A_Bibor_Farkas
Administrator
- Joined
- Nov 3, 2021
- Messages
- 61
- Reaction score
- 58
Morning came in pale streaks of light, struggling to pierce the ash-laden skies. The ruined city remained Sodden in relentless rain, the streets a treacherous mire of rubble and corpses. Beneath a collapsed skyscraper, the 13th Regiment—“Lady Luck”—held fast to their makeshift command post. It was a cramped space of toppled beams and fractured concrete slabs, barely stable enough to shelter them, yet it had to serve as headquarters and sanctuary.
Captain Ira Calloway, voice heavy with tension, tried the comms once more. “All stations on frequency 903.5, this is Captain Ira Calloway of the 13th. We’re holding as long as we can. Anyone out there, respond.”
Only static answered him. He shot a glance to the edge of the makeshift barricade where Sergeant Elise Calloway crouched, checking her platoon’s gear. They shared a brief look—no words, just an understanding. She had always been reliable, steady under fire. The fact that she was his daughter was a quiet truth buried under a hundred layers of duty; no one had the luxury to dwell on such connections here.
The rain, thick and constant, began to mix with ashen flakes drifting down from above. Someone muttered about an EMP. The telltale crackle and hiss of electronics shorting out soon followed. Holoscreens died; advanced optics flickered and failed. The OST maneuver gear—designed for rapid descents and flanking assaults—groaned as its servos sputtered. Captain Calloway’s brown eyes widened in alarm: “EMP, EMP! Deblouse any gear with active suites now! Strip it off! We go manual!”
Troopers swore under their breath, tugging at the heavy plates and fused circuits of their Einherjar armor. They pried free compromised modules and pulled off dead targeting units before they could slow them down. Some dropped to simpler helmets with old-fashioned visors, ridding themselves of any unnecessary electronics. They were shocktroopers, after all—trained to adapt. Even stripped of their high-tech edges, they’d fight like cornered wolves.
The enemy struck moments later. Volgan and Yuan soldiers emerged from the rubble of what had once been a boulevard of commerce, now a graveyard of twisted rebar. Their muffled shouts mingled with the drum of the rain. The 13th answered with a howl of gunfire. Muzzle flashes strobed against shattered windows; rifles barked and machine guns rattled with short, savage bursts. A grenade here, a smoke shell there—anything to break the enemy’s charge and hold this fragile line a heartbeat longer.
Still, the attackers pressed, hurling fragmentation grenades that shredded barricades and flesh. The 13th took casualties—good men and women who had survived drops from orbit, now left bleeding inches from their command post. Yet those still standing fought back with everything they had. Heavy gunners dug their heels into the muck, sending withering fire into enemy ranks. Grenadiers pumped shells that burst behind fragments of collapsed wall, sending foes reeling. When the enemy closed in too tightly, sidearms barked in desperate retorts, muzzle flashes carving brief, stark silhouettes in the gloom.
High above the fractured skyline, Sergeant Elise Calloway crouched behind a twisted beam that jutted out from the remains of a shattered skyscraper. Dawn’s weak light filtered through broken concrete and ash-stained glass, turning the rain into a pale, shimmering curtain. From this vantage, she watched the desperate fight unfolding below—the 13th Regiment’s makeshift command post under heavy assault, her father, Captain Ira Calloway, trying in vain to hail reinforcements. The enemy surged through the ruins, pressing the beleaguered defenders hard.
Around Elise, her squad prepared to drop into the fray. They were lightly armored OST shocktroopers—fewer electronics to fry in the EMP cloud, more freedom of movement in cramped terrain—each carrying maneuver gear and antigrav units that hissed softly as they stabilized their descent paths. The team bore their share of scars and quirks, each fighter more than a name in the chaos of war.
Corporal Vallen “Deadpan” checked the tension on his harness. He was known for his dry humor delivered in the flattest tone imaginable. Even in the worst firefight, he’d drop a one-liner that could wring a smirk from weary faces. His calm under pressure kept everyone steady.
Lance Corporal Nara “Iceberg” ran a hand along the blade of her combat knife, her expression distant and cool. She rarely spoke, but when she did, it was crisp and exact. Nara’s stoicism under fire had saved them more than once—no panic, no wasted motion, just lethal efficiency.
Jenkins “Hummer,” broad-shouldered and always humming old lullabies under his breath, fiddled with the locking mechanism of his rifle. His habit might have been odd, but it calmed nerves. That soft tune drifting through the headset channels had become a strangely comforting constant. Where others might crack, Jenkins kept a steady rhythm that anchored them all.
Private Cooper “Rook” shifted from foot to foot, new to the squad and too fresh-faced for these horrors. He’d survived basic training and the grueling OST indoctrination, but reality had its own lessons. Despite fear tight in his throat, he followed Elise’s every move, believing if she said they could do this, then they would. Someday, Cooper might earn a more heroic nickname, but for now “Rook” fit him well: a piece still learning how to move on the board.
Elise surveyed them with a nod. They trusted her judgment, and that faith was a heavier responsibility than any piece of armor. Below, the rain made visibility poor, and the EMP fallout drifted like sinister snow, shorting electronics and stripping away their technological edge. Elise knew the 13th was on a knife’s edge—hold out or be overrun.
She keyed her mic, voice low and certain: “We’re dropping in hard and fast. Hit them from the flank and keep moving. No one stops until we’ve relieved the CP.” There was no grand speech, just a statement of intent. They had trained for this moment countless times, drilled until their muscles remembered every movement of the maneuver gear, every angle of descent.
Her squad gripped the edges of a half-collapsed catwalk and, on Elise’s signal, stepped into open air. Their antigrav units engaged with soft hisses. They weren’t flying so much as controlling their fall, each trooper guiding themselves between jagged pillars and half-sheared beams. In the haze of early morning, they looked like ghosts descending through a sky of twisted steel and concrete dust.
