SABERS: Shadows of Ravena

Chapter 29: Operation Corsair



The corridor was bustling with activity, soldiers and officers moving with purpose as the operations room came into view. The double doors hissed open, revealing the imposing figure of SABER-1—Eilífr—stepping into the room. His armor gleamed under the sterile lighting, immaculate despite the chaos and destruction he always seemed to emerge from. The olive-green plating was reinforced with angular lines, etched with faint battle scars that only added to its commanding presence. His weapons were strapped securely to his back: the massive MK99 Autocannon and the brutal chainblade, both pristine yet foreboding.

As he walked through the room, conversations stuttered to a halt, and people instinctively moved out of his path. Whispers rippled through the gathered personnel like an undercurrent, hushed and reverent.

"That's him…"

"SABER-1…"

"I can't believe he's real. Look at the size of that weapon."

Even those who had seen him countless times couldn't help but stare. The combination of his sheer presence, his pristine armor, and the knowledge of the destruction he could unleash made him both awe-inspiring and terrifying.

But there was one face missing.

The absence was like a hollow space in the room, unspoken but deeply felt. Icarus had always greeted him with a smile and a nod, her presence a constant in the operations room. But now, her absence was a glaring reminder of her crash, her hospitalization, and her forced medical leave.

Eilífr's visor betrayed no emotion as he moved to his designated station, the sound of his boots like distant thunder, echoing with each deliberate step. Even in silence, he commanded the attention of everyone present.

The officer at the head of the room cleared her throat, the sound sharp and deliberate, breaking the oppressive quiet. Her hands trembled faintly as she adjusted her datapad, masking her nervousness with forced professionalism.

"Good to see you, SABER-1," she began, her voice tight but steady. "This is the briefing for Operation Corsair. The objective is the liberation of the city and the elimination of key Extractant hives within its perimeter."

A holographic display flickered to life in the center of the room, showing a detailed map of Corsair. The city sprawled like a jagged wound across the terrain, its grid of streets choked with rubble and Extractant activity. Red markers indicated known hive locations, while blue arrows outlined the planned assault routes.

"Ground forces will initiate the assault in a three-pronged attack," she continued, gesturing to the map. "The northeastern, northern, and northwestern sectors will serve as our entry points. Infantry and mechanized units will converge here, here, and here." She pointed to key intersections. "We'll use concentrated artillery fire to breach the Extractant defensive lines before advancing deeper into the city."

She paused, drawing in a steadying breath before continuing. "However, as with all operations of this scale, contingencies are in place. SABER-1, you will remain on standby in low-orbital deployment. If any sector suffers significant casualties or the assault begins to falter, you will be deployed directly to that location to stabilize the situation."

The room remained silent, the tension palpable as the officers and soldiers listened. The officer glanced at Eilífr briefly, her composure wavering under his unreadable gaze. "As always," she added, "you have the authority to make reasonable adjustments to the mission as you see fit once deployed."

She hesitated for a moment, then added, her voice quieter, "After your first redeployment back, higher command acknowledged… your operational instincts. While they were controversial, they've proven effective. As such, operational freedom has been extended to you for this mission as well."

Her words hung in the air, unspoken implications rippling through the room. Everyone knew what she meant—Eilífr's decision to redirect his drop pod during his first mission had drawn heavy criticism, but the results had been undeniable. And since then, it seemed as though he'd been making a statement with every mission, asserting his unique approach to warfare.

Eilífr didn't respond. He simply nodded once, a motion so subtle it might have gone unnoticed if not for the faint movement of his visor.

"Good," the officer said, exhaling slightly as though relieved to be done. "You'll be briefed further upon deployment. That will be all for now."

As the hologram flickered off, murmurs began to rise again, though quieter this time. People exchanged glances, some wary, others filled with admiration. Eilífr stood motionless for a moment longer, his imposing figure casting a long shadow across the room. Then, with the same deliberate steps, he turned and made his way out, the whispers starting anew as the double doors hissed closed behind him.

The sterile white walls of the hospital were illuminated by the faint glow of overhead lights, their hum blending with the quiet murmur of staff and visitors. The soft patter of footsteps filled the hallway as nurses and orderlies moved efficiently between rooms. Yet, as Eilífr walked down the corridor, the air seemed to change.

People instinctively moved aside, their gazes drawn to the hulking figure in olive-green armor that strode with deliberate purpose. Conversations dropped to hushed whispers, the faint echoes of his heavy boots filling the void.

"Is that…?"

"Who could he be here for?"

"I didn't think he even did hospitals."

The occasional staff member gave a polite nod or a nervous glance, unsure whether to acknowledge him. He didn't respond, his glowing visor fixed straight ahead, betraying no hint of his thoughts. Even without his weapons strapped to his back, his presence alone was enough to part the crowd.

He turned a corner, the sound of his boots echoing down the quieter stretch of the hallway. The sign overhead read Wing S, and he made his way unerringly toward the end, where the door marked S-117 waited.

Eilífr stopped in front of the door, his imposing frame dwarfing it. For the first time since entering the hospital, his movement paused. The faint hum of his suit's systems filled the silence as he stood there, motionless.

Inside the room, the muffled sound of a TV played, the news droning on about another city's struggles. A soft laugh or sigh occasionally broke through—sounds that carried through the door but didn't seem to reach him.

His hand, encased in a massive armored gauntlet, hovered near the door as if he intended to knock. Yet he hesitated. The visor tilted slightly, as though he were staring at the door and seeing far beyond it.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he appeared uncertain.

