on the new threats, one of the beastmen, larger and more heavily muscled than the rest, let out a guttural, alien roar – a harsh, barking sound in a language utterly foreign and savage – and rammed into him with the force of a battering ram.
Selka went down hard, his armor scraping against the roots and mud, his rifle momentarily spinning from his grasp.
He was on his back, the beastman's immense, horned head looming over him, a feral snarl on its lips. It brought the club down, a heavy, gnarled chunk of wood studded with bone fragments, trying to smash his head.
But Selka, fueled by sheer desperate will to survive, reacted with lightning speed. Even as his vision swam from the impact, he saw the descending blow.
With a grunt of effort, he twisted, one hand finding the stock of his las-rifle, the other grasping the barrel, and he brought the weapon up in a desperate parry.
The heavy club slammed against the reinforced casing of his las-rifle with a sickening
CRACK!
The impact jarred violently up his arms, sending a fresh wave of pain through his shoulder and a jolt through his entire body.
His fingers screamed, but the rifle held, deflecting the killing blow, though he felt a sickening give in the weapon's housing.
The beastman pulled its club back for another crushing blow, its alien snarl filled with furious frustration. Selka's eyes, wide with a desperate urgency, darted around, looking for anything, anything, that could buy him a moment.
His gaze locked for a second on the grotesque form of one of the beastmen they had just dispatched, lying twisted beside him in the mud.
One piece of its shattered head, a single, sharp horn, broken off but still wickedly pointed, protruded from a mangled piece of bone.
He waited for the club to swing back into the air, for that split-second of vulnerability. The beastman's heavy club began its arc.
Then,
with a surge of adrenaline, Selka released his grip on the battered rifle. His hand shot out, scrabbling desperately in the mud beside him.
His fingers closed around the jagged, bone-hard horn.
As the beastman's club reached the apex of its backswing, Selka, still on his back, lunged upwards with all his might.
STAB! STAB! STAB! STAB!
The horn, driven by a surge of pure desperation, plunged repeatedly into the beastman's exposed belly and groin.
Each thrust was met with a wet, ripping sound and a gush of dark, fetid blood that erupted over Selka's armor. The beastman shrieked, a high-pitched, agonized sound completely unlike its previous guttural roars, its eyes widening in shock and pain. Its club faltered, dropping uselessly as its massive hands instinctively clutched at the impaled horn in its gut.
It fell down to the side with a final, shuddering gasp, twitching for a moment before its heavy form went still, adding to the grotesque pile of the dead.
Selka quickly paced himself, pushing off the muddy ground, getting to his feet in a single, fluid motion despite the lingering disorientation.
He snatched up his las-rifle, its casing now visibly dented and cracked from the brutal impact, but still functional. He didn't hesitate.
PEW! PEW!
He double-tapped the beastman's head, just to be sure, the twin crimson bolts incinerating what remained of its brain.
Then, he spun, scanning the chaotic scene for his friends.
Rylos was a whirlwind of crimson armor and flashing light. His las-rifle, with its fixed bayonet, was no longer a ranged weapon but a brutal, improvised sword.
He held it with both hands, parrying the wild swings of an axe-wielding beastman.
The creature was a blur of dark fur and savage intent, its stone axe whistling through the air, trying to cleave Rylos in two.
But Rylos moved with a disciplined ferocity, deflecting blows, the bayonet occasionally finding purchase, leaving trails of black blood where it scored the beastman's hide.
Selka took aim with his gun, trying to acquire the axe-wielding beastman that Rylos was fighting.
He squeezed his eye to the optic, but the damaged sight, a hairline crack now spiderwebbing across the lens from the club impact, coupled with the swirling, obscuring shadows of the bioluminescent forest, made the forms unclear. He couldn't get a solid lock without risking hitting Rylos himself. The beastman's movements were too erratic, too close to the squad leader.
"Go help the others! I got this bastard!" Rylos roared, his voice raw but unwavering, the metal-on-bone clang of his bayonet striking the axe ringing out in the humid air. He was a rock, holding his ground, confident in his ability to handle the threat directly before him, while the other members of the squad were in greater peril.
Selka, seeing his inability to assist Rylos safely, and hearing the grunts of his other comrades, with a grim set to his jaw, Selka spun away from Rylos's duel.
His rifle was useless for precise shots in this chaos, but he still had other options.