As they dropped, rain traced silver lines across their visors, and the city’s screams rose up to meet them. Below, gunfire rattled and barked. Fragmentation grenades thumped and showered sparks and shrapnel. Through it all, the 13th clung to their last sanctuary, rifles kicking in stubborn refusal to yield.
Elise’s boots touched broken asphalt first, knees bending to absorb the shock. “Deadpan” swung in beside her, rifle ready. “Iceberg” slid gracefully behind a chunk of collapsed masonry, covering their flank. “Hummer” drifted down humming a half-remembered lullaby, weapon at the ready, and “Rook” landed heavier than intended, but steadied himself quickly.
They emerged from behind the enemy’s flank like a blade sliding between armor plates. The Volgan and Yuan soldiers, fixated on the entrenched defenders ahead, never saw them coming until it was too late. Elise’s first burst of gunfire cut down a knot of riflemen. Vallen followed suit, carving open a path. Nara lobbed a grenade that landed with deadly precision. Jenkins kept the suppressive fire rolling, pinning enemy sharpshooters behind wreckage. Cooper clenched his jaw and fired in controlled bursts, following Elise’s lead.
Caught between the unyielding line of the 13th command post and this sudden assault from above, the enemy wavered. Their charge faltered. The attackers stumbled over their own wounded, scrambled for cover, and began to fall back. Elise’s squad pressed on, relentless, no quarter given. Once an enemy formation collapsed, the 13th’s defenders, rallying behind their Captain’s steady commands, surged forward to reclaim ground.
As the shooting died down, a lull settled beneath the broken beams. The 13th scrambled to reinforce their defenses, tending to the wounded, resetting mines, and redistributing ammunition from battered supply crates. Elise stood in the rain, side by side with her squad .She was grateful for them all: “Deadpan,” “Iceberg,” “Hummer,” and “Rook.” Each had their quirks and faults, but together they formed a deadly harmony that had just saved their beleaguered regiment.
Somewhere not far off, Captain Calloway—her father—was re-establishing what semblance of order he could. The connection between them remained mostly unspoken; survival came first. Elise had her job, he had his, and neither asked for more. At least not now.
They had bought the 13th time and space. For how long, who could say? The war still raged beyond these ruins, and the morning light did little to dispel the nightmares lurking ahead. But for this moment, as water rolled off their helmets and pooled around their boots, the 13th stood unbroken. And that, in a world as torn and weary as this, felt like a small and defiant miracle.
As the gunfire above ground tapered off into uneasy silence, Elise and her squad took what respite they could behind a half-collapsed barricade. Broken beams and twisted girders provided scant shelter from the relentless rain, but at least no bullets buzzed overhead for the moment. The enemy had been pushed back, flanked and outmaneuvered as intended, and now a lull settled over the battlefield—tenuous and uncertain, but enough to breathe.
In the wavering half-light of early morning, Elise crouched beside a pile of debris that, not long ago, had been part of a tower’s facade. She pulled a ration pack from a pouch at her hip. The packaging was battered and smeared with mud, but sealed tight. The scent of disinfectant wipes, damp earth, and charred metal hung in the air, making the thought of food seem both essential and absurd. Still, she needed strength, and so did her people.
Nearby, Deadpan propped himself against a chunk of ferrocrete, fishing out a foil-wrapped protein bar. He peeled it open with a wry twist of his mouth. “I know we’ve eaten worse,” he said, voice low and flat, “but I’m not sure when.” The joke was thin, his trademark humor muted by exhaustion. Yet the squad took it in, grateful for any attempt to lighten the murk.Iceberg sat with her back against a broken steel column, one knee up, carefully unsealing her ration pack. She removed each item meticulously—dried fruit, compressed grains, and a flavorless energy paste—inspecting it as though it were ammo before consuming it without complaint. Nara had always been the pragmatic one. Food was fuel. No need to fuss.Hummer hummed softly as he spooned a gritty paste from a foil pouch, half-lidded eyes scanning the ruined streets. The tune had no real melody—just a gentle rise and fall, a reminder of distant kitchens and warm meals long gone. The simple sound, muffled by drizzle and distant cracks of sniper fire, offered a strange comfort.Rook fiddled with his ration’s seal, fingers trembling slightly. He cast a glance at Elise, seeking permission or guidance. She nodded, and he tore it open, revealing dense, tasteless biscuits and a powdered drink packet. He swallowed them stoically, face pinched. He would never say it, but he wanted to taste something good again—fresh bread, hot stew—but reality didn’t spare time for such luxuries.
Some of the other survivors of the 13th drifted closer, forming a loose circle behind makeshift cover. A few checked their bandages and armor plates, others tried to salvage damaged gear. In between these grim tasks, they nibbled at their own rations, chewing slowly to coax out what little flavor they could.
Elise took a bite of her protein slab, forcing herself to chew and swallow despite her dry throat. Each swallow was a reminder they were still here, still alive. The taste might have been bland and chalky, but in that moment it felt like victory rations. Not a grand feast, but a subtle promise that they had endured another assault—one more hurdle cleared in a war of endless obstacles.
In the distance, the wind carried distant pops of rifle fire, the enemy regrouping or retreating farther down some haunted avenue. The rain kept falling, washing pale rivulets over the shattered streets. The squad pressed close, taking what comfort they could in shared presence. Among them, Elise listened quietly to their breathing, their small murmurs of discontent or relief. She saw trust in their eyes and felt the weight of their faith settle over her shoulders.
They would move on soon—back into the fight, deeper into the city’s cracked underbelly. But for these few minutes, they ate in relative peace, shoulders touching, watchful eyes scanning the gray world around them. Each swallow was a small act of defiance: they were still here, still together, and they still had the will to carry on.
