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Chapter 3 - Chapter 3: Wrath’s Arrival

Mission debrief: The temple welcomed him with silence.

 

Not peace.

Anticipation.

 

As Maverick crossed the stone threshold, the shadows seemed to shift—

not away from him,

but toward him.

 

Waiting.

 

A Primortal stepped from the corridor — robe dragging behind metal feet, the tubes on his back pulsing faint blue as they fed knowledge directly into his spine.

His eyes glowed with ancient data. His voice was a whisper sharpened into command.

 

"Follow."

 

Maverick did.

 

They moved through corridors etched with age and agony — walls marked by past campaigns, names of fallen Warmachines, battle quotes carved into stone like scripture.

 

They reached the war-table.

 

A massive circular altar of black steel, its surface humming with holographic projections.

A planet spun at its center—dust-colored, jagged, cracked open by old violence.

Lines flickered across its western hemisphere.

 

The canyon.

 

The Primortal gestured.

The projection zoomed.

Red markers. Heat signatures. Movement.

 

"You've been called for one reason, Warmachine," the Primortal said.

"Your brethren are dying."

 

He pointed to the canyon—

Where flickering blue lights—the signal of deployed Warmachines—were being swallowed by red.

 

"They are pinned. Outnumbered. Surrounded by wretched things born in the dark places of the stars.

These beasts do not march. They swarm.

They do not conquer. They consume.

And if this canyon falls—Earth is next."

 

Maverick said nothing.

 

"We sent them in first.

We thought it would be enough.

It wasn't."

 

The Primortal turned to him fully now.

 

"You are the last to wake. The oldest. The most decorated.

The one they called when no one else would do.

You must go in.

Find your brothers.

And with them—"

 

He paused.

 

The war-table dimmed.

The canyon turned crimson.

 

"Fight back these abominations.

Push them out.

Burn them down.

And let them never return."

 

He stepped back from the table.

 

"We are sending you in by orbital strike-drop.

You land hard. You land fast.

There will be no recovery if you fail."

 

He looked Maverick in the visor.

 

"You do not have time to pray."

 

Maverick finally spoke.

 

Just three words.

Low. Absolute.

Spoken like a vow.

 

"They will pray."

 

The Primortal bowed his head.

The war-table locked coordinates.

 

And the storm began to gather.

___________________________________

The launch platform screamed.

 

Gears turned like grinding teeth.

Blast shields split apart.

And above the fractured skies of a dying world, the storm began to break.

 

Inside the drop-pod, Maverick stood still—arms folded across his chest, head bowed, like a knight sealed in a coffin forged for war.

No pulse spikes.

No signs of fear.

Just silence.

 

Until—

impact countdown engaged.

 

"Canyon breach in T-minus 30 seconds," said the automated voice, dull and ancient, like it had announced death too many times to care anymore.

 

The hatch vibrated.

Outside, clouds churned. Lightning cracked like divine fury in reverse.

Below him, the planet twisted—jagged cliffs, ruined ridges, and the canyon like a wound carved into the hemisphere itself.

Dust storms danced over old bones.

 

In that canyon: his brothers.

Outnumbered.

Surrounded.

Seconds from extinction.

 

"T-minus 15 seconds."

 

Maverick's HUD lit up. Enemy clusters. Friendly pings flickering in and out. No stable readings.

Too much interference.

Too much death.

 

He reached across his chest—unlocked the brace on his jump module.

Servos clicked. His boots sealed.

The metal of the pod glowed red as reentry flames kissed its surface.

 

"T-minus 5…"

 

The war-table's final words echoed in his mind.

 

Go in there.

Find your brothers.

And with them—fight back these abominations.

 

"…3…"

 

Outside, the clouds parted. The canyon loomed beneath.

 

"…2…"

 

He rolled his neck once.

 

"…1."

 

Ignition.

 

The pod burst from the ship like a meteor forged from wrath.

 

It tore through the sky in a trail of flame and steel, splitting the heavens.

The ground screamed up to meet him.

 

Inside, Maverick didn't brace.

Calm. Final.

He simply spoke.

"Death has arrived."

______

The drop-pod hit the ground like a meteor made of vengeance.

 

BOOM.

Stone split. Dust erupted. The canyon floor cracked beneath the impact.

Shrapnel scattered in every direction, burying itself in the earth like iron teeth.

 

And then—

the hatch exploded outward.

 

Maverick stepped into hell.

 

The heat hit him first—like walking into a furnace made of blood and ash.

The air was thick with sulfur, scorched metal, and the rotting stench of alien flesh.

The wind didn't blow.

It screamed.

 

Before him: a nightmare battlefield carved by hatred and erosion.

 

Mountains of bodies.

Twisted corpses of beasts and brothers alike.