"Kars! Olan! Where are you?!" Selka roared,
his voice amplified by his helmet's internal comms, cutting through the snarls of the beastmen and the clang of Rylos's battle.
The urgency in his tone was unmistakable, a desperate plea and a defiant challenge all in one. The jungle, for a brief second, seemed to echo his cry, then the sounds of combat resumed with renewed ferocity.
He plunged into the obscuring shadows, desperate to find his comrades.
A faint rustling reached his ears from deeper in the glowing undergrowth, not the heavy tread of a beastman, but a lighter, furtive movement.
He followed it, pushing aside bioluminescent vines that clung to his armor.
Suddenly,
a grotesque sight materialized before him: a beastman, smaller than the others, but undeniably powerful, loping quickly through the shadowed trees.
Slung across its back, limp and utterly unconscious, was Kars.
The creature was fleeing, attempting to abscond with its prey into the deeper, uncharted parts of the jungle.
Selka instinctively raised his rifle, ready to give chase, a furious shout already building in his throat.
But before he could utter a sound, a raw, agonizing scream tore through the humid air. It was Olan.
Olan, grunted in pain and exertion. He was locked in a brutal close-quarters struggle with a beastman. The creature, a massive brute with knotted muscles, was trying to stab him with its horns.
With a sickening display of savage cunning, it grabbed the spear already impaled in Olan's shoulder and twisted it.
The jagged tip scraped against raw muscle and bone, and Olan let out a guttural roar of pure agony, a sound ripped from the depths of his damaged lungs.
The beastman didn't relent. It then drove one of its horns deep into Olan's abdomen, using the force of the blow to pin him back against the slick, moss-covered trunk of a massive tree. Olan slumped, still conscious but trapped, his crimson armor pressing hard against the rough bark.
Selka, his eyes snapped to the sound of Olan's tortured roar. Through the shimmering, confusing light of the fungi, he saw the horrifying tableau: Olan pinned, bleeding, the beastman lifting him, its horned head poised for a killing blow. There was no time to lose.
Selka spotted Olan's las-rifle lying on the ground just before him, glinting faintly in the ethereal light.
He dropped his own damaged weapon and, with a desperate lunge, quickly picked it up. Its bayonet, glinting wickedly, was already fixed.
With a new, working rifle in hand, Selka charged forward with full force toward the beastman that had impaled Olan.
He didn't hesitate. The bayonet plunged into the creature's side with a wet THUD!
The beastman roared in fury, a guttural shriek of pain and rage, trying to rip its horns free from Olan, but Olan, through a surge of pure, desperate adrenaline, didn't let go.
His hands shot up, his thumbs finding the beastman's eyes, and he poked them with all his might, blinding it.
The two humans, a symphony of coordinated, desperate violence, roared at the same time.
Selka emptied his new las-rifle into the beastman's body.
[PEW PEW PEW]
The first few rounds were muffled by the beast's thick hide and muscle, but their superheated light projected the creature's internal skeletal form against the murky darkness, a gruesome, fleeting X-ray.
PEW! PEW! PEW! PEW! CLICK! CLICK!
Then,
as the beastman convulsed, the remaining shots went straight through its other side, until the power pack was completely emptied, leaving only the hollow sound of dry firing.
The beastman, a mangled, steaming ruin, finally slumped, releasing Olan with a heavy thump as it slid down the tree.
Olan, released from the beastman's gruesome hold, immediately fell to the floor. The spear still jutted horrifyingly from his shoulder, but now his hands were clasped desperately over his bleeding abdomen, trying in vain to staunch the grievous wound left by the horn.
A choked gasp escaped his lips, his body trembling, rendered immobile by pain and blood loss.
Selka watched him fall, the empty las-rifle in his hands suddenly feeling useless. The silence from his weapon was deafening after the furious barrage.
He quickly discarded the empty rifle, his eyes darting between Olan's prone form and the swirling shadows where Kars had vanished.
Selka dropped to his knees beside Olan, his hands hovering, unsure where to begin.
"What should I do, tell me!" he pleaded, his voice cracking with urgency.
Olan's eyes, glazed with pain, struggled to focus on Selka's face. His breath hitched, and a barely audible whisper escaped his lips.
"Push, push the spear..." he muttered, his voice barely a rasp.
—
Selka quickly laid Olan on his side, exposing the gruesome wound. He gripped the spear's shaft and pushed it forward slightly, his eyes darting from the bloody gash in Olan's shoulder.