. Elise wasted little time after finishing her ration Bar and hydration gel, already moving, searching for a route deeper into the city, where the first company was rumored to be pinned. She slung her rifle across her back and lit a cigarette beneath a fractured beam, ignoring the rain’s steady hiss. Private Cooper approached, voice quiet and tremulous as he asked, “Sergeant, when will we be linking up with the rest of the first company?”
Elise met his gaze, offering a small nod of reassurance. “As soon as we find a way. The EMP scrambled everything, but we’ll get through. We always do.” He nodded, clutching that promise like a talisman.
Word came from Ira through a runner—no electronic comms stable enough yet—ordering Elise’s platoon to scout the old tram tunnels below the shattered streets. It would be dangerous, dark, and likely crawling with enemy patrols. Elise’s squad followed her without complaint. They trusted her to guide them, to lead them through the dripping underbelly of this ruined place just as she’d led them through bullet-riddled courtyards and collapsing roofs.
They descended into the old tram tunnels beneath the ruined city’s carcass just as the fractured daylight began to fade once more beneath layers of dripping concrete and corroded steel. The fighting above had finally lulled, granting them a narrow window to move and scout. Elise led the way, her boots splashing softly in pools of oily water. Behind her, her squad—Deadpan, Iceberg, Hummer, and Rook—spread out in a cautious wedge formation, weapons low but ready.
The air down here was stale, heavy with mildew and the tang of rotting refuse. When one of them spoke, it was barely above a whisper, each syllable echoing along rusted rails and cracked tile. Elise held up a clenched fist, signaling a halt, and they pressed themselves against the slick, grimy walls. Ahead, where the tunnel curved into darkness, faint voices murmured in a language they didn’t understand. Could be Volgan, maybe Yuan. Hard to tell. The words sounded tense, clipped—no laughter, no boasting. Professionals, or at least determined survivors.
Elise glanced back at her team. Deadpan (Vallen) nodded calmly, his humor on hold for the moment, his rifle cradled against his shoulder. Iceberg (Nara) silently checked her sidearm with deft, efficient motions. Hummer (Jenkins) hummed the faintest fragment of a tune under his breath, a nervous habit that kept his composure steady. Rook (Cooper) swallowed hard, trying to hide the tremor in his breathing as he fingered the safety on his weapon. Elise gave them a quick series of gestures—spread, flank, engage on signal. They all understood her perfectly. They’d done this dance before.
They crept forward one step at a time, boots scraping over cracked tiles and dislodging tiny bits of debris that pinged into shallow puddles. The enemy voices grew louder, more distinct. Elise could picture them: a small detachment, maybe half a dozen, holed up behind a collapsed turnstile or barricade of broken seats. They were likely just as exhausted and uneasy as her own squad, waiting for an ambush that would either come or not.
Two more careful steps brought them close enough for Elise to catch the glint of a rifle barrel reflected in a stagnant pool of water. She raised two fingers, then pointed ahead. Nara and Vallen slid into position, angling for a crossfire. Jenkins took a knee behind a burst pipe, his shoulders tense beneath the dripping condensation. Cooper’s hand shook slightly, but he gritted his teeth and steadied himself behind a cracked maintenance console.
Elise inhaled, slow and silent. She could feel her heart in her ears, the blood rushing hot and fast. She timed it: three, two, one—
Vallen fired first, a neat burst that snapped into the darkness and found its mark in a startled cry. Instantly, Nara launched a grenade that went off with a muffled whump, spraying sparks and concrete dust. Shouts and panicked scuffling erupted from beyond the turnstiles. Return fire spat bright muzzle flashes in the gloom, bullets pinging off metal pillars and ricocheting overhead. The tunnel transformed into a staccato symphony of weapons and shouted commands, thunderous in its confined space.
Elise advanced, firing short bursts, her boots slipping but never losing balance. The enemy tried to counter, but their formation was broken, their retreat cut off. Jenkins kept a steady stream of fire to prevent them from regrouping, humming replaced by the sharp bark of his rifle. Cooper took careful aim each time, swallowing his fear with every controlled trigger squeeze. They pressed the ambushers back, deeper into the tunnel, forcing them into an ever-tightening pocket of smoke and confusion.
Within minutes, it was over. Bodies lay slumped against corroded signs, bullet-pocked walls dripping with new stains beneath the flicker of a single dying light strip. The silence that followed rang in their ears as they caught their breath, searching the shadows for any stragglers. None remained.
Elise signaled them to move on—there was no time to celebrate small victories. They had to find a route through these tunnels, secure a path to the pinned-down first company. She stepped around a twisted bit of metal and splintered concrete, deeper into the gloom.
The junction ahead was a collapsed maintenance area where two lines had once intersected. Water drizzled from above, and the sound was deceptively soothing. The air smelled of rust and chemicals, the floor slick and uneven. Elise took the point again, scanning the low arches with her flashlight’s narrow beam. Each member of the squad sharpened their senses, nerves worn thin but still attentive.
Cooper stepped gingerly behind Elise, wincing at the way the darkness seemed to press in. Jenkins and Vallen covered the rear, while Nara moved parallel, hugging the opposite wall. The place seemed quiet, too quiet—a silence that felt like a trap.
Then Elise’s boot struck something hidden beneath a shallow puddle. A heartbeat later, an earsplitting blast tore through the corridor. The flash blinded them momentarily, white-hot and searing. The shockwave hurled Elise backward into a mangled knot of conduit, her rifle spinning from her grip. Debris hammered into her squadmates, driving them to cover. Chunks of shattered tile and metal pipes whirled through the corridor like shrapnel.
