SABERS: Shadows of Ravena

Icarus sat in the operations room, her chair swiveling slightly as she tapped her armrest impatiently. The faint metallic clink of her fingers against the reinforced edge was rhythmic, like the ticking of a clock that only added to her growing frustration. The room hummed with the low murmur of officers and analysts, their voices weaving into the backdrop of war.

Her gaze was fixed on the array of holographic screens in front of her, each displaying live feeds from various parts of the battlefield. The push into Corsair was a chaotic symphony of progress and resistance, some units surging forward while others stumbled back under the Extractant onslaught.

One screen showed a mechanized platoon advancing through the northeastern sector, their armored vehicles carving a path through debris-laden streets. Dust and fire filled the air as artillery rained down in calculated strikes ahead of their march. The soldiers moved with precision, their formation tight, but every few steps forward seemed to cost them dearly.

Another feed captured the northern assault—a grueling, close-quarters engagement in the ruins of what once was a marketplace. The Extractants swarmed from alleys and rooftops, their grotesque forms moving with unnatural speed. The infantry fought back fiercely, rifles flashing and flamethrowers igniting the dark corners, but it was slow going.

The northwest, by comparison, was a maddening stalemate. Tanks fired round after round into entrenched hives, their shells creating craters but failing to dislodge the creatures entirely. The ground forces there were pinned, their progress measured in inches, not feet.

Icarus's eyes darted between the feeds, her frustration growing with every passing second. It wasn't that the operation was going poorly—far from it. It was the pace, the infuriatingly slow dance of war that gnawed at her nerves. Two steps forward, one step back. Over and over.

Where the hell are you, Elfy? she thought, her jaw tightening.

The comms panel beside her was quiet, the channel reserved for SABER-1 conspicuously empty. He hadn't even dropped from his ship yet, still in low-orbital standby, watching and waiting for the moment he deemed necessary.

She hated waiting. Every second felt like a slap in the face, a reminder that she wasn't out there, wasn't in the fight. Her blood boiled as she stared at the feeds, her fingers drumming faster against the armrest.

One feed caught her eye—a group of soldiers struggling to push through a fortified bottleneck in the northern sector. The Extractants had dug in, using debris and their own bodies to create barricades that funneled the attackers into kill zones. Flamethrowers and grenades kept them at bay, but it was slow, grueling work.

Icarus leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. If I were out there… she thought bitterly, imagining her Thunderbird swooping in low, its guns blazing as she cleared the path for the infantry. The thrill of flight, the precision of a well-placed strike—it was all she could think about.

Her hand twitched toward her comms panel, an instinct she barely restrained. She wanted to call him, to demand an update, to ask why he was still up there while they were slogging it out down here.

"Come on, Elfy," she muttered under her breath, her voice low but sharp. "Get in the game."

But deep down, she knew. He wasn't waiting idly. He was watching, analyzing, calculating the exact moment when his presence would turn the tide. It was what he did. It was who he was.

It didn't stop her from wanting to prove herself, though. She wanted to show him she was still the same pilot who had flown him through hell and back. The one who never faltered, no matter the odds.

Her fingers tightened around the armrest, her foot tapping restlessly against the floor. The tension in her chest grew with every passing second, every frame of footage showing the grinding battle below.

"Damn it, Elfy," she whispered, her voice a mix of frustration and anticipation. "Let's go."

The northern sector of Corsair was a chaotic expanse of ruins, its once-vibrant streets now reduced to a crumbling labyrinth of debris and fire. The mechanized infantry unit stationed there was in dire straits. Their advance, once steady, had ground to a halt as the Extractants deployed their armored variants—a rare and terrifying sight on any battlefield.

These hulking creatures, nearly three stories tall, were a grotesque amalgamation of biology and natural armor. Their carapaces were like living tanks, bristling with jagged protrusions that deflected gunfire and absorbed even the most direct artillery strikes. Each step they took shook the ground, their massive limbs crushing anything in their path. Their maws opened to reveal pulsating, glowing sacs that launched corrosive projectiles, dissolving anything they hit with horrifying efficiency.

The human soldiers fought valiantly, their rifles and grenades barely scratching the towering beasts. Flamethrowers and rocket launchers bought them precious seconds, but every attack was met with retaliation that decimated their ranks. The Extractants swarmed around their armored kin, exploiting the chaos and pinning the humans down in the narrow streets. It was clear they were on the verge of being overrun.

That was when the 77th Walker Unit arrived.

