The aircraft trembles. The air inside is thick with oil, and sweat. Twenty of us sit in two rows, strapped to steel benches. I can barely see through the low red lights.
My gear is two halves. Underneath: a tight, dark base layer, reinforced seams, holsters strapped to the thighs, slim and quiet like the second picture. Over it: a heavy, hard-lined coat, long enough to keep snow off belts and pouches, square shoulders and chest rig built into it. Pouches on the belt and chest, a compact service pistol in a right-thigh holster, extra mags, small field tools. My boots are mid-calf, laced tight.
'I'm not used to armor. This is so heavy... '
I keep my head low, hands gripping the pads on my knees.
Someone across from me leans forward, eyes narrowing through their visor.
"What's a kid doing in A.T.T.?"
My right eye twitches. I don't answer.
They stare for another second, then scoff. "Tch. Someone needs to claim their brat."
I keep looking ahead, the hum of the aircraft swallowing the insult.
Then boots echo down the narrow aisle. The man walking through is massive, his presence enough to silence every whisper. His armor looks the same as ours, but older and more scuffed.
He stops in front of us.
"Listen up," he shouts over the engine. "Sergeant Major Simon here. You're in Advanced Tactical Training, and this," he slams a gloved hand against the hull "is your first test."
"The Decision Drill," he continues. "You'll hit the ground and be given live scenarios through comms. Friendlies. Hostiles. Civilians. You choose what happens next. There's no guide, no backup, no second chance. You freeze, you fail. You hesitate, you die. Understood?"
A loud and unified "YES, SIR!" cuts through the air.
He nods, pacing once more before glancing toward the rear. "Parachutes on."
Everyone moves. Harnesses click. The red light by the door starts flashing.
Then he smirks, barely.
"Simon says… jump."
The ramp opens. The wind tears through the cabin like a blade. One by one, they dive into the white blur below.
I take one last breath and step off the edge.
The world hits me all at once. The wind screams past, the cold bites, and below, everything. Hills. Snow. Mountains. Trees that look endless. The AshFjord moves in the distance, each step shaking the earth even from here. I can't look away. It's… overwhelming. The first time I've seen anything real beyond those walls.
"PARACHUTES! OPEN!"
The voice crackles through my comm, snapping me out of it. I yank the cord, and the chute explodes above me.
Then I realize it too late. I'm lighter. Smaller. The wind catches me and throws me off course, dragging me farther away from the others, deeper into the forest.
I hit the ground hard, snow exploding around me. The landing knocks the breath from my lungs, but I'm alive. I stand, brushing frost from my armor.
The silence is unreal. Just the whisper of wind through the trees.
I breathe in. Cold air. Real air. The smell of pine, frost, earth.
"Divine," I whisper.
The snow crunches under my boots. It's softer than I thought it'd be. I crouch, pressing my glove into it, watching how it melts against the heat of my hand. I've seen white before, but never like this. The AshFjord's exhaust makes the snow dirty or just melt.
I pull my helmet off. The air stings my face, sharp and clean. The world smells fresh. Frost. Pine. A little bit of metal from my suit. It's almost too much.
The comm buzzes in my ear.
[COMMAND]: DECISION DRILL ACTIVE.
TASK 1: SECURE A RALLY POINT.
TASK 2: SCAN SURROUNDINGS FOR TEMPORARY DOCKING OF MOBILE CITY
I take a slow breath and look around. Trees everywhere. Tall. Heavy with snow. No sign of the others.
"Copy," I say, voice small against the static.
I start walking, rifle up, every sound around me amplified, the crunch of snow, the creak of branches, the wind pulling through the trees.
The trees get denser the farther I go. Snow keeps falling in thin sheets, catching on my armor and melting slow. It's quiet and peaceful.
I check my tracker. Nothing. No signals. No team.
The comm cracks again.
[COMMAND]: CONTINUE SCAN. LOCATE OPEN GROUND OR HIGH GROUND. PRIORITY. VISUAL RANGE.
"Understood," I mutter, mostly to myself.
I push through the undergrowth until I reach a slope. The snow's deeper here, almost to my knees. I climb, boots slipping a few times. By the time I reach the top, I'm breathing heavy.
There's a clearing ahead. Just enough space to see the horizon, the faint line of mountains and the gray smear of the AshFjord's trail far away.
"Docking point secured," I say into the comm.
There's a short burst of static before a reply filters through.
[COMMAND]: COPY THAT, CADET WEBER. HOLD POSITION. AERIAL SURVEY INBOUND. STANDBY FOR SECONDARY OBJECTIVE.
"Understood."
I lower my rifle. The world below stretches in every direction, snowfields, hills, ridgelines like frozen waves. The AshFjord crawls along the horizon, slow and heavy, its massive legs digging deep into the ice fields.
I should be charting elevations, wind paths, stability levels. Instead, I just stand there, watching.
The comm clicks again.
[COMMAND]: ESTABLISH VISUAL MARKERS FOR MOBILE CITY DOCKING. FLAG LOCATIONS AND AWAIT CONFIRMATION.
"Copy."
I pull a flare from my belt, drive it into the snow. The red smoke curls upward, staining the air. One down.
A second flare follows, marking the far edge of the clearing. Then I walk to the center, pull the last one free.
The comm hisses. Distorted.
[COMMAND]: …hold…position… repeat… do not—
Then silence.
I wait a few seconds, staring at the blinking light on my headset. No reconnect. Just the sound of snow tapping against my visor.
"…Command?" Nothing.
The cold suddenly feels heavier.
I glance back toward the tree line. The forest seems different now, less peaceful.
I wait for a response. Nothing. Just static crackling in my ear.
I tap the side of my helmet, check the signal feed, dead.
Great. Comms are down. Either interference or jamming.
I look back toward the sky. The aircraft's long gone. No trace of the others. Just clouds drifting slowly..
"Alright," I mutter, exhaling through my teeth. "Guess I move."
The snow deepens as I push forward. The quiet is strange now. Birds dart between trees, small things with white and gray feathers. Something fast and furred crosses my path and vanishes into the undergrowth. I've seen animals before, on screens and diagrams.
For a while, I just watch. Every crunch of snow under my boots sounds too loud. Every breath hangs in the air like smoke.
Hours pass. The light fades, turning everything blue. I can't see the others, can't hear them. My tracker still flatlines. The AshFjord's still out there, miles away, moving toward the docking point I marked earlier. But it's slow.
No point waiting.
I start walking again, keeping the ridge to my left. The sun's almost gone when I spot it, something that doesn't belong.
A shape, faint and low against the snow.
Canvas? Metal?
I crouch, bring my visor scope online, zoom in through the static flicker.
There. A tent. Not ours. A faint heat signature flickers from within. Then someone steps out.
Their coat bears an insignia I know too well, curved wings over a wave. MarineFjord.
I freeze, heart hitting harder in my chest.
An enemy recon outpost. Here. Just north of the docking zone.
"Information station…" I whisper under my breath, lowering the rifle.
If they're here, then they've seen the drops.
Maybe even me.