Dust and smoke billowed out, choking the tunnel. Jenkins coughed violently, ears ringing, trying to refocus on the spot where Elise had been. Nara cursed under her breath, hands searching for her sidearm amid the chaos. Vallen shook loose a piece of twisted rebar that had snagged his armor plate, struggling to orient himself in the swirling haze. Cooper—Rook—scrambled forward on hands and knees, terrified of what he’d find.
Amid the settling dust, they saw Elise lying motionless, her lower body obscured by a tangle of broken metal and ruptured cables. Her legs—God, her legs were gone. Cooper choked on a sob and yanked a field dressing free, stammering half-prayers and curses. Nara hurried to help, her usually stoic face twisted in shock. Vallen scanned the murk for any sign of a follow-up attack, knuckles white on his rifle grip. Jenkins, his steady hum lost, managed only a trembling hush as he tried to form words that wouldn’t come.
In that moment, the firefight and the detonation melded into a single, brutal memory. The silence that followed felt like a grave’s embrace. The mine had done its work, reducing their Sergeant—the center of their calm, their unspoken assurance—to a broken figure amid rubble and blood.
Still, they rallied around her. They were OST. They knew no other way. Together, they would patch her up and find a way out, each step forward now burdened by the knowledge of just how quickly fortune could turn in the flickering darkness of those godforsaken tunnels.
When Elise finally stirred from a feverish half-sleep and opened her eyes, she did so to an aching silence and a warm glow of lantern-light. She was in a makeshift infirmary fashioned from tarps, salvaged planks, and whatever intact sections of wall could be found. The wounded and dying lay on stretchers arranged in uneven rows. A few medics moved quietly between them, heads bowed low and voices hushed. Outside, the rain still tapped its uneasy rhythm against the broken shell of the city. She remembered an explosion, a chaotic scuffle in the tram tunnels, and then nothing.
Pain flared the instant she tried to move. Below her hips, where her legs should have been, there was only bandaged emptiness. Panic and loss crashed over her in heavy waves, but she forced herself to breathe through it. She was OST—she would adapt. That’s what they did. She swallowed hard, eyes adjusting to the dim light. Nearby, a field engineer hunched over a set of prosthetic limbs, delicate tools clinking softly as he made minute adjustments. The prosthetics looked solid and functional, if not elegant. Another reminder of how much had changed.
It took time for the whispers and the hushed voices to drift close. She recognized two of them: Vallen “Deadpan” and Nara “Iceberg.” Vallen leaned against a post, eyes shadowed, jaw tight. He lacked his usual dry humor, as if he’d run out of clever remarks. Nara stood at Elise’s bedside with folded arms, her stance more rigid than usual. The tension between them told Elise something was off. Something worse than just her legs.
Nara finally spoke first, her voice low and careful: “We pushed forward after... after what happened in the tunnels. The Captain linked up with the first company—reinforcements arrived. Supply drops came through. We’re stable now.” She paused, lowering her gaze. “But it cost us.” Vallen looked away, grimacing, and Elise’s heart sank.
Elise’s throat tightened. “Who?”
“Cooper and Jenkins,” Nara said, forcing the words out. “They... didn’t make it.” Her tone was as controlled and even as ever, but Elise saw the sadness lurking in her eyes. This was the price of the war, the brutal arithmetic that never balanced. Jenkins, who always hummed lullabies, who made them feel human amid hellfire. Cooper, the rookie who believed in Elise’s every promise, following her lead with awe and trust. Gone.
She let the news settle like a barbed weight in her chest. She had been unconscious for days, and in that span the world had shifted. The 13th now had a foothold. Reinforcements and fresh supplies were theirs, and the prosthetics that would restore her mobility were ready. But Jenkins and Cooper wouldn’t see it. They wouldn’t taste the bitter relief of survival or share quiet jokes over stale rations again.
Vallen cleared his throat softly. “They fought hard, Sarge,” he said, voice rough at the edges. “They were holding a line on the south approach after we pulled you out. Saved a dozen new replacements.” He gave a small shrug, the gesture helpless and angry all at once. “One well-placed mortar shell ended it.”
Elise closed her eyes for a moment, forcing herself to breathe. She wanted to grieve, to rage, but the war didn’t stop for sorrow. The best she could do now was remember them well. They had left their mark: Jenkins’s quiet hum that had eased their nerves in dark hours, Cooper’s earnest belief in their mission, his faith that Elise could lead them anywhere. Both had kept hope alive in their own ways.
Footsteps approached—heavy steps, measured and deliberate. Captain Ira Calloway arrived, his armor scuffed, a bruise darkening his left cheekbone. He carried the weight of command and paternity like twin burdens on his shoulders. He offered Elise a nod—no words at first. The pride and relief in his eyes were dampened by shared grief. She knew he mourned the lost troopers, too. Each death chiseled away at his soul and reminded him that his daughter’s life, too, hung on a thread of chance and courage.
“I’ll fight again,” Elise managed after a heavy pause, her voice low but certain. She wouldn’t let Jenkins’s lullabies or Cooper’s unwavering trust die in vain. She’d honor their memories by standing once more. “I’ll adapt,” she added, gaze shifting to the prosthetic legs on the worktable. “I’ll learn to use them.”
Ira inclined his head, his voice steady but hushed. “I know,” he said simply. Father and daughter locked eyes, understanding passing between them. Words would have been clumsy. Both knew what survival demanded.
Nara shifted, crossing her arms tighter. “We’re with you, Sergeant,” she said softly. “No matter what.” Vallen gave a faint, wan smile. Nothing to joke about now, but he stood straighter, as if to lend her his strength.
Outside, the faint early morning light filtered through torn tarps and broken walls, illuminating a battlefield that had, in small measure, begun to tilt in their favor. Fresh barricades, new supplies, and the distant thrum of more boots on the ground. Yet victory was never free. They had paid in blood and bone.
