SABERS: Shadows of Ravena

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

Eilífr's rifle barked like a beast unleashed, its thunderous roars echoing through the crumbling urban wasteland. Each pull of the trigger was followed by the sharp mechanical whirr of the auto-loader, feeding the next lethal round into the chamber. His movements were a study in efficiency—calculated, unyielding, and terrifying. Extractants poured from every shadow, rushing toward him like a swarm, but they fell in heaps, torn apart by the relentless storm of firepower.

Thirty feet above him, a faint green laser beam cut through the chaos, pointed skyward. Hovering beside it, a small, four-winged drone buzzed steadily, its lens trained on the towering figure of SABER-1. The live feed it transmitted wasn't just for tactical support—it was broadcasting hope to the remnants of humanity watching from secure bunkers, military installations, and hidden shelters.

Hope.

The image of SABER-1, standing like an immovable pillar amidst the maelstrom, was more than just a morale boost. It was a message. Humanity could fight back. Humanity could win.

Every person watching the feed was transfixed. Eilífr didn't move an inch from his ground, turning side to side with the cold precision of a mechanized turret. Each Extractant that entered his sights was obliterated in a flash of crimson. It wasn't just his weapons that struck fear into the heart of his enemies; it was his presence. The unrelenting, towering sentinel clad in indomitable armor.

Above the battlefield, hovering in standby mode, Icarus sat in the cockpit of her B-17 Falcon, her eyes glued to the monitor displaying Eilífr's every move. Her fingers hovered over her controls, itching to jump into action at his signal. Her heart, however, was another matter entirely.

"Damn it, Elfy," she muttered under her breath, her voice tight with frustration and fear. She watched as an F17-DragonFly screamed past on her monitor, strafing a cluster of Extractants that had crept too close to Eilífr's blind spot. The drone's fire bought him a precious moment to reposition, and then he was moving again.

Eilífr suddenly broke into a sprint, his heavy metallic boots pounding against the debris-strewn ground as he gunned down anything in his path. Ahead of him, another tall building loomed. Without breaking stride, he pulled a small device from his belt, slapped it onto the wall, and activated it. A second green laser shot skyward, its triangulation beacon locking into place.

He repeated the process again and again, racing through the battlefield like a specter of destruction. By the time he planted the ninth laser, the artillery batteries back at base were locked onto his coordinates, awaiting his final order.

But something wasn't right.

Icarus leaned forward in her seat, her brow furrowing as she watched him on the feed. Those lasers weren't positioned in the Extractant nests intelligence had mapped out. They were clustered in unexpected locations, forming a pattern she couldn't decipher.

"What are you doing, Elfy?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of her ship's systems.

Her chest ached, the tension in her heart growing unbearable with every passing second. She clenched her fists, forcing herself to trust him despite the uncertainty clawing at her. Whatever plan he had, it was beyond her understanding, but she knew one thing: SABER-1, Eilífr wasn't reckless.

Still, watching him face impossible odds alone, she couldn't shake the pain twisting inside her.

"Don't make me come down there and drag you out myself," she muttered, her voice cracking as she stared at his solitary figure on the screen.

Eilífr's voice crackled over the comms, cold and commanding.

"All artillery units, this is SABER-1. Lock onto my triangulation beacons and fire. Authorization: E-19-Zulu."

The silence that followed was deafening. On the other end, artillery gunners froze, their hands hovering over controls for munitions they'd only loaded in the most desperate scenarios. The 520mm rounds, colloquially referred to as "Hellbringers," were devastating beyond comprehension, their use a near-sin even in the darkest hours of war.

"Sir…" one of the lead gunners finally stammered. "You're sure about this?"

"Fire," Eilífr barked, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And don't stop until I give the signal."

The hesitation was palpable, but orders were orders.

Moments later, the first deafening KA-THOOM shattered the night. The ground beneath Eilífr's boots trembled as the 520mm shell roared overhead, a fiery comet destined to turn the targeted zone into a smoldering wasteland. The first impact sent a shockwave rippling outward, flattening smaller structures and flinging Extractants like ragdolls into the air.

And then came another.

And another.

Each round was a symphony of destruction, raining down from the heavens like the wrath of an angry god. The survivors, huddled far from the combat zone, clung to each other, their screams drowned out by the relentless barrage.

Icarus, still in her cockpit high above, felt her heart leap into her throat. She'd never heard Eilífr call for sustained fire of this magnitude. Watching from her screen as the ground below disappeared in eruptions of flame and debris, she clenched her fists so hard her knuckles turned white.

"Eilífr, what the hell are you doing?" she whispered.

Back on the ground, Eilífr stood firm amidst the chaos, his visor glowing ominously as he watched the destruction unfold. His body was still, his breaths steady, but inside, his mind raced.