Olan gritted his teeth, a raw grunt of pain escaping him.
"Do it in one go! Just fucking do it!" he rasped, his voice strained.
Selka scrambled to the other side of Olan, took a sharp, deep breath, and with a decisive pull, extracted the spear's tip.
It made a horrifying squelch and rip as it tore free, a sound that made Selka want to shut his ears.
Then, with a dull Clank! the bloodied spear dropped to the muddy ground beside them.
Without a moment's hesitation, Selka quickly reached into Olan's medical backpack, retrieving a roll of pristine, sterile cloth.
He rapidly pressed it against the fresh, gaping wound, trying to stem the flow of blood, then wrapped it tightly around Olan's shoulder.
Footsteps rapidly approached them.
Selka's head snapped up, eyes darting through the shimmering gloom. He let out a ragged sigh of relief as the crimson form of Rylos emerged from the shadows.
His squad leader's armor was banged up, scored with deep gouges from the beastman's axe, but there were no visible fresh wounds on him.
"Help me! Olan got stabbed!" Selka cried out,
his voice raw with desperation and relief, pointing at Olan's prone, bleeding form.
—
Rylos was beside them in an instant, his grim gaze sweeping over Olan's prone form, immediately assessing the severity.
"Where's his med-pack?" He barked, his voice sharp with urgency.
Selka cut the straps, spilled its contents onto the muddy ground.
"Right, the abdomen," Rylos stated, his voice a low, commanding rumble as he crouched beside Olan, pushing Selka's hands aside from Olan's gushing stomach wound.
"Get me the antiseptic spray!"
Selka fumbled for the small, pressurized canister.
He handed it to Rylos, who, with a swift, economical motion, uncapped it and sprayed a stinging mist around Olan's abdominal puncture.
Olan let out a choked cry, arching his back slightly, but Rylos's hand held him firmly. The antiseptic sizzled faintly, a harsh counterpoint to the humid jungle air.
"Now, the synth-skin!" Rylos commanded, his eyes scanning for the specific tube.
Selka quickly located a tube of thick, translucent gel.
Rylos took the tube and, with practiced efficiency, squeezed a thick bead of the transparent med-gel directly over the horn wound in Olan's abdomen.
He worked quickly, spreading the synth-skin over the jagged edges of the wound. The gel, an advanced medicae substance, reacted instantly, smoking faintly as it began to seal the lacerated flesh, forming a flexible, artificial barrier over the puncture, temporarily stemming the flow of external bleeding.
"Pressure bandage!" Rylos barked next, already reaching for a fresh, rolled bandage from the kit.
As Selka handed it over, Rylos expertly wrapped it tightly around Olan's midsection, securing it with swift, firm movements, creating a tight pressure dressing over the rapidly setting synth-skin.
"He's in shock," Rylos muttered, observing Olan's ashen face and shallow breathing.
"Get the stimm-pack in him."
Selka located the small, single-use autoinjector.
He uncapped it, pressed it against Olan's thigh armor, and depressed the plunger.
HISSS!
A potent cocktail of pain suppressants and combat stimulants was injected into Olan's system. Olan's eyes flickered, and a faint tremor ran through his limbs, a subtle but immediate response to the drugs.
His breathing, though still labored, seemed to gain a fraction more strength.
Rylos briefly checked the shoulder wound Selka had bandaged.
"Good enough for now," he grunted, then looked up, his gaze intense.
"He needs proper medicae, and fast."
His eyes then scanned their immediate surroundings.
"Where is Kars?" Rylos asked, his voice sharp with renewed urgency.
Selka's head snapped up, his own gaze sweeping the shadows, a desperate tremor in his voice.
"He-He was taken, I don't know, it was him or Olan, I couldn't..." Selka trailed off, his voice shaking with the raw memory of the impossible choice he'd faced.
Rylos's brows burrowed, his jaw tight. He clenched his fist and slammed it against the muddy ground, a muffled thud.
"Okay, first we need to find other Zamrads. We can no longer rest. We have to move, now!"
Selka was still traumatized, unable to respond, his gaze fixed and distant.
Rylos grabbed his shoulder, his grip firm, and locked eyes with him.
"Help me, Selka! We will take him to his daughters, and you will get to meet your girl, Milla, right?"