And far ahead—pressed against the base of a thousand-foot cliff—

ten Warmachines.

His brothers.

Backs to the wall.

Guns dry. Armor cracked.

Holding the line with knives, fists, and what little life they had left.

 

And above them—

a massive, snarling thing—all teeth, tendrils, and bone-ridge limbs—leapt from a ledge with a howl like breaking glass.

 

It flew through the air, claws outstretched, descending toward a wounded soldier.

 

Too late.

 

Maverick ran.

 

50 miles per hour across cracked stone and smoking wreckage, the world blurring around him.

His boots left sonic footprints.

His armor shrieked with kinetic strain.

 

And then—

he jumped.

 

150 feet. Straight into the air.

Like a missile born of silence.

 

Time seemed to stop.

 

And then—

he crashed down.

 

Right between the beast and his brother.

Stone exploded. Shockwaves cracked bones.

And before the monster could react—

 

SNAP.

 

Maverick grabbed its lower jaw—one massive, chittering fang still dripping with blood—

and slammed the creature into the canyon floor.

 

Its body cracked like glass.

Its limbs spasmed.

And Maverick raised his rifle—

 

FULL-AUTO.

 

Rounds ripped through its skull. The sound was less gunfire, more execution.

 

He stood.

Turned.

Faceless. Wordless.

 

His brothers stared up at him—chests heaving, helmets and armor streaked with blood.

 

Maverick raised his fist—slammed it once against his chest, then dropped it fast.

 

The salute.

 

His brothers mirrored it instantly.

 

THUD. Fist to chest. Down. No words.

 

Then—behind them—another roar.

 

The Warmachines turned.

 

A sea of beasts poured over the ridgeline.

 

Dozens.

Hundreds.

Snarling. Charging. Foaming. Screaming.

 

Maverick said nothing.

He simply stepped forward, shoulder to shoulder with his brothers.

 

Ten warriors.

One legend.

A wall of metal and wrath.

 

And together—

they charged.

__________________________________

They ran into the storm.

 

No hesitation. No fear.

Ten warmachines against hundreds.

But with Maverick at the front, it felt like they were a thousand strong.

 

As they closed the gap, he reached to his side—twin magnetic plates hissed open—

and he flung multiple magazines through the air with pinpoint precision.

 

Click. Catch. Load.

 

His brothers armed mid-sprint, as if war itself handed them the ammo.

 

"We are with you, brother!" one shouted, voice full of breath and belief.

"Let's show them who we are!"

 

The beasts slammed into them like a tidal wave of bone and rage.

 

But the Warmachines didn't break.

 

They carved.

 

One soldier twisted beneath the claw of a leaping creature—drove his blade upward through its throat and kicked it off his arm like garbage.

Another tackled two beasts off a ledge and detonated a grenade mid-fall, vaporizing the canyon wall in a burst of flame and ash.

 

Maverick moved like death remembered how to walk.

 

He grabbed a beast by the spine and spun it like a weapon, using its body to smash two more before ripping the skull clean from its torso.

He kneed another creature so hard its ribcage inverted.

Two charged him from both sides—he threw a shock-blade into the skull of one, dropped to one knee, and uppercutted the second into the air before unloading rounds into its chest as it fell.

 

He didn't speak.

His violence did it for him.

 

But it wasn't just his strength.

It was what he gave them.

 

The other Warmachines fought like something ancient had returned to their veins.

Like Maverick was a signal flare inside their blood, telling them: You do not die here. Not today.

 

They moved faster. Hit harder.

Their salutes had become war-cries.

 

"FOR EARTH!"

"FOR THE BLOOD THAT CAME BEFORE!"

 

At the heart of it—Maverick spotted one of his brothers locked in a grapple.

A beast had latched onto his chest, jaws closing in for the kill.

 

Without a word, Maverick charged—

Shoulder-checked the creature off the Warmachine, lifted it mid-air, and pinned it against a rockface.

 

His brother surged forward—

stabbed his blade into its spine—twice, three times—then held it down as Maverick crushed its skull with a single stomp.

 

They looked at each other for one breath.

No words.

 

Just a nod.

 

Unity.

 

Killers. Brothers. Weapons of purpose.

 

The swarm was thinning.

 

Corpses piled. Dust choked the air.

Black ichor rained from shredded limbs and broken jaws.

 

And yet the Warmachines moved forward.

 

One ripped a beast in half from the waist up.

Another used a downed enemy as a shield while firing dual rifles into the swarm.

 

Gunfire echoed like thunder.

Blades flashed like scripture.

 

It was not a fight.

It was a declaration.

 

The canyon that had once screamed with alien fury…

was now silent with fear.

 

And Maverick stood in its center, steaming, blood-stained,

a monument to wrath.

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