Elise exhaled, letting grief and resolve settle side by side in her chest. She would carry their lost with her, in memory and action. She would endure the painful steps of learning to walk again, to fight on prosthetic limbs, because to yield now would betray those who had sacrificed everything. The Heaven’s War still raged, but the 13th held on. For Jenkins, for Cooper, for all of them, Elise Calloway would rise once more.
Captain Ira Calloway, voice heavy with tension, tried the comms once more. “All stations on frequency 903.5, this is Captain Ira Calloway of the 13th. We’re holding as long as we can. Anyone out there, respond.”
Only static answered him. He shot a glance to the edge of the makeshift barricade where Sergeant Elise Calloway crouched, checking her platoon’s gear. They shared a brief look—no words, just an understanding. She had always been reliable, steady under fire. The fact that she was his daughter was a quiet truth buried under a hundred layers of duty; no one had the luxury to dwell on such connections here.
The rain, thick and constant, began to mix with ashen flakes drifting down from above. Someone muttered about an EMP. The telltale crackle and hiss of electronics shorting out soon followed. Holoscreens died; advanced optics flickered and failed. The OST maneuver gear—designed for rapid descents and flanking assaults—groaned as its servos sputtered. Captain Calloway’s brown eyes widened in alarm: “EMP, EMP! Deblouse any gear with active suites now! Strip it off! We go manual!”
Troopers swore under their breath, tugging at the heavy plates and fused circuits of their Einherjar armor. They pried free compromised modules and pulled off dead targeting units before they could slow them down. Some dropped to simpler helmets with old-fashioned visors, ridding themselves of any unnecessary electronics. They were shocktroopers, after all—trained to adapt. Even stripped of their high-tech edges, they’d fight like cornered wolves.
The enemy struck moments later. Volgan and Yuan soldiers emerged from the rubble of what had once been a boulevard of commerce, now a graveyard of twisted rebar. Their muffled shouts mingled with the drum of the rain. The 13th answered with a howl of gunfire. Muzzle flashes strobed against shattered windows; rifles barked and machine guns rattled with short, savage bursts. A grenade here, a smoke shell there—anything to break the enemy’s charge and hold this fragile line a heartbeat longer.
Still, the attackers pressed, hurling fragmentation grenades that shredded barricades and flesh. The 13th took casualties—good men and women who had survived drops from orbit, now left bleeding inches from their command post. Yet those still standing fought back with everything they had. Heavy gunners dug their heels into the muck, sending withering fire into enemy ranks. Grenadiers pumped shells that burst behind fragments of collapsed wall, sending foes reeling. When the enemy closed in too tightly, sidearms barked in desperate retorts, muzzle flashes carving brief, stark silhouettes in the gloom.
High above the fractured skyline, Sergeant Elise Calloway crouched behind a twisted beam that jutted out from the remains of a shattered skyscraper. Dawn’s weak light filtered through broken concrete and ash-stained glass, turning the rain into a pale, shimmering curtain. From this vantage, she watched the desperate fight unfolding below—the 13th Regiment’s makeshift command post under heavy assault, her father, Captain Ira Calloway, trying in vain to hail reinforcements. The enemy surged through the ruins, pressing the beleaguered defenders hard.
Around Elise, her squad prepared to drop into the fray. They were lightly armored OST shocktroopers—fewer electronics to fry in the EMP cloud, more freedom of movement in cramped terrain—each carrying maneuver gear and antigrav units that hissed softly as they stabilized their descent paths. The team bore their share of scars and quirks, each fighter more than a name in the chaos of war.
Corporal Vallen “Deadpan” checked the tension on his harness. He was known for his dry humor delivered in the flattest tone imaginable. Even in the worst firefight, he’d drop a one-liner that could wring a smirk from weary faces. His calm under pressure kept everyone steady.
Lance Corporal Nara “Iceberg” ran a hand along the blade of her combat knife, her expression distant and cool. She rarely spoke, but when she did, it was crisp and exact. Nara’s stoicism under fire had saved them more than once—no panic, no wasted motion, just lethal efficiency.
Jenkins “Hummer,” broad-shouldered and always humming old lullabies under his breath, fiddled with the locking mechanism of his rifle. His habit might have been odd, but it calmed nerves. That soft tune drifting through the headset channels had become a strangely comforting constant. Where others might crack, Jenkins kept a steady rhythm that anchored them all.
Private Cooper “Rook” shifted from foot to foot, new to the squad and too fresh-faced for these horrors. He’d survived basic training and the grueling OST indoctrination, but reality had its own lessons. Despite fear tight in his throat, he followed Elise’s every move, believing if she said they could do this, then they would. Someday, Cooper might earn a more heroic nickname, but for now “Rook” fit him well: a piece still learning how to move on the board.
Elise surveyed them with a nod. They trusted her judgment, and that faith was a heavier responsibility than any piece of armor. Below, the rain made visibility poor, and the EMP fallout drifted like sinister snow, shorting electronics and stripping away their technological edge. Elise knew the 13th was on a knife’s edge—hold out or be overrun.
She keyed her mic, voice low and certain: “We’re dropping in hard and fast. Hit them from the flank and keep moving. No one stops until we’ve relieved the CP.” There was no grand speech, just a statement of intent. They had trained for this moment countless times, drilled until their muscles remembered every movement of the maneuver gear, every angle of descent.
Her squad gripped the edges of a half-collapsed catwalk and, on Elise’s signal, stepped into open air. Their antigrav units engaged with soft hisses. They weren’t flying so much as controlling their fall, each trooper guiding themselves between jagged pillars and half-sheared beams. In the haze of early morning, they looked like ghosts descending through a sky of twisted steel and concrete dust.
As they dropped, rain traced silver lines across their visors, and the city’s screams rose up to meet them. Below, gunfire rattled and barked. Fragmentation grenades thumped and showered sparks and shrapnel. Through it all, the 13th clung to their last sanctuary, rifles kicking in stubborn refusal to yield.