"Mil-Millie. Her name is Millie..." Selka answered, his voice more responsive, the name a lifeline in the chaos.
"Good. Let's go!" Rylos patted Selka's back, a firm, reassuring gesture, then moved to Olan's side.
"This is going to hurt, old friend," he muttered, bracing himself before carefully lifting Olan up into a fireman's carry.
All three grunted, in pain and exhaustion, but with a renewed, grim determination, they prepared to plunge deeper into the Thrysan night.
Hours later,
Rylos paused nearly a pond, gently putting Olan down against a rock, sat down next to him to take a breather, Selka stood vigil, Las rifle in hands.
The long trek had taken its toll, and the humid, alien night offered little respite. Olan's breathing remained shallow, but the stimm-pack had, for now, kept the worst of his shock at bay.
Rylos leaned his head back against the cool rock, his own breaths coming in ragged gasps, his crimson armor streaked with mud and dried blood.
Selka, ever watchful, kept his las-rifle ready, his eyes scanning the flickering shadows around the pond, the constant chirps and rustles of the alien jungle now sounding less like nature and more like a lurking threat.
"How did you know what to do, Mister Rylos?" Selka asked, about Olan's treatment.
Rylos exhaled slowly, the sound a low rasp against the humid air. He leaned back further against the rough rock, his gaze fixed on the murky surface of the pond, reflecting the faint glow of the bioluminescent plants.
"Well, He did the same to me, once." Rylos answered,
"I just returned the favor."
His palm rest on his torso. Beneath the armor, one could imagine what he was referring to.
"You must be good friends then." Selka spoke.
—
"Friends? This bastard nearly died from his own shrapnel!" Olan answered, now awake.
—
"If you have time to retort, then you can walk yourself." Rylos muttered.
As they began to rest, something interrupted them.
Whizzzzzz...CRACKLED!
"Uh....Hello? Anybody there?"
A human voice coming from the Vox-caster on Selka's back, everyone was stunned, eyes locking on the device.
—
"Yes! This is Crimson Zamrad Seven—Can you hear me? over."
Selka quickly grabbed the unit, trying to communicate with the unknown person.
—
"Yes. Yes. Where are you guys exactly?" the voice on the vox-caster replied, still faint, but undeniably clearer.
—
"I....I don't know, we are by a huge pond," Selka answered, his voice rising with a mix of excitement and disorientation. He glanced at Rylos, a silent plea for guidance.
Rylos immediately pushed himself up from the rock, his weary posture snapping into alertness.
He pointed at the vox-caster, then tapped his own ear, a silent command for Selka to put it on external comms or relay the full conversation.
"Ask for their callsign, Selka! They could be enemies." Rylos whispered, his voice low and urgent.
—
"What is your Callsign? Is your Lochagos with you?" Selka asked, his voice strained with the effort to sound professional despite his burgeoning hope.
Crackle... Sizzzzz...
The static momentarily swallowed the reply, making Rylos grit his teeth, the long pause hung over the line, punctuated only by the faint, alien chirping of the Thrysan night.
Selka, his hand trembling slightly on the vox-caster, waited, his gaze fixed on Rylos. Olan, despite his injuries, pushed himself up a little further, straining to hear.
"Lochagos? Uh, sadly he didn't make it. Over." The words, though expected after the earlier admission, still carried a heavy weight, a stark reminder of the brutal cost of this planet.
"Our Callsign is.....Verdigris(Recon) Zamrad(Squad) Two, Only two of us left."
—
Rylos closed his eyes for a bare second, a muscle twitching in his jaw. Another lost leader, another squad decimated.
He opened his eyes, now sharper, colder.
This changed things. They were down to five men from two squads, two of them wounded, and only one experienced leader.
"Selka," Rylos's voice was a low growl, devoid of any weakness.
"Ask them where they are."
Selka nodded, his face grim, and began to relay the new instructions into the vox-caster.
"V.Z. Two, this is C.Z. Seven, Copy that on your squad mates. Condolences."
"We need a precise bearing from you. Over."
—
"We are somewhere east from you, about a Terran kilometer or so. We are in a cave, injured. Over," V.Z. Two answered, the connection beginning to waver again.
The mention of a cave, and their injured state, added another layer of urgency.
Rylos's eyes met Selka's. Relief warred with renewed grimness. Two more Survivors.
"We are moving to your position. Over." Selka spoke.
