SABERS: Shadows of Ravena

"There's too many!" Atalanta cries as the thunderous sound of gunfire fills the air.

"We're gonna be overrun! We must prioritise the civilian evacuation!" Aegis says grabbing a skimmer, a slender and oily lizard-type monster and crushing its neck."

"Eilífr! Fallback with the remaining force! We must not let Ryzen fall before the evacuation is complete!" Thorvald commands as they slowly begin to get pushed back towards the towering walls of Ryzen, the capital city of the once Proud and Mighty planet Revena.

"Negative! Our orders were to hold them here under all circumstances!" Eilífr replies his twin MK99 .50 cal SMGs screaming as he mowed down everything that approached.

"Don't be a fool Eilífr! We all know orders change, as we also know you are the only one capable of defending the cargo ship." Skadi says, her thunderous Frontline 89 type II, a monstrous 20mm Sniper that ate through everything filled the air.

"IASO! I"M HIT!" Fenrir screams over the comms.

"HANG IN THERE! ACTIVATE THE HEMACRINE GEL!" Iaso orders as she forces her way over to Fenrir, who was lying on the ground, propped up on one arm, and diligently firing away with the other, his right leg had deep gashes and he had multiple chest wounds. Iaso couldn't help but chuckle as she came to a crouched stop by her fallen brother, who was surrounded by roughly 30 or so motionless bodies. "Eilífr! This is an order from all of us. Take Fenrir and fallback to evacuation point Golf. Ensure that everyone safely evacuates. Let nothing get passed you. Do you understand?" 

"Understood. I shall not let Fenrir, nor the evacuation site fall. You have my word." Eilífr acknowledges. One hand firing his MK99 and the other swinging an energy blade, he forces his way over. "Com'on bro. We're falling back."

"COVERING FIRE!" Atalanta yells over the comms and the remaining SABERS form a half circle around their two comrades.

"Aye, Eilífr." Fenrir says dryly as they make their way towards the gate.

"What is it?" He asks eyeing the health monitor in the lower right corner of his HUD.

"You know this is a one-way trip for us?"

"..." Eilífr was silent for a moment. "I know."

"Even though I know it's pointless, there was nothing you could do. We lost from the beginning. Hell, 7 soldiers holding off thousands of enemies while an entire city evacuates? We did one fine helluva job if you ask me." Fenrir says. It was in his personality to be uplifting, but even he knew Eilífr was eating himself up. Shit, anyone would. Leaving behind your brothers and sisters knowing it's the last time seeing them. That would hurt anyone, leader or not.

"Thanks Fen." He says as the gate opens and they enter. Once they confirmed the gate closed and was secure, Eilífr carefully placed Fenrir into the passenger seat of an A10Armadillo. A small heavily armored transport that sat 8 people including the driver and passenger. Once he was secured, Eilífr hopped into the driver seat, kicked the engine and sped off towards the evacuation site in the southern end of the city.

"Greetings Eilífr, Fenrir. Evacuation status is currently at 95%. We only need roughly 10 more minutes and we'll be all set." A short man with a thick moustache says as they get out of the Armadillo before quizzically asking. "Where are the others?"

"They're evacuating separately," Eilífr says curtly.

"Oh, as expected of the SABERS." He replies expectantly.

"Fenrir was badly injured, however, he is still in good fighting condition. He should make for a fine line of defence for this shuttle. Should worse somehow come to worse." Eilífr says as Fenrir tenderly removes himself from the support of Eilífr.

"The Hemacrine gel has done the majority of it's job. I can't make much excessive movement, but I can definitely stop a boarding party." He says slowly making his way on board. "See ya on the other side."

"See ya." Eilífr says as the door to the shuttle closed. "That the last one?"

"Yessir. Wh..." A series of screams and cries cut him off and they both looked to where the last remnants of people were pointing and gasping in awe.

A shadow moving against the blackened clouds. It was fast, too fast for most of the creatures they had encountered in the wild. At first, it seemed like a trick of the light, but soon, the form became unmistakable: a Nyrex, a flying swamp lizard known for its agility and viciousness.

The Nyrex's wings unfurled like tattered sails, membrane-like and translucent, catching the faint light from the burning city below. Its elongated tail whipped through the air, and the reptilian head, adorned with spines along its skull, darted forward. With a screech that reverberated through the ruins, it dived toward the shuttle, now just breaking through the last layers of smog and reaching cruising altitude.