A passing nurse paused briefly, her eyes widening as she noticed him. She seemed torn between curiosity and a desire to avoid disturbing him, quickly shuffling past with only a sideways glance.

Eilífr remained rooted in place, his towering form still as a statue. His hand fell slowly back to his side, the hesitation almost imperceptible but deeply telling. It was as if the weight of the door, the act of knocking, carried more significance than any battle he had ever fought.

The nameplate beside the door read: Alekzandra Trottle, Captain.

He stared at it for a moment longer, his visor catching the faint reflection of the hallway lights. Then, as though steeling himself for a decision, he straightened. Whether he would knock—or simply leave—remained a mystery as the seconds ticked by in heavy silence.

Eilífr shifted, his massive frame turning slightly away from the door as if to leave. His armor groaned faintly under the motion, a sound that carried in the quiet hallway. But before he could take a step, the nurse who had passed him earlier stopped just short of his imposing form.

Her hands fidgeted nervously with the clipboard she held, her knuckles white against the stark plastic. Her heart raced, but she swallowed hard, forcing herself to speak. "S-Sir," she stammered, her voice wavering but steady enough to catch his attention.

He paused, tilting his helmeted head toward her, the glowing gold of his visor fixing her in place. She felt a chill run down her spine, but she didn't look away.

"You shouldn't leave," she said, her words gaining strength as she continued. "The patient in there… she's been asking to see you for as long as I've been assigned to her care. Weeks. Maybe longer." Her grip tightened on the clipboard, and she glanced nervously at the door. "No one ever gave her the time of day to put in the request."

Eilífr's visor remained locked on her, and for a moment, the silence was oppressive. The nurse's pulse pounded in her ears as she wondered if she'd overstepped. But then, almost imperceptibly, he turned his head back toward the door.

There was a pause—a long, weighty pause. The nurse shifted uneasily, clutching her clipboard tighter as she waited. Finally, he spoke, his voice deep and resonant, with a metallic undertone that made it sound almost mechanical.

"Thank you," he said.

To anyone passing by, the words might have sounded curt, even obligatory. But the nurse, standing so close, caught the subtle difference—the sincerity hidden beneath the imposing exterior. Despite his tone's menace, genuine gratitude was laced within it.

She blinked, caught off guard, before nodding quickly. "Of course, sir," she murmured, stepping back to give him space.

Eilífr turned fully toward the door again, his broad shoulders squaring as he stood silently before it. The nurse lingered for a moment, glancing between him and the nameplate on the door, before retreating down the hallway. She didn't need to see what would happen next—she already felt she'd done her part.

As the nurse's footsteps faded into the distance, Eilífr reached for the door once more, this time with no hesitation. His gauntleted hand hovered for a brief second, and then he pushed it open. The faint hiss of the door's hydraulics was swallowed by the quiet anticipation hanging in the air as he stepped inside.

Icarus sat cross-legged on the hospital bed, her hair loosely tied back, a pile of documents scattered across her lap. The sterile light of the room gave the pages a faint yellowish tint, and her expression was a mix of boredom and bemusement. She tapped her pen against the plastic tray table absently as she flipped through the briefing order someone had brought her earlier in the day.

Her eyes scanned the dates printed at the top, and she let out a short laugh. "Day after my discharge?" she muttered to herself, a small smirk pulling at her lips. "Real subtle, guys. Can't wait to throw me back into the meat grinder."

It was almost amusing how much detail they'd given her despite her current status. She wasn't officially back on duty yet, and while the prospect of getting back into the field made her heart race, she couldn't help but wonder why they'd bothered sharing this with her at all.

As she flicked through another page, mindlessly taking in details of troop deployments and timelines, she heard the faint hiss of her door sliding open. She didn't look up at first, assuming it was one of the nurses or orderlies coming to check in on her.

"Forgotten how to knock?" she joked dryly, not bothering to lift her eyes from the papers.

The sound of heavy, deliberate footfalls reached her ears, and her pen froze mid-tap. The air seemed to shift, her breath catching in her throat as the unmistakable sound of metal on tile resonated through the room. Slowly, almost unwillingly, she looked up.

There, ducking under the low doorframe to enter, was a figure she thought she might never see again.

The olive-green armor gleamed faintly under the fluorescent lights, its bulk almost filling the small space of her room. Scorch marks and faint scratches still marred its surface, but it was pristine enough to make her heart lurch. His visor, glowing faintly gold, swept the room as he straightened, towering over the bed and its modest trappings.

Eilífr.

A lump formed in her throat as a wave of emotions surged through her all at once—relief, anger, confusion, joy, and frustration all tangled together in a chaotic knot that made her chest ache. Her fingers clenched the papers in her lap, crumpling the edges as her mind raced to process his sudden appearance.

He said nothing at first, standing there like a sentinel, his presence so overwhelming that the room felt smaller, more confined. The silence stretched, the hum of the hospital's machinery the only sound between them.

Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, she let out a shaky breath, her voice finally escaping in a hoarse whisper. "You…"

She trailed off, her eyes searching his visor as if trying to see the man beneath the armor. So many things she wanted to say, to ask, to scream at him for disappearing and then showing up like this—like nothing had happened. But her throat tightened, and all she could do was stare.

Eilífr tilted his head slightly, the faint hiss of his suit's systems filling the silence as he took a single step closer.

Her pen slipped from her fingers, clattering against the tray table as she stared at him, her heart pounding in her chest. She swallowed hard, her emotions warring within her as the lump in her throat grew heavier.

"So…" she finally managed, her voice trembling despite her attempt to sound nonchalant. "You finally decided to show up."


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