—
"Thank you, I will shoot a flare up, you follow it." V.Z. Two replied.
—
Selka's grip on the vox-caster tightened, a surge of adrenaline replacing the exhaustion.
"Roger, be careful of dangers. Over."
He muttered, the words almost automatic, his face, usually grim, now alight with a desperate, burgeoning hope.
He quickly began checking his gear, the familiar weight of las-rifle a small comfort, making sure his power packs were seated, his combat knife secure.
Rylos, ever the pragmatist, was already moving, scanning the canopy above.
"Flare, he said. Keep your eyes peeled, Selka. And be ready. A flare is a beacon for more than just us." His voice was low, cautious, a stark contrast to Selka's burgeoning relief.
Olan, propped against the rock, managed a weak nod, his eyes also fixed on the sky, a faint glimmer of determination in their depths.
Then,
piercing the oppressive darkness of the Thrysan night, a single, brilliant trail of green light shot skyward. It arced gracefully, a vibrant emerald against the backdrop of the twin moons and the distant stars.
For a fleeting moment, it illuminated the gnarled silhouettes of the giant trees, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to writhe and stretch with the light. The flare burned with an intense, almost ethereal glow, a beacon of improbable hope in a world designed to crush it.
It pulsed, a defiant signal, before slowly beginning its descent, its verdant luminescence fading as it drifted back towards the unseen jungle floor.
"There!" Selka exclaimed, pointing.
"Alright," Rylos stated, his voice now firm, decisive.
"That flare gives us a general direction. Olan, can you manage a little more with support?"
"Selka, you're on point. Keep an eye out for any more beastmen, that flare just painted a target on us."
"V.Z. Two's injured and in a cave, that means they're likely static and vulnerable. We move fast, but we move smart. Conserve fire, don't engage unless necessary. Our priority is rescue, not prolonged combat. Stick close. Let's go."
Rylos moved to Olan, helping him to his feet with a grunt. Olan leaned heavily on him, his teeth gritted, but he pushed forward.
Selka, his initial burst of hope tempered by Rylos's grim assessment, took the lead, his eyes fixed on the point where the green light had vanished, his senses on high alert.
The rhythmic splash-splash-splash of their boots resumed, now with a renewed sense of purpose, carrying them deeper into the alien gloom, towards the faint promise of reunion and, perhaps, salvation.
—
The green flare, slowly fading, provided a true bearing. Selka, Olan, and Rylos pushed through the clinging, humid air of the Thrysan jungle, their pace relentless despite the treacherous terrain and Olan's labored breathing.
Every rustle in the bioluminescent undergrowth, every unseen snap of a twig, made them tense, but the beastmen seemed to have been thrown off by the earlier stun grenade, or perhaps they were simply regrouping. The thought was a cold comfort.
Selka, leading the way, his las-rifle held ready, felt a knot of dread and anticipation tighten in his gut. The 'Terran kilometer or so' had felt like five, the oppressive silence of the deep jungle broken only by their own heavy steps and Olan's pained grunts.
Rylos, a silent, watchful shadow, covered their rear, his gaze constantly sweeping the phosphorescent gloom.
Then,
through a particularly dense curtain of growing vines, Selka saw it.
A dark, jagged opening in a massive rock face, almost swallowed by the surrounding flora.
It was less a deliberate cave entrance and more a geological wound in the planet's flesh.
The entrance was almost entirely obscured by thick, looping vines, with a dark fibrous color. They hung like the tangled hair of some ancient, colossal beast, swaying slightly in the imperceptible currents of air.
A faint, earthy smell, different from the damp decay of the jungle, wafted from within – a mix of damp rock and something else, something metallic and faintly acrid.
Selka raised a hand, signaling a halt.
Rylos and Olan stopped behind him, their breaths coming in ragged gasps.
Olan slumped against a tree, trying to gather his strength.
"Cave entrance," Selka whispered into his comms, his voice low.
—
"Any sign of movement, or hostiles?" Rylos's voice was a low rumble in Selka's ear.
Selka peered closer, his helmet's low-light optics straining through the botanical curtain. The shadows within were deep, absolute, broken only by the occasional glint of moisture on rock. He could hear nothing, feel nothing out of place.
"Negative, Lochagos. No movement. Just... shadows."
"Alright," Rylos decided, moving up to stand beside Selka, his bayonet-fixed las-rifle at the ready.