Eilífr's breath caught as the creature lined up with its prey, its razor-sharp claws reaching forward. The shuttle, fragile in comparison to the Nyrex's power, wouldn't last long.

But just as the creature was about to strike, there was a flash of motion from the hatch of the shuttle—a sharp hiss followed by the clang of metal. Fenrir.

The emergency doorway had opened, and the wild warrior had leaped out. Fenrir's form was a blur of motion, dark armor contrasting against the descending Nyrex. With feral speed, Fenrir's claws extended—sharpened, retractable, and designed for just such a moment. They flashed like silver streaks as Fenrir closed the distance, an unstoppable force locked in a deadly dance with the flying lizard.

The Nyrex screeched again, snapping its jaws toward Fenrir. Its wings flapped, and its tail lashed like a whip, a flurry of deadly strikes aimed directly at the charging warrior. The air crackled with tension as the two hurtled toward one another.

Fenrir lunged first, their claws slashing out with brutal force, but the Nyrex was quicker, spinning midair and slamming its tail into Fenrir's side. The force of the impact knocked the warrior backward, the tail piercing through the gap in Fenrir's armor. A spray of blood followed, a grim reminder of the creature's power.

But Fenrir didn't falter.

With a guttural growl, they twisted in midair, using the last of their momentum to drive their claws deep into the creature's underbelly. The Nyrex let out a screech of pain, but Fenrir didn't let go. With a swift, final strike, they twisted the claws further, ripping into the creature's flesh. The Nyrex let out a deafening roar, thrashing desperately, but it was too late.

Both creatures plummeted toward the earth, their struggle sending them spiralling down like falling stars.

Eilífr, watching from the port, felt the impact even from this distance—the sickening thud of flesh and metal colliding with the ground. The wind carried the faintest echo of Fenrir's battle cry and the final screech of the Nyrex, followed by a stillness that hung heavy in the air.

"FUCK!" BANG He screamed slamming his fist into the hood of the Armidillo leaving a small imprint in the hood. His jaw tightened, Fenrir had always lived on the edge, and now, he had crossed it—taking the creature down with him in a fiery, destructive fall.

"Sir, the shuttle is ready to depart when you are." The man says timidly.

"Understood, boarding now." Eilífr somberly made his onto the shuttle. The bay door closed and soon the shuttle rumbled into take off. As he watched from the window, the absolute last thing he wanted to see flashed into the air. A dense green laser designater roughly 3 ft wide. "NOOO!" He screamed slamming his fist into the wall.

The sky slowly turned dark and the entire shuttle began to rumble, but not from turbulence. The laser disappeared, followed by the most defeating sound anyone had ever heard. Then for the splittest second he saw it. There was no warning; only the briefest flash of light, too quick for the human eye to fully comprehend. It was only thanks to his augmentations. Then, from the heavens, the weapon of last resort descended. A 33 foot long, 9.5 feet wide and 1,260 metric tons of tungsten connecting with the ground.

It was a Rod from God, a kinetic projectile launched from orbit, stripped of any conventional explosives but carrying the terrifying weight of immense velocity. A hyperdense tungsten rod, one of the few remnants of humanity's failed attempts to harness the power of space for warfare.

The shuttle had barely cleared the upper atmosphere when the order came through. A single rod, hurled from the edge of space, aimed at the heart of the city—a city already on its knees, buckling under the weight of war.

As the rod re-entered the atmosphere, it was a blur of fire and heat, a glowing streak against the heavens. Its descent was a violent, unstoppable force, the sound of atmospheric friction hissing as it cut through the sky like a spear thrown by the gods themselves. And then, with a deafening roar, it hit.

The impact was as if the world itself had shattered.

The ground trembled first, an unnatural ripple spreading outward from the point of contact. A shockwave followed, spreading like the opening of an abyss—spreading out in all directions, swallowing everything in its path. Concrete, metal, and stone were pulverized to dust, the air itself distorted by the power of the collision. The initial blast was bright—blinding—blazing with a searing white-hot light that turned day into night, erasing all color, all detail, from existence for a heartbeat.

The force of the rod's impact struck at the heart of the city's core, sending a shockwave that collapsed buildings, flattened entire districts, and twisted the ground like a ragged wound. The sound was a deafening thunderclap, a low, monstrous rumble that reverberated through the earth. It was the sound of the planet itself groaning, unable to contain the raw force of the strike.