This wasn't about eliminating the Extractants. Not anymore. He was drawing something out.

Suddenly, the earth trembled with a force unlike the artillery impacts. The ground beneath him rippled unnaturally, cracks spidering out in every direction. Eilífr's instincts screamed at him, and he raised his voice over the comms.

"All units, brace yourselves. It's coming."

Before the words had fully left his mouth, the ground exploded.

A monstrous appendage burst from the earth, easily the width of a skyscraper and covered in sickly, undulating flesh. The tentacle lashed out with terrifying speed, carving through the remnants of the city like paper. Buildings crumbled as it slammed down, sending waves of dust and rubble cascading outward.

More tentacles followed.

They erupted from the ground in a flurry, their movements impossibly fluid for their massive size. The air was filled with a sickening chorus of cracks, rumbles, and unearthly shrieks.

The creature revealed itself piece by piece, its enormous, squid-like form emerging from the depths. Its body was an amalgamation of grotesque organic textures, pulsating with an unnatural glow that shifted between green and purple.

In the control room at Nautica, every screen was filled with the live feed from the drone. Gasps echoed through the room as operators and officers froze in their seats. The beast dwarfed anything humanity had ever encountered.

"What in God's name is that…" someone whispered, their voice trembling.

Even Cirus, ever the hardened commander, felt a chill crawl up his spine as he stared at the screen.

On the battlefield, Eilífr remained unshaken. His voice cut through the paralysis gripping the comms network.

"Artillery units, maintain fire. Focus on the primary target."

"But… sir, how do we even—"

"DO IT!"

The artillery resumed, the 520mm rounds slamming into the creature's massive form. Explosions tore into its flesh, but for every chunk that was ripped away, the beast seemed to regenerate, its wounds knitting themselves together with alarming speed.

Eilífr switched to a private channel.

"Icarus," he said, his voice calm but urgent. "Be ready. This thing won't go down easily."

High above, Icarus's fingers trembled over her controls. She glanced at the screen, her heart racing as she whispered to herself.

"He's still not a machine… but whatever he's facing now? God help him."

Eilífr tore across the ravaged cityscape, the night sky aflame with streaks of artillery and the pulsing glow of distant fires. The monstrous, squid-like abomination towered above the ruins, its colossal tentacles thrashing and tearing at anything in reach—Extractants, rubble, and the occasional unlucky shell that impacted prematurely. Below, the streets were a maelstrom of confusion and destruction, where even the endless horde of Extractants found themselves decimated by indiscriminate artillery blasts and the savage fury of the new beast.

In the midst of it all was SABER-1, racing from cover to cover. His rifle spat hot lead at the remaining smaller creatures that surged forward, but the massive tentacled monster seemed utterly unfazed by conventional weaponry. Each time one of its limbs slammed into the earth, the ground rumbled, sending shockwaves that caused buildings to collapse and plumes of dust to choke the air. It was a nightmare given form.

Still, he fought on—dodging tentacles as best he could, even as arcs of artillery fire rained down, seemingly from every direction. But he wasn't perfect. Not even close. The battle was too large and too chaotic for that. There were moments when he didn't—or simply couldn't—move fast enough. A chunk of shattered concrete, propelled by a near miss from a 520mm shell, slammed into his left shoulder, sparks and golden arcs flaring as it sheared a chunk off his outer plating. Another time, shrapnel ripped through his armor at the thigh, forcing him to stagger. He gritted his teeth, pressing on, even as warnings blinked across his HUD, telling him his shields were dangerously low.

Hundreds of miles away, thousands of eyes remained glued to the 12K feed transmitted by the circling drone. For those watching from the safety of bunkers, war rooms, and hidden enclaves, time seemed to slow with every blow that connected with SABER-1—every slash of a tentacle, every near-direct artillery blast that sent shockwaves through his frame. In one remote command center, an officer's hands clutched her headset so tightly her knuckles turned white. In a hidden underground shelter, a young boy watched with wide eyes, whispering an almost-forgotten prayer. And in the cockpit of a sleek Falcon, high above it all, Icarus felt her heart lurch painfully in her chest.

She watched the way Eilífr's suit shifted colors, patterns, protective layers responding to each new assault. Some parts of his armor glowed molten red where shrapnel had punched through, while other areas flickered with the last dregs of his shielding. It was mesmerizing in a horrifying way, like watching a living kaleidoscope of violence.

I'm so useless up here, she thought bitterly, her stomach twisting at the thought that any second, a direct hit could send him crumpling to the ground. Why can't I be down there helping him?

Suddenly, a frantic voice pierced the comms channel.

"SIR! BATTERY DELTA RUNNING HOT! CANNOT MAINTAIN SUSTAINED FIRE!"