"Olan, stay back, keep cover on our six. Selka, with me. Keep your weapon up. Clear a path, but don't go in until I say so. V.Z. Two might be inside, but so could anything else."
Selka nodded, his heart hammering against his ribs.
He felt a shiver trace his spine – not just from the cool mist, but from the nervousness welling in him. He extended his las-rifle, using its barrel to push aside a heavy curtain of the glowing vines, revealing more of the yawning darkness beyond.
The cave mouth, shrouded in vines, yielded to Selka's cautious push. A gust of cool, stale air, heavy with the scent of damp earth and something metallic, washed over them.
Selka stepped inside, his helmet's optics cutting through the absolute darkness beyond the immediate entrance.
Rylos followed, his presence a solid, grim reassurance at his back.
Olan remained at the entrance, a wounded sentinel guarding their rear.
The cave was initially empty, a vast, echoing chamber of rough-hewn rock. The soft glow from the jungle outside barely penetrated the gloom, leaving the interior in oppressive shadow.
Their boots squelched softly on the damp floor, the only sound apart from their own labored breathing and the distant, muffled chirps from the world they had left behind.
Selka swept his las-rifle, its muzzle light cutting a crimson swathe through the darkness, scanning for any sign of movement, any glint of a hostile eye.
They moved slowly, methodically, deeper into the cavern, their comms silent save for the crackle of their internal systems.
Every step was deliberate, every shadow a potential threat. The air grew colder, and the metallic tang intensified, hinting at something unnatural.
Then, something caught Selka's eye. A faint, almost imperceptible glint in the deeper shadows of the cave, towards the far wall. He adjusted his optics, straining to focus.
Two figures. Sitting. Unmoving.
His eyes widened behind his visor. Hope, sharp and desperate, surged through him, eclipsing caution.
"Rylos, I see them!" he announced, his voice a strained whisper through the comms.
Without waiting for a command, without a moment's hesitation, Selka broke into a stumbling run, rushing forward towards the two stationary forms, his boots sliding in the damp earth.
"Selka, wait! Hold your position!"
Rylos's voice barked through his comms, sharp with urgency and irritation, but Selka was already committed, driven by the desperate need to reach their comrades.
As he drew closer, the forms against the wall resolved into clear shapes. Two Verdigris soldiers. Their carapace armor, once pristine, was now grimy and stained, some areas scorched black.
They were slumped against the cold rock face, utterly still.
"V.Z. Two?"
Selka called out, his voice hoarse, his pace slowing slightly as a chilling dread began to coil in his gut. The silence that answered him was profound, unnerving.
No movement. No response.
He reached them, skidding to a halt. The air around them was heavy with the metallic tang of dried blood. He knelt, his heart sinking with each passing second.
The first figure, by the vox-caster still clutched in his hand, was utterly lifeless. His helmet was cracked, a dark, viscous stain spreading from beneath it.
His eyes, visible through the visor, were wide and vacant, staring sightlessly into the cave's gloom.
The second was no better. His armor was riddled with small, jagged punctures, and a crude, dark projectile, perhaps another bone spear, was impaled deeply in his chest.
His posture was contorted, as if he had died in agony, his weapon clutched uselessly in his dead grasp.
Both were long dead.
Their bodies were cold, their blood congealed. They had been here for some time. The 'injured' status they had reported was a brutal lie.
Rylos arrived a moment later, his heavy boots thudding behind Selka.
He stopped, his gaze sweeping over the scene, then settling on the two lifeless forms. A low, guttural curse escaped his lips, barely audible.
"Damn it all..." he muttered.
His eyes, devoid of emotion, swept the rest of the cave, noting nothing but barren rock and the lingering stench of death.
The hope that had briefly flared in Selka's heart was brutally extinguished, replaced by a cold, numbing despair.
"How?"
Rylos crouched down, confused, and started examining the bodies, his eyes narrowing as he found something.
A small needle was sticking out of the neck, almost imperceptible against the darkened flesh and armor.
His eyes then widened with fear, a primal alarm flashing across his grim face.
"This is a trap!"
Rylos shouted, his voice raw with sudden, urgent terror, as he spun around to look for Olan.
Olan was walking slowly toward him, his heavy steps echoing in the suddenly silent cavern.
THUD!
Then, he dropped to the floor, a sickening sound, his armor clanking against the rock.