Elise’s boots touched broken asphalt first, knees bending to absorb the shock. “Deadpan” swung in beside her, rifle ready. “Iceberg” slid gracefully behind a chunk of collapsed masonry, covering their flank. “Hummer” drifted down humming a half-remembered lullaby, weapon at the ready, and “Rook” landed heavier than intended, but steadied himself quickly.
They emerged from behind the enemy’s flank like a blade sliding between armor plates. The Volgan and Yuan soldiers, fixated on the entrenched defenders ahead, never saw them coming until it was too late. Elise’s first burst of gunfire cut down a knot of riflemen. Vallen followed suit, carving open a path. Nara lobbed a grenade that landed with deadly precision. Jenkins kept the suppressive fire rolling, pinning enemy sharpshooters behind wreckage. Cooper clenched his jaw and fired in controlled bursts, following Elise’s lead.
Caught between the unyielding line of the 13th command post and this sudden assault from above, the enemy wavered. Their charge faltered. The attackers stumbled over their own wounded, scrambled for cover, and began to fall back. Elise’s squad pressed on, relentless, no quarter given. Once an enemy formation collapsed, the 13th’s defenders, rallying behind their Captain’s steady commands, surged forward to reclaim ground.
As the shooting died down, a lull settled beneath the broken beams. The 13th scrambled to reinforce their defenses, tending to the wounded, resetting mines, and redistributing ammunition from battered supply crates. Elise stood in the rain, side by side with her squad .She was grateful for them all: “Deadpan,” “Iceberg,” “Hummer,” and “Rook.” Each had their quirks and faults, but together they formed a deadly harmony that had just saved their beleaguered regiment.
Somewhere not far off, Captain Calloway—her father—was re-establishing what semblance of order he could. The connection between them remained mostly unspoken; survival came first. Elise had her job, he had his, and neither asked for more. At least not now.
They had bought the 13th time and space. For how long, who could say? The war still raged beyond these ruins, and the morning light did little to dispel the nightmares lurking ahead. But for this moment, as water rolled off their helmets and pooled around their boots, the 13th stood unbroken. And that, in a world as torn and weary as this, felt like a small and defiant miracle.
As the gunfire above ground tapered off into uneasy silence, Elise and her squad took what respite they could behind a half-collapsed barricade. Broken beams and twisted girders provided scant shelter from the relentless rain, but at least no bullets buzzed overhead for the moment. The enemy had been pushed back, flanked and outmaneuvered as intended, and now a lull settled over the battlefield—tenuous and uncertain, but enough to breathe.
In the wavering half-light of early morning, Elise crouched beside a pile of debris that, not long ago, had been part of a tower’s facade. She pulled a ration pack from a pouch at her hip. The packaging was battered and smeared with mud, but sealed tight. The scent of disinfectant wipes, damp earth, and charred metal hung in the air, making the thought of food seem both essential and absurd. Still, she needed strength, and so did her people.
Nearby, Deadpan propped himself against a chunk of ferrocrete, fishing out a foil-wrapped protein bar. He peeled it open with a wry twist of his mouth. “I know we’ve eaten worse,” he said, voice low and flat, “but I’m not sure when.” The joke was thin, his trademark humor muted by exhaustion. Yet the squad took it in, grateful for any attempt to lighten the murk.Iceberg sat with her back against a broken steel column, one knee up, carefully unsealing her ration pack. She removed each item meticulously—dried fruit, compressed grains, and a flavorless energy paste—inspecting it as though it were ammo before consuming it without complaint. Nara had always been the pragmatic one. Food was fuel. No need to fuss.Hummer hummed softly as he spooned a gritty paste from a foil pouch, half-lidded eyes scanning the ruined streets. The tune had no real melody—just a gentle rise and fall, a reminder of distant kitchens and warm meals long gone. The simple sound, muffled by drizzle and distant cracks of sniper fire, offered a strange comfort.Rook fiddled with his ration’s seal, fingers trembling slightly. He cast a glance at Elise, seeking permission or guidance. She nodded, and he tore it open, revealing dense, tasteless biscuits and a powdered drink packet. He swallowed them stoically, face pinched. He would never say it, but he wanted to taste something good again—fresh bread, hot stew—but reality didn’t spare time for such luxuries.
Some of the other survivors of the 13th drifted closer, forming a loose circle behind makeshift cover. A few checked their bandages and armor plates, others tried to salvage damaged gear. In between these grim tasks, they nibbled at their own rations, chewing slowly to coax out what little flavor they could.
Elise took a bite of her protein slab, forcing herself to chew and swallow despite her dry throat. Each swallow was a reminder they were still here, still alive. The taste might have been bland and chalky, but in that moment it felt like victory rations. Not a grand feast, but a subtle promise that they had endured another assault—one more hurdle cleared in a war of endless obstacles.
In the distance, the wind carried distant pops of rifle fire, the enemy regrouping or retreating farther down some haunted avenue. The rain kept falling, washing pale rivulets over the shattered streets. The squad pressed close, taking what comfort they could in shared presence. Among them, Elise listened quietly to their breathing, their small murmurs of discontent or relief. She saw trust in their eyes and felt the weight of their faith settle over her shoulders.
They would move on soon—back into the fight, deeper into the city’s cracked underbelly. But for these few minutes, they ate in relative peace, shoulders touching, watchful eyes scanning the gray world around them. Each swallow was a small act of defiance: they were still here, still together, and they still had the will to carry on.
. Elise wasted little time after finishing her ration Bar and hydration gel, already moving, searching for a route deeper into the city, where the first company was rumored to be pinned. She slung her rifle across her back and lit a cigarette beneath a fractured beam, ignoring the rain’s steady hiss. Private Cooper approached, voice quiet and tremulous as he asked, “Sergeant, when will we be linking up with the rest of the first company?”