Icarus heard the panic behind the gunner's words, imagining the monstrous heat those barrels were generating. If the lines overheated, they'd have to cease fire—or risk catastrophic failure. She barely had time to register the statement before another voice joined in.

"Battery Echo here! We're reaching maximum temperature thresholds! We can't keep this up either!"

All across the artillery network, the same reports echoed—operators at the brink, systems red-lining, and coolant lines near bursting. Icarus's pulse thundered in her ears as she waited for Eilífr's response. She should have known better than to hope it would be measured. She tensed as his cold, resolute voice cut through the channel:

"Colonel," he said, words clipped, "how long until the triangulation is complete?"

A heartbeat of silence followed, loaded with dread. Then Colonel Cirus Trask's uneasy reply crackled through, his voice betraying the tension that no one could deny:

"Twenty-one seconds."

Eilífr's tone went flat with determination. "All units, maintain cyclic rate of fire for twenty more seconds."

Icarus felt an icy shiver travel down her spine. She knew exactly what that meant. The artillery would keep pumping out shells in a barrage so intense it bordered on suicidal for both gunners and equipment. The monstrous creature below might not be the only casualty—she could practically see the lines of heavy guns melting under the strain.

She braced in her cockpit, clenching her fists on the controls until her knuckles turned white. The background feed showed Eilífr again, battered armor shining under the constant flashes of detonations. He aimed his rifle at the swirling throng of Extractants that crawled around the beast's tentacles, ripping them apart before they could flank him. Another shell landed too close, sending a fiery plume of debris in his direction. He vanished momentarily behind the blast, and her breath caught in her throat—until his towering silhouette emerged again through the haze, staggering but still upright.

For the next twenty seconds—an eternity in war's cruel measurement—everyone watching held their breath. The artillery thundered relentlessly, each impact lighting up the night. Each shell tested Eilífr's luck anew. Each second was a roll of the dice on whether or not he'd emerge alive. In that seat high above, tears burned at the corners of Icarus's eyes, fury and fear vying for dominance.

Come on, come on, she thought fiercely. Just a few more seconds…

Down below, Eilífr pushed off from a collapsed building, diving clear of a tentacle that cleaved the structure behind him in two. Another shell exploded across the monstrosity's flank, causing it to shriek in an alien pitch that shook the very bones of the city. Extractants were erased in the blasts, the colossal tentacles scything them apart as collateral damage, oblivious to friend or foe.

At last, an operator's trembling voice rang out, "Triangulation complete! Colonel—we have the final coordinates locked!"

The comms erupted in frantic voices, but all Icarus could think was, Now what? Her gut twisted, knowing Eilífr had one final card to play, and whatever it was.

The battlefield was a symphony of chaos—artillery thundered relentlessly, the monstrous tentacles tore through concrete and steel like paper, and the ground shuddered with each catastrophic impact. The Extractants, already a relentless tide, were now reduced to mere fodder under the shadow of the beast, their numbers decimated by both its rampage and the unending barrage of 520mm rounds.

Eilífr moved with unrelenting purpose, weaving between collapsing buildings and dodging tentacle strikes that could have flattened entire squads. His armor, battered and scarred, still gleamed faintly in the fiery glow of the battle. Warnings flashed across his HUD: Shields critical. Structural integrity compromised. But he didn't flinch. His focus was absolute.

As he slid into cover behind a crumbling wall, his comms flared to life with desperate voices.

"Battery Alpha here! We're dry—no more rounds in the chamber!"

"Delta is overheating—shutting down systems to avoid catastrophic failure!"

"Extractants still surging—orders, sir?!"

The cacophony of voices blurred together, a frantic chorus of desperation and exhaustion. Yet Eilífr remained silent. His hand hovered over the console on his wrist, the holographic interface glowing faintly in the swirling dust and smoke.

High above, in the cockpit of her Falcon, Icarus watched the chaos unfold on her monitors, her heart hammering in her chest. Her fingers trembled over the controls, itching to jump into action, but the command she waited for never came. Instead, she saw him pause, his massive frame still against the storm of destruction around him.

Then his voice came through the comms—calm, steady, and ice-cold.

"Colonel," he said, his tone devoid of hesitation, "confirm readiness of orbital platforms."

The control room in Nautica went silent. Every operator turned toward Colonel Cirus Trask, who stared at the screen with a grim expression. He swallowed hard before responding, his voice low. "Platforms are primed. Awaiting your authorization."

Eilífr straightened, his armor catching the flickering light from the surrounding carnage. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The beast's unearthly screeches echoed in the distance, the Extractants swarmed mindlessly, and the artillery had fallen eerily quiet.

Then, with unshakable resolve, Eilífr spoke the words that froze every soul engaged in the operation.

"Execute Order 2045.19Z, Variation Model, Trident of Poseidon."