SABERS: Shadows of Ravena

The silence that hung between them was broken by two simple words, spoken in Eilífr's deep, resonant voice. "I'm sorry."

The words seemed curt, almost obligatory, but as he looked down at her, Icarus saw something behind the glowing visor that made her mouth drop open in shock. He wasn't the type to apologize—ever. The weight of those two words hit her harder than anything else he could've said.

For a moment, she wanted to yell, to let all her pent-up anger and frustration pour out at him. But she knew it was useless. This was him, after all—stone-faced, duty-bound Eilífr. She couldn't stay mad at him, and she hated that. So instead, she chose her next best option.

"BIT—" she started, throwing her fist at his chestplate.

CLANG.

The sound of her knuckles hitting the cold, unyielding metal reverberated through the room. Pain shot up her arm, and she immediately let out a string of curses, clutching her hand. "FUCK, SHIT… Oooh, you're lucky that armor's protecting you! Wait till I catch you without it," she muttered, shaking her hand and wincing.

For a moment, she thought she caught it—a faint sound, barely audible, like the ghost of a chuckle. Her head snapped up, her eyes narrowing as she squinted at him. Did he just laugh? She couldn't tell, but the thought made her heart lighten, even if she wouldn't admit it.

She knew him too well. No matter how much she wanted to stay mad, she understood who he was and why he did what he did. He wasn't just a soldier; he was humanity's greatest savior. The man who carried the weight of survival on his shoulders.

Her thoughts were interrupted as he spoke again, his voice breaking through her haze. "Your operational support role will be changing."

The sudden statement caught her off guard. "What do you mean?" she asked, leaning back against the headboard, her curiosity piqued. She couldn't help but admire the way his presence filled the room, a part of her savoring the moment she'd missed for so long.

"You will be supporting me from here on," he said plainly. "Just like before."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "What, because it's safer for me to fly for you?" she quipped, her tone teasing.

To her astonishment, he gave a single nod.

Her heart felt like it might explode. He wanted her back. Not just as a pilot, but as his pilot. The one who always had his back, no matter how dangerous things got.

"Ah," she said softly, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Just like old times, eh?"

"Just like old times," he replied. His voice was as menacing as ever, but she swore she could feel the warmth in his response.

She let out a small laugh, her frustration and anger finally giving way to something else—relief. She didn't care how gruff or intimidating he sounded; to her, those words carried more meaning than any formal assignment ever could.

"Get well soon," he said, his tone almost commanding as he turned toward the door.

As he reached the doorway, ducking under the frame to leave, he paused. Without turning back, he added, "And thanks."

The words were simple, but they left her stunned, her heart racing as the door hissed shut behind him.

"Thanks for what?" she whispered to the empty room, her mind swirling with questions and emotions. She leaned back, staring at the ceiling as her thoughts raced.

For the first time in months, a soft, contented smile spread across her face. Whatever he meant, she didn't care right now. He was back, and for her, that was enough.

The briefing room buzzed with quiet chatter as officers and soldiers gathered for the upcoming mission. The tension in the air was palpable—an electric mix of nerves and anticipation. But then, the room seemed to shift as she entered.

Newly promoted Captain Alekzandra "Icarus" Trottle strode in with the same confidence that had earned her the respect of every pilot who'd ever flown under her. Her helmet dangled casually at her hip, her flight suit pristine but clearly worn in from countless missions. Her lips curved into a cocky, self-assured grin as she made her way toward her designated spot, her boots striking the floor with purpose.

The murmurs began almost immediately.

"That's Captain Trottle… Isn't she—?"

"Yeah, the one who survived the Seretine crash."

"Didn't she fly with him?"

Icarus didn't acknowledge the whispers, her grin widening as she reached her place and leaned against the wall, arms crossed. This was her domain—the spot she always occupied until her part in the mission began. Even now, she radiated the epitome of a pilot, someone who thrived in the sky and lived for the danger it brought.

Minutes later, a distant sound began to reverberate through the hall—a steady, heavy rhythm that silenced the conversations like a phantom signal. The doors hadn't even opened, but everyone knew who was coming.

The hum of machinery grew louder, accompanied by the ominous, rhythmic sound of armored boots striking the ground. When the double doors finally hissed open, SABER-1 entered.

He was as imposing as ever, his olive-green armor gleaming under the sterile lights, the faint glow of his visor casting a ghostly light on the nearest faces. He stopped for a moment just past the threshold, his presence alone enough to send a ripple of unease through the room. No one dared meet his gaze, the weight of his silent, inhuman aura forcing heads to bow or eyes to avert.

No one, except one.

From her spot, Icarus's grin widened into a full, knowing smile. Her eyes locked onto his visor, unflinching and full of unspoken words. If anyone else had dared, it might have felt like a challenge. But with her, it was different. She knew exactly who he was aiming at, and her grin told him so.

In a single fluid motion, as if her presence were the only thing he'd acknowledged, SABER-1 continued toward his designated area. The sound of his steps filled the silence as everyone else watched him move, their awe and fear tangible in the air.