A same-looking needle, dark and glinting, reflected the faint outside light on the back of his neck, precisely where the gorget met the carapace.
Olan coughed up a large amount of blood, a thick, black liquid oozing from his eyes and nose, staining his crimson armor a grotesque black.
He muttered his last words, a guttural, choked whisper,
"Lysa... Risia..."
before his body convulsed once more and went still.
The cave that had been a potential refuge had become a tomb.
Selka stood frozen, staring at Olan's lifeless form, the full horror of the situation crashing down on him.
The silence of the cave, once merely eerie, was now deafening, pregnant with the invisible threat that had just claimed another life.
Rylos was on his feet, spinning, his las-rifle snapping up, scanning the cavern walls, his face a mask of furious desperation.
—
Then,
a figure entered the cave slowly, its silhouette humanoid, cloaked, with horns on its head.
Rylos immediately opened fire, the crimson bolts illuminating the cave in brutal flashes.
PEW! PEW! PEW! PEW! PEW!
CLICK.....CLICK!
All the bolts were met with a blue shimmering force, an invisible shield that shimmered into existence around the figure.
The light from the las-bolts revealed the figure more clearly: a person wearing a dark cloak, its hand raised, clearly a human hand, its left forearm was missing.
Its face was concealed by a beastman's skull, its empty eye sockets now lit up with an eerie blue glow as the shield slowly disappeared.
Rylos was left speechless, his las-rifle empty, as he fumbled to load another power magazine.
"No,"
the figure before him muttered, the same chilling, modulated voice that had come from the vox.
Rylos's hand was stopped mid-air, something invisible holding it in place, a crushing force that prevented him from moving.
"What are you?"
Selka muttered, tears flowing from his eyes, mixing with the sweat on his face.
"A daemon?"
—
"Me? I'm just a dead person,"
the figure answered, his voice a calm, unnerving monotone.
"And I'm really sorry about this." He finished speaking.
BANG! BANG!
Two deafening shots echoed in the silent cave, then out into the forest beyond. The barrel was smoking, a heavy revolver, its side engraved with the words 'Sanguis Ferrum'.
It was quickly holstered, the figure then removed his mask, the beastman's skull, revealing an unkempt head of hair that swayed slightly in the dim light.
"Do you have to make it so loud, Mon'keigh?"
another figure emerged from behind him, stepping into the faint light.
This new arrival was clearly a Felinid, its lithe, graceful form cloaked in dark leather armor, ears twitching at the sharp reports of the revolver.
"Oh, I'm sorry I hurt your sensitive little kitty's ears."
The man retorted, a sarcastic edge to his voice.
—
"Do you have what we are looking for?"
The Felinid asked, ignoring the insult, its voice a low purr.
—
"Yep,"
the man crouched, reaching down slowly, passing Selka's now headless body, the impact of the revolver shots having taken him cleanly.
He unlatched the vox-caster from Selka's belt.
"Here it is, good as new, a little bloody though."
He shook the device, and a spray of crimson drops spilled onto the Felinid's leather armor.
"Oops! I'm sorry, Rouar, that wasn't intentional, I swear."
—
Rouar sighed, a sound of long-suffering patience.
"How can your hulking comrade withstand your stupidity?"
—
"Just take it, I got something to do first," the man muttered.
Rouar took the vox-caster by its strap, a faint shimmer of disgust on his feline face, then turned and walked out of the cave, disappearing back into the Thrysan night.
The man in the skull mask, now unmasked, stood over the three fallen soldiers, his gaze unreadable in the dim light.
A small moment of silence passed.
He sighed and retrieved an incendiary grenade from Rylos's belt. With a practiced motion, he pulled the pin and tossed it toward the bodies.
He watched as the grenade exploded, a burst of searing light and heat. The impact was stopped by his psychic shield, which shimmered faintly around him, deflecting the concussive force and flames.
His face portrayed no emotion as he looked at the growing inferno.
"I'm sorry, this is the best I can do,"
he muttered, his voice a low, almost regretful murmur against the roaring flames. The cave was slowly engulfed, the fire spreading along the bioluminescent moss and vines, turning the vibrant green to crackling black.
Cinders rained down on him, harmlessly dissipating against his unseen shield. The danger seemed to hold no threat for him, or perhaps he wished to see the finality of it through to the end.
Outside,
his Felinid companion was waiting for him by a massive, glowing tree.
