SABERS: Shadows of Ravena

"Prepare two Elephants! It's only forty-two people, but they deserve to return with dignity. God only knows the horrors they've endured," the Colonel barked, his voice cutting through the sudden hum of activity in the command center.

The once-quiet control room was now alive with energy as personnel moved with purpose. Store clerks, logistics officers, infantry—it didn't matter. Every individual in Carnitas had a role to play now that SABER-1 had executed Orders 2023.150A and 2045.19Z.

Executive Order 2023.150A mandated immediate action for the extraction and survival of civilians found behind enemy lines, placing full operational oversight on the nearest Installation Commanding Officer.

Order 2045.19Z, however, was far more severe. It authorized the use of orbital kinetic strikes, including legendary weapons like Spear of Longinus, Areadbhar, Gungnir, and, in extreme circumstances, the devastating Rod from God.

The Colonel rubbed his temples, muttering under his breath as chaos unfolded around him. He didn't know what SABER-1 was thinking, taking it upon himself to execute those orders. Not only had it caused a logistical headache, but invoking 2045.19Z was practically unheard of. Orbital strikes had only been authorized a handful of times in the past decade, and each instance carried devastating consequences.

"What the hell did you find out there, SABER-1?" the Colonel thought grimly, his jaw tightening. Whatever it was, it must have been beyond dire for the soldier to make such a call. It wasn't just about the civilians. There was something else—a threat looming large enough to justify unleashing firepower from the heavens.

The roar of the city's new found energy echoed through the halls, but Icarus barely heard it. Her boots slammed against the metal floor as she stormed into the hangar, muttering every curse she could think of under her breath.

"That stupid, reckless bastard. 'I'll call in five days.' Sixteen days later, here I am prepping for a suicide run because he decided to use the deadliest damn order in history!" she snarled, slamming her palm against the console that opened her hangar bay.

Before her stood the ship she was now being forced to rely on—a B-17 Falcon. Smaller than her beloved Thunderbird, the Falcon was barely a quarter of its size, with sleek, angular lines that screamed "fighter" more than "dropship." Its matte black hull reflected little light, emphasizing its stealth-oriented design. Twin engines flanked its narrow body, jutting out like predator's wings. Its undercarriage bristled with weapon mounts, giving it an aggressive, almost bird-of-prey aesthetic.

But it wasn't built to take a hit. Its frame was designed for speed and agility, not the brute endurance of a ship like the Thunderbird.

"This thing's a tin can," she muttered, kicking at one of its landing struts. "If I get shot at, I'm toast. Damn you, Eilífr."

Still, she climbed aboard, her hands moving with precision as she started the preflight checklist. She couldn't help but drift into her thoughts as she worked. Her fingers paused briefly as her mind conjured the image of him returning to her—his towering figure stepping off the ramp of her Thunderbird, his usual stoic expression softening just a little when he saw her.

She imagined herself punching him square in the chest for making her worry, then pulling him into a hug, cursing him the entire time. "You're not allowed to leave me hanging like this, you dumb idiot," she'd say, and he'd grunt in acknowledgment, maybe even offering one of his rare chuckles.

A smile tugged at her lips for a fleeting moment before reality pulled her back.

"No, no time for daydreaming," she muttered, shaking her head. "He's out there somewhere, probably neck-deep in hell because that's just what he does."

She slammed the last switch into place, the Falcon roaring to life around her. The cockpit lit up in hues of green and amber, her comms crackling faintly with updates from the command center.

"Alright, you oversized idiot," she whispered, gripping the controls tightly. "I'm coming to get you. Don't you dare die before I do."

The journey through the tunnel was an ordeal, one that tested Eilífr's patience and resolve in ways few battles ever had. The dimly lit passage stretched endlessly ahead, the walls damp and lined with rusting support beams that groaned softly under the weight of time.