Elise met his gaze, offering a small nod of reassurance. “As soon as we find a way. The EMP scrambled everything, but we’ll get through. We always do.” He nodded, clutching that promise like a talisman.
Word came from Ira through a runner—no electronic comms stable enough yet—ordering Elise’s platoon to scout the old tram tunnels below the shattered streets. It would be dangerous, dark, and likely crawling with enemy patrols. Elise’s squad followed her without complaint. They trusted her to guide them, to lead them through the dripping underbelly of this ruined place just as she’d led them through bullet-riddled courtyards and collapsing roofs.
They descended into the old tram tunnels beneath the ruined city’s carcass just as the fractured daylight began to fade once more beneath layers of dripping concrete and corroded steel. The fighting above had finally lulled, granting them a narrow window to move and scout. Elise led the way, her boots splashing softly in pools of oily water. Behind her, her squad—Deadpan, Iceberg, Hummer, and Rook—spread out in a cautious wedge formation, weapons low but ready.
The air down here was stale, heavy with mildew and the tang of rotting refuse. When one of them spoke, it was barely above a whisper, each syllable echoing along rusted rails and cracked tile. Elise held up a clenched fist, signaling a halt, and they pressed themselves against the slick, grimy walls. Ahead, where the tunnel curved into darkness, faint voices murmured in a language they didn’t understand. Could be Volgan, maybe Yuan. Hard to tell. The words sounded tense, clipped—no laughter, no boasting. Professionals, or at least determined survivors.
Elise glanced back at her team. Deadpan (Vallen) nodded calmly, his humor on hold for the moment, his rifle cradled against his shoulder. Iceberg (Nara) silently checked her sidearm with deft, efficient motions. Hummer (Jenkins) hummed the faintest fragment of a tune under his breath, a nervous habit that kept his composure steady. Rook (Cooper) swallowed hard, trying to hide the tremor in his breathing as he fingered the safety on his weapon. Elise gave them a quick series of gestures—spread, flank, engage on signal. They all understood her perfectly. They’d done this dance before.
They crept forward one step at a time, boots scraping over cracked tiles and dislodging tiny bits of debris that pinged into shallow puddles. The enemy voices grew louder, more distinct. Elise could picture them: a small detachment, maybe half a dozen, holed up behind a collapsed turnstile or barricade of broken seats. They were likely just as exhausted and uneasy as her own squad, waiting for an ambush that would either come or not.
Two more careful steps brought them close enough for Elise to catch the glint of a rifle barrel reflected in a stagnant pool of water. She raised two fingers, then pointed ahead. Nara and Vallen slid into position, angling for a crossfire. Jenkins took a knee behind a burst pipe, his shoulders tense beneath the dripping condensation. Cooper’s hand shook slightly, but he gritted his teeth and steadied himself behind a cracked maintenance console.
Elise inhaled, slow and silent. She could feel her heart in her ears, the blood rushing hot and fast. She timed it: three, two, one—
Vallen fired first, a neat burst that snapped into the darkness and found its mark in a startled cry. Instantly, Nara launched a grenade that went off with a muffled whump, spraying sparks and concrete dust. Shouts and panicked scuffling erupted from beyond the turnstiles. Return fire spat bright muzzle flashes in the gloom, bullets pinging off metal pillars and ricocheting overhead. The tunnel transformed into a staccato symphony of weapons and shouted commands, thunderous in its confined space.
Elise advanced, firing short bursts, her boots slipping but never losing balance. The enemy tried to counter, but their formation was broken, their retreat cut off. Jenkins kept a steady stream of fire to prevent them from regrouping, humming replaced by the sharp bark of his rifle. Cooper took careful aim each time, swallowing his fear with every controlled trigger squeeze. They pressed the ambushers back, deeper into the tunnel, forcing them into an ever-tightening pocket of smoke and confusion.
Within minutes, it was over. Bodies lay slumped against corroded signs, bullet-pocked walls dripping with new stains beneath the flicker of a single dying light strip. The silence that followed rang in their ears as they caught their breath, searching the shadows for any stragglers. None remained.
Elise signaled them to move on—there was no time to celebrate small victories. They had to find a route through these tunnels, secure a path to the pinned-down first company. She stepped around a twisted bit of metal and splintered concrete, deeper into the gloom.
The junction ahead was a collapsed maintenance area where two lines had once intersected. Water drizzled from above, and the sound was deceptively soothing. The air smelled of rust and chemicals, the floor slick and uneven. Elise took the point again, scanning the low arches with her flashlight’s narrow beam. Each member of the squad sharpened their senses, nerves worn thin but still attentive.
Cooper stepped gingerly behind Elise, wincing at the way the darkness seemed to press in. Jenkins and Vallen covered the rear, while Nara moved parallel, hugging the opposite wall. The place seemed quiet, too quiet—a silence that felt like a trap.
Then Elise’s boot struck something hidden beneath a shallow puddle. A heartbeat later, an earsplitting blast tore through the corridor. The flash blinded them momentarily, white-hot and searing. The shockwave hurled Elise backward into a mangled knot of conduit, her rifle spinning from her grip. Debris hammered into her squadmates, driving them to cover. Chunks of shattered tile and metal pipes whirled through the corridor like shrapnel.
Dust and smoke billowed out, choking the tunnel. Jenkins coughed violently, ears ringing, trying to refocus on the spot where Elise had been. Nara cursed under her breath, hands searching for her sidearm amid the chaos. Vallen shook loose a piece of twisted rebar that had snagged his armor plate, struggling to orient himself in the swirling haze. Cooper—Rook—scrambled forward on hands and knees, terrified of what he’d find.