Rouar, lithe and watchful, turned his head, his feline eyes, narrowed to slits, reflecting the faint bioluminescence of the jungle.
"Time to get back, Dead Rogue," Rouar spoke, his voice a low, rumbling purr.
"Her lady is waiting."
—
"Hm," Kochav answered, disinterested, already turning his gaze towards the canopy, as if seeking something beyond the physical realm. He put the skull mask back on, hiding his own burden that went beyond mere fatigue, a burden of countless forgotten lives.
The jungle's symphony of chirps and croaks seemed to resume with renewed vigor now that the fires of the cave were contained within its stone maw, fading to a dull glow.
The cool, damp air brushed against Kochav's face, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from behind him. He didn't look back at the burning cave, at the final resting place of the Crimson Zamrad, his mission was complete.
—
With the smoldering cave and its grim contents left behind, Kochav and Rouar began their journey. They moved swiftly, navigating the treacherous Thrysan terrain with an almost supernatural ease.
Kochav, despite his amputated arm, moved with a fluid, silent grace that belied his human form, his unkempt hair occasionally brushing against the glowing flora.
Rouar, ever vigilant, kept pace beside him, his feline senses undoubtedly picking up every subtle shift in the humid air, every distant sound that the jungle offered.
Their direction was east, the 'Underwoods,'
The twin moons, now higher in the sky, cast their pale light through the dense canopy, dappling the forest floor in shifting patterns of silver and shadow.
The bioluminescent plants continued their eerie glow, painting the path in otherworldly hues of green and violet, illuminating unseen roots and muddy depressions that would have tripped less agile travelers.
The air remained thick and warm, alive with the unseen chorus of Thrysan life – the chirps, clicks, and distant howls that were the planet's constant, watchful symphony.
Kochav remained silent, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, while Rouar occasionally glanced at him, a flicker of something akin to exasperation or perhaps concern in his alien eyes.
—
"What is it?" Rouar asked, sensing the unease emanating from Kochav.
—
"After I crashed their ship, I tracked them for a while," Kochav paused, thinking for a short second.
"I'm almost certain there were four of them."
—
"Perhaps they died from injury and were left behind?" Rouar muttered, his eyes fixed on Kochav, a hint of skepticism in his voice.
—
"No. Let's trace their tracks," Kochav spoke, his tone firm and determined.
—
"Are you serious?" Rouar asked, irritation creeping into his voice at the seemingly unnecessary request. Kochav only gave him a look, a silent, unyielding demand.
Rouar sighed, then relented. "Follow me, then."
They retraced the footsteps the three soldiers had made. They passed the familiar, glowing trees, then the pond where the final vox-contact had been made.
Following the faint blood trail, the lingering scent of sweat and metal, they finally arrived at the ambush site.
The scene was a gruesome tableau, filled with blood, both crimson red and viscous black, splattered across the luminous moss and slick mud.
Jagged marks scarred the trees, and the earth was churned where bodies had fallen.
"Beastmen?" Kochav asked, his gaze sweeping over the carnage.
—
"Yes," Rouar answered after closely observing the tracks and the nature of the wounds.
—
"But, we did not order extra personnel, right?" Kochav asked, a flicker of confusion in his eyes.
—
"No. These are savages. Multiple tribes, though. How are they working together?" Rouar questioned further, his brow furrowed in thought.
The Beastmen of Thrysa were typically territorial, warring factions.
—
"Where did they come from?" Kochav pressed.
—
"North. It has to be North,"
Rouar answered, firm and definite. He strode around the site, his senses analyzing the scene.
"One, two... ten sets of hoofs." He paused, counting again, then looked at the dead beastmen.
"Only nine bodies."
—
"Here,"
Kochav waved, pointing toward a violated bush nearby. It was flattened, as if something heavy had been dragged through it.
"It must have taken the other soldier, but why, though?"
Kochav's detective sense was tingling, a rare spark of curiosity in his otherwise detached demeanor.
—
"Let's discuss this at base, but I bet this connects to your comrades,"
Rouar muttered, stretching his lithe body, then started moving back towards their original destination.
—
"Hm."
Kochav just gave a grunting affirmative, falling into step behind Rouar, his thoughts clearly elsewhere, already processing the new, unsettling information.
The mystery of the missing soldier and the organized beastmen added an unexpected layer to their mission.