From the east, the ground trembled, a rhythmic pounding that grew louder with each second. Through the haze of smoke and fire, the first of the walkers emerged—massive bipedal war machines, towering above the ruins like steel giants. Their angular designs bristled with weaponry: autocannons mounted on their arms, missile pods slung under their shoulders, and rotary guns swiveling atop their frames. Painted in muted grays and greens to blend with urban environments, their hulls bore the faded insignia of the 77th: a snarling wolf's head, its fangs bared.

"77th Walker Unit, reporting for reinforcement!" the comms crackled, the commanding officer's voice cutting through the cacophony. "Hold your positions; we're taking the fight to them!"

The lead walker, "Iron Fang," opened fire first, its rotary cannon spinning up with a whine before unleashing a torrent of high-caliber rounds. The bullets tore through the smaller Extractants like paper, carving a bloody path toward the armored behemoths. A second walker, "Steel Reaper," launched a salvo of missiles, the projectiles streaking through the air before detonating against one of the massive creatures. The explosion rocked the battlefield, leaving the Extractant momentarily stunned.

The infantry on the ground cheered, their morale surging as the walkers advanced, their footsteps shaking the earth. The massive machines waded into the fray, their cannons and missiles roaring with relentless precision. For every armored Extractant that charged them, the walkers met their ferocity with equal force.

The battle was far from one-sided. The Extractants retaliated with savage cunning, their armored beasts adapting to the new threat. One of the creatures lunged forward, its massive claws raking across "Iron Fang's" hull. The walker staggered, sparks flying as the beast tore into its side, but the pilot inside remained undeterred.

"Hit the core! Hit the core!" the pilot shouted, targeting the glowing sac beneath the creature's chest. With a deafening roar, "Iron Fang's" autocannon fired at point-blank range, the explosive shells tearing into the creature's exposed weak spot. The beast let out a shriek of pain, collapsing into a heap as black ichor sprayed across the battlefield.

Meanwhile, the infantry regrouped behind the walkers, their rifles now focused on the smaller Extractants trying to flank the war machines. A squad of soldiers scrambled to set up an anti-armor launcher, their hands shaking as they aimed at one of the towering creatures. Their missile streaked through the air, connecting with a satisfying explosion that cracked the beast's carapace.

"Keep pushing! Don't let them regain momentum!" the commander of the 77th barked, his voice cutting through the chaos.

Another walker, "Thunder Maw," stepped forward, its arm-mounted flamethrower roaring to life. The torrent of fire washed over a group of Extractants, their shrieks echoing as they burned alive. The armored beasts recoiled, momentarily thrown off balance by the sudden inferno.

But the Extractants were relentless. A second armored beast rammed into "Steel Reaper," its claws piercing through the walker's leg joint. The machine buckled, its pilot struggling to stabilize as alarms blared inside the cockpit.

"I need support!" the pilot shouted.

"Thunder Maw" pivoted, its rotary cannon shredding the creature attacking its ally. The beast roared in defiance, its carapace cracking under the onslaught before finally succumbing to its wounds.

The battle raged on, each second feeling like an eternity. The walkers pressed forward, their massive frames absorbing damage that would have obliterated the infantry. Slowly, methodically, they began to turn the tide. The Extractants' numbers thinned, their once-overwhelming force now scattered and disorganized.

By the time the last armored beast fell, the battlefield was a graveyard of metal and flesh. The walkers stood battered but victorious, their frames scarred and smoking but still operational. The infantry regrouped, their cheers of triumph ringing out despite their exhaustion.

The comms crackled to life.

"All units, this is command. Immediate orders: fall back for emergency maintenance and rearming. You've earned it. Reinforcements will hold the line."

The lead walker, "Iron Fang," shifted first, its servos whining as it turned toward the rear lines. Its rotary cannon hung limply, out of ammo, while the missile pods showed empty racks.

"Roger that, command. Iron Fang retreating," came the pilot's steady reply.

Behind it, "Thunder Maw" limped slightly, its flamethrower's fuel spent and one leg actuator sparking faintly with each step.

"Thunder Maw en route to fallback position," the pilot confirmed, their voice tight but steady.

The remaining walkers formed a staggered line, their towering frames moving in unison as they made their way toward the designated maintenance zone. Infantry units nearby saluted them as they passed, their awe-struck faces a testament to the machines' role in holding the line.

The walkers' retreat was slow but deliberate, each step leaving deep imprints in the rubble-strewn ground. Behind them, fresh troops and mechanized units moved in to reinforce the position, their determination bolstered by the sight of the battered but victorious giants.

"Let's get these beasts fixed up," the commander of the 77th said over the comms. "We'll need them ready for the next wave."