Where the rod struck, the land was gone—consumed, swallowed by an expanding crater, so deep and wide that the very earth seemed to buckle beneath its weight. The air filled with dust, smoke, and debris, choking the sky, drowning out all other sounds with its deafening roar.

For miles around, the shockwave was felt—buildings collapsed as if they were made of paper, windows shattered in a hundred-mile radius, trees uprooted, and the very landscape itself twisted in response. The energy released by the impact was so immense that it ignited fires across the city, turning once-bustling streets into infernos that consumed everything in their path. Rivers of molten metal and earth oozed from the center of the crater, flowing like rivers of death.

The world felt still in the aftermath, the destruction overwhelming. Only the distant, echoing tremor of the impact lingered, a haunting reminder of the power that had been unleashed.

Where the Rod from God had struck, there was no longer a city—no longer a world as it had been. Only ruin. Only the remnants of a place that had once been vibrant, now reduced to an unrecognizable wasteland. And in the eerie silence that followed, one could almost hear the wind whispering through the barren, scorched earth.

The Rod had delivered its message, and in its wake, nothing remained but devastation.

Eilífr dropped to his knees. No one could survive that. The ultimate failsafe if being overrun was imminent and any human technology was at risk of falling into the Extractant's hands.

The shrill, electronic beep-beep-beep of the alarm cut through the stillness of Eilífr's deep sleep like a jagged blade. The sound was sharp, insistent, and cold—an unforgiving call to the present, tearing through the fog of unconsciousness. It reverberated through the walls of the small quarters, a monotonous rhythm that raked across their mind. For a moment, the world felt distant, disjointed—a fractured echo of the chaos that had yet to reach them. The alarm was relentless, an unyielding summons that refused to be ignored. It was a synthetic shriek, mechanical and harsh, designed to breach the most profound of slumbers.

"I'm sorry everyone..." Eilífr, says to himself as he hits the alarm and sits up. 9 years had passed and he once again dreamt of the last day he would see his brothers and sisters of the SABER series. All seven of them built for a different purpose.

Atalanta: built for speed and agility; Named after the swift-footed huntress of Greek mythology.

Aegis: built for defense and protection; Named after the mythical shield of Zeus and Athena, symbolizing unyielding defense.

Thorvald: built for power and strength; Named after the thunder god Thor's immense strength and dominance in battle.

Skadi: built for long-distance engagements; Named after the Norse goddess associated with archery, hunting, and the wilderness.

Iaso: built for healing and support; Named after the Greek goddess of healing, one of the daughters of Asclepius.

Fenrir: built for close combat; Named after the fierce wolf of Norse mythology.

and lastly him.

Eilífr: Meaning: "Ever-living" or "immortal." Derived from Old Norse ei (ever) and lífr (life). Augmented to be able to rapidly recover under the harshes conditions, even without the Hemacrine Gel, as well as quickly adapt and overcome any situation, he was the Apex of human engineering and technology. However, as much pride as he had in being a SABER, deep down he wanted nothing more than to have joined his fallen siblings on the battlefield. However, he had his mission, and his brothers and sisters' last wish. 

"Protect the remnants of human life."  That is why he had been sent to the evacuation site with the wounded Fenrir, he had the ability to maintain high combat despite any wounds recieved... and yet. He couldn't help but believe that there was something he could have done that day. Just one thing different and maybe everyone would still be here. Even so, he knew that wasn't true. If what the records said was true and there truly were around 43,000 Extractents that day, then nothing could have stopped that outcome.

Before leaving, Eilífr stands before the mirror, his gaze cold and unwavering as he observed his reflection. The armor was a perfect fusion of form and function—sleek yet imposing. Its dark, matte surface gleamed faintly under the dim light, the nanofiber plating seamlessly molded to his form, designed to withstand blows without sacrificing agility. The chestplate, reinforced with carbon composites, bore subtle markings—symbols of past battles, reminders of those who had fallen. The helmet, angular and menacing, obscured most of his face, leaving only his piercing eyes visible, burning with quiet determination. The silhouette was slender, deceptively so for the level of protection it offered. It was a warrior's armor, crafted for someone who would stand against the storm and emerge unchanged.

Eilífr adjusted his gauntlet, the metallic hum of the armor settling around him. There was no longer any pride in the way he looked; only the cold reality of survival.