Amid the settling dust, they saw Elise lying motionless, her lower body obscured by a tangle of broken metal and ruptured cables. Her legs—God, her legs were gone. Cooper choked on a sob and yanked a field dressing free, stammering half-prayers and curses. Nara hurried to help, her usually stoic face twisted in shock. Vallen scanned the murk for any sign of a follow-up attack, knuckles white on his rifle grip. Jenkins, his steady hum lost, managed only a trembling hush as he tried to form words that wouldn’t come.
In that moment, the firefight and the detonation melded into a single, brutal memory. The silence that followed felt like a grave’s embrace. The mine had done its work, reducing their Sergeant—the center of their calm, their unspoken assurance—to a broken figure amid rubble and blood.
Still, they rallied around her. They were OST. They knew no other way. Together, they would patch her up and find a way out, each step forward now burdened by the knowledge of just how quickly fortune could turn in the flickering darkness of those godforsaken tunnels.
When Elise finally stirred from a feverish half-sleep and opened her eyes, she did so to an aching silence and a warm glow of lantern-light. She was in a makeshift infirmary fashioned from tarps, salvaged planks, and whatever intact sections of wall could be found. The wounded and dying lay on stretchers arranged in uneven rows. A few medics moved quietly between them, heads bowed low and voices hushed. Outside, the rain still tapped its uneasy rhythm against the broken shell of the city. She remembered an explosion, a chaotic scuffle in the tram tunnels, and then nothing.
Pain flared the instant she tried to move. Below her hips, where her legs should have been, there was only bandaged emptiness. Panic and loss crashed over her in heavy waves, but she forced herself to breathe through it. She was OST—she would adapt. That’s what they did. She swallowed hard, eyes adjusting to the dim light. Nearby, a field engineer hunched over a set of prosthetic limbs, delicate tools clinking softly as he made minute adjustments. The prosthetics looked solid and functional, if not elegant. Another reminder of how much had changed.
It took time for the whispers and the hushed voices to drift close. She recognized two of them: Vallen “Deadpan” and Nara “Iceberg.” Vallen leaned against a post, eyes shadowed, jaw tight. He lacked his usual dry humor, as if he’d run out of clever remarks. Nara stood at Elise’s bedside with folded arms, her stance more rigid than usual. The tension between them told Elise something was off. Something worse than just her legs.
Nara finally spoke first, her voice low and careful: “We pushed forward after... after what happened in the tunnels. The Captain linked up with the first company—reinforcements arrived. Supply drops came through. We’re stable now.” She paused, lowering her gaze. “But it cost us.” Vallen looked away, grimacing, and Elise’s heart sank.
Elise’s throat tightened. “Who?”
“Cooper and Jenkins,” Nara said, forcing the words out. “They... didn’t make it.” Her tone was as controlled and even as ever, but Elise saw the sadness lurking in her eyes. This was the price of the war, the brutal arithmetic that never balanced. Jenkins, who always hummed lullabies, who made them feel human amid hellfire. Cooper, the rookie who believed in Elise’s every promise, following her lead with awe and trust. Gone.
She let the news settle like a barbed weight in her chest. She had been unconscious for days, and in that span the world had shifted. The 13th now had a foothold. Reinforcements and fresh supplies were theirs, and the prosthetics that would restore her mobility were ready. But Jenkins and Cooper wouldn’t see it. They wouldn’t taste the bitter relief of survival or share quiet jokes over stale rations again.
Vallen cleared his throat softly. “They fought hard, Sarge,” he said, voice rough at the edges. “They were holding a line on the south approach after we pulled you out. Saved a dozen new replacements.” He gave a small shrug, the gesture helpless and angry all at once. “One well-placed mortar shell ended it.”
Elise closed her eyes for a moment, forcing herself to breathe. She wanted to grieve, to rage, but the war didn’t stop for sorrow. The best she could do now was remember them well. They had left their mark: Jenkins’s quiet hum that had eased their nerves in dark hours, Cooper’s earnest belief in their mission, his faith that Elise could lead them anywhere. Both had kept hope alive in their own ways.
Footsteps approached—heavy steps, measured and deliberate. Captain Ira Calloway arrived, his armor scuffed, a bruise darkening his left cheekbone. He carried the weight of command and paternity like twin burdens on his shoulders. He offered Elise a nod—no words at first. The pride and relief in his eyes were dampened by shared grief. She knew he mourned the lost troopers, too. Each death chiseled away at his soul and reminded him that his daughter’s life, too, hung on a thread of chance and courage.
“I’ll fight again,” Elise managed after a heavy pause, her voice low but certain. She wouldn’t let Jenkins’s lullabies or Cooper’s unwavering trust die in vain. She’d honor their memories by standing once more. “I’ll adapt,” she added, gaze shifting to the prosthetic legs on the worktable. “I’ll learn to use them.”
Ira inclined his head, his voice steady but hushed. “I know,” he said simply. Father and daughter locked eyes, understanding passing between them. Words would have been clumsy. Both knew what survival demanded.
Nara shifted, crossing her arms tighter. “We’re with you, Sergeant,” she said softly. “No matter what.” Vallen gave a faint, wan smile. Nothing to joke about now, but he stood straighter, as if to lend her his strength.
Outside, the faint early morning light filtered through torn tarps and broken walls, illuminating a battlefield that had, in small measure, begun to tilt in their favor. Fresh barricades, new supplies, and the distant thrum of more boots on the ground. Yet victory was never free. They had paid in blood and bone.
Elise exhaled, letting grief and resolve settle side by side in her chest. She would carry their lost with her, in memory and action. She would endure the painful steps of learning to walk again, to fight on prosthetic limbs, because to yield now would betray those who had sacrificed everything. The Heaven’s War still raged, but the 13th held on. For Jenkins, for Cooper, for all of them, Elise Calloway would rise once more.