The head officer at the front of the room cleared her throat, a sharp sound that seemed more for her own benefit than to command attention. She shifted uncomfortably before pulling up the mission display on the holotable. A detailed holographic map of the target area flickered to life, casting a faint blue glow over the room.

"Alright, let's get started," she said, her voice tight but determined. "This is Operation Corsair. The primary objective is to liberate the city from Extractant control while securing the civilians still within its walls. Intel shows multiple hives in key locations around the city, concentrated along these points." She gestured to red markers on the map.

"Our forces will launch a coordinated assault from the northeast, north, and northwest sectors." Blue arrows traced paths on the display. "Mechanized units will provide cover for infantry as we breach their defensive lines. Artillery fire will be concentrated here and here," she said, pointing to strategic intersections. "The goal is to divide their forces and reduce their ability to coordinate."

The officer's gaze shifted slightly toward SABER-1. "SABER-1 will remain in low-orbital standby. Should any sector suffer critical casualties or become overrun, he will be deployed directly to that location. His role is to stabilize the battlefield and ensure operational success at all costs."

A hand went up in the crowd. "What's the contingency if the Extractants start swarming orbital assets again?"

The officer nodded. "Good question. Our fleet will maintain a secure perimeter and deploy countermeasures if necessary. That said, the Extractants' air capabilities are limited in this region, so the risk is minimal."

Another voice chimed in. "And if the hives turn out to be larger than expected?"

"That's where SABER-1 comes in," the officer said, her tone steady. "His deployment parameters are flexible, allowing him to adjust his approach as needed. In the unlikely event of multiple sectors collapsing simultaneously, the fleet will deploy reinforcements."

One more hand rose hesitantly. "Has SABER-1 been fully briefed on this operation's objectives? With all due respect, his… methods… have been known to diverge from initial plans."

The officer's expression tightened. "SABER-1 has been granted operational freedom due to his unparalleled effectiveness. He is aware of the mission's objectives and will act in accordance with them."

A heavy silence followed as all eyes flicked toward the armored figure. SABER-1 didn't move, his imposing presence saying more than any words could.

The officer took a deep breath, forcing herself to finish. "That concludes the briefing. Prepare for deployment. Dismissed."

As the room emptied, SABER-1 turned and made his way out, the sound of his boots like thunder fading into the distance. Moments later, he was aboard his ship, the low-orbital pod locking into place. As the countdown began, the faint hum of the drop system filled the cabin.

He waited, silent and still, as the pod prepared to fire. Above the chaos of the battlefield, he would watch and wait—humanity's greatest weapon, ready to unleash destruction where it was needed most.

Eilífr stood in the dimly lit cabin of his pod, the faint hum of its systems surrounding him like a persistent whisper. The olive-green visor of his helmet, polished to a mirror-like sheen, caught his reflection as he leaned closer, studying the distorted image staring back at him.

His breath, controlled and even, fogged the visor slightly before dissipating, revealing the faintest glimpse of his own eyes through the narrow slit. His gaze lingered on the faint streak of blue skin that began at the corner of his left eye and trailed down—hidden by his armor but stopping just below his pectoral muscles.

It was a stark reminder of the cost.

"Eilífr Mode: Maximum Survival," the armor's default override for life-threatening conditions, had been designed to push his body to its absolute limits. But the emergency protocol he had forced upon it, "Eilífr Mode: Mocking Death," was never meant to be used. It wasn't just a system override—it was a gamble, a catastrophic fusion of his biology with the suit's last-ditch enhancements.

He clenched his jaw, the memory of that day as vivid as the blue streak marring his skin. The suit had saved him, yes, but even it had barely endured the punishment of those moments. And now, he was left to carry the evidence on his very flesh—a visible reminder of what he'd endured to survive the impossible.

He exhaled slowly, his gloved hand reaching up to trace the edge of his visor. His reflection stared back at him, cold and expressionless.

"I survived," he thought bitterly. "But at what cost?"

The thought of facing Icarus sent a sour taste crawling up his throat. She had always been sharp, perceptive—she'd notice it immediately. The idea of her seeing what he had become, what his survival had required, made his stomach churn. He didn't fear her judgment—no, it was her pity he couldn't stomach.

He straightened, his armored frame towering in the confined space of the pod. His hand fell back to his side, his visor reflecting his impassive gaze once more.

The faint crackle of comms interrupted his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. Voices filtered through—brief, direct exchanges about deployment status and tactical readiness. Eilífr tilted his head slightly, his glowing visor casting a faint light against the walls of the pod.

The reflection in his visor stared back at him, an image of cold resolve. He buried the stray thoughts deep within, locking them away as he always did.

He was SABER-1, humanity's beacon, its relentless weapon. Stray thoughts, personal feelings—these were liabilities. And liabilities had no place on the battlefield. Without a word, he turned from the reflection, his armor hissing faintly as he donned his helmet and he prepared for deployment.

The time for introspection had passed.