The first day, just like anything was arguably the worst. It took hours to organize the group before they even began moving. The children clung to their parents or older siblings, their wide eyes reflecting both fear and trust. The elderly leaned on makeshift walking sticks or were carried on stretchers cobbled together from scraps of wood and cloth. Eilífr stood at the forefront, his towering frame casting a long shadow down the tunnel. His voice, though deep and commanding, was softened for the occasion as he laid down the rules.

"We stay together. No one gets left behind. If you need to stop, say so. I'll carry you if I must. But we all make it out. Understood?"

The group murmured their agreement, and they began their slow march into the dark.

Eilífr took point, his suit's built-in lights cutting through the gloom. He swept every corner with his rifle, scanning for signs of Extractants or structural instability. Behind him, Marcus Colridge, the former mayor, coordinated the pace with surprising competence. His calm demeanor helped soothe the nervous whispers of the group.

They made little progress that first day. The young and old alike stumbled often, unused to walking such distances. Every time someone faltered, Eilífr was there, his massive hand steadying them or, in many cases, lifting them outright to carry them for a stretch.

As they camped that night in a widened section of the tunnel, he sat apart from the group, silently watching over them. His helmet remained on, a sentinel against the fears of the unknown. He didn't need rest; his suit's neural uplink sustained him. Instead, he listened to the soft hum of the life he was charged with protecting—babies crying, adults murmuring, the occasional cough.

For the next four days the journey was slow, agonizingly so. They moved in staggered shifts, resting frequently. Each time someone needed a break, Eilífr halted the entire group without hesitation.

An elderly woman named Agnes slipped on the damp tunnel floor on the second day, spraining her ankle. Without a word, Eilífr lifted her as if she weighed nothing, cradling her carefully in his massive arms. She protested weakly at first, but his quiet assurance silenced her.

"You'll slow the group," she muttered.

"I don't care," he replied simply, his tone brooking no argument.

By the fourth day, the children began to adapt. They played quiet games of tag during the breaks, their laughter a faint but defiant sound in the oppressive tunnel. Eilífr found himself occasionally glancing back at them, a strange warmth flickering in his chest.

The elderly, however, were another matter. Their frailty slowed the group significantly, and Eilífr often found himself carrying two or three at a time, his armor's servos whining under the strain. He never complained, even as Marcus urged him to prioritize speed.

"We don't leave anyone," Eilífr repeated firmly.

The fifth day was when the journey truly became strained. The air in the tunnel grew colder as they pressed on, and the oppressive silence began to weigh on everyone. The faint dripping of water echoed like a heartbeat, a constant reminder of how isolated they were.

Eilífr noticed the strain in their faces—the way Marcus's shoulders sagged, the tremor in Agnes's voice as she tried to comfort the children. He knew morale was fraying.

During one break, he approached Marcus and spoke quietly, his voice a low rumble.

"Tell them we're halfway. Even if it's not true."

Marcus raised an eyebrow but nodded. The announcement lifted spirits, even if only briefly.

By the sixth day, Eilífr was carrying more people than walking alongside them. The elderly had grown weaker, their steps faltering more often. The children, though resilient, grew restless and hungry. Supplies were dwindling, and the group's pace slowed to a crawl.

Eilífr's suit began to show signs of strain, the servos in his arms and legs occasionally sputtering under the weight he bore. But he pressed on, his focus unshakable.

Finally, as they neared the end of the tunnel, a faint light appeared in the distance—a pinprick of hope against the darkness. The sight drew gasps from the group, their exhaustion momentarily forgotten.

Eilífr stopped just before the exit, raising a hand to halt the group.

"Wait here," he instructed, his voice firm. "I'll make sure it's safe."

He stepped out into the clearing, his rifle raised and scanning the perimeter. The dense forest stretched out before him, the same as when he'd arrived. He inhaled deeply, the fresh air a stark contrast to the stale, damp tunnel.

Satisfied that the area was secure, he turned back to the group, his helmet obscuring the faint smile tugging at his lips.

"It's clear," he said. "We made it. Now we wait here until it's time to move. From here on out, we must maintain the utmost vigilance."