SABERS: Shadows of Ravena

The low hum of distant engines and the occasional chirping of wildlife were the only sounds breaking the stillness as Eilífr sat on the ground next to a pile of supply crates. His head was bowed, his elbows resting on his knees, and his hands loosely clasped as he stared at the dirt beneath his boots. The dull glint of his armor reflected the Thunderbird gunship looming behind him, its sleek lines and battle-worn exterior an unspoken testament to countless missions.

From the other side of the landing zone, Icarus approached. Her stride was confident but unhurried, boots crunching softly against the uneven ground. The faint light from a nearby floodlamp caught the sheen of her armor, but as she stepped closer, it was her face—unhelmeted—that demanded attention.

Icarus was, in a word, striking. Her hair fell in soft waves to her shoulders, a rich chestnut brown that seemed to shimmer like polished wood under the artificial light. A few strands framed her face, which was symmetrical in a way that felt almost unfair—high cheekbones, a straight nose, and full lips that held the ghost of a confident smile. Her skin had a warm, sun-kissed hue, interrupted only by a faint scar trailing from her jawline to just beneath her left ear—a subtle mark of her many battles. Her eyes, though, were what held the most intrigue. They were a vivid hazel, flecked with gold that seemed to catch and hold every ounce of light, making them glow with an intensity that bordered on otherworldly.

Despite the sharpness of her features, there was a softness to her expression, a calm beneath the fire. The interplay of toughness and grace was magnetic, and even without saying a word, she carried an air of authority tempered by warmth.

"You always pick the most glamorous spots to brood, huh?" she said, her voice rich and slightly teasing as she came to a stop a few feet away.

Eilífr didn't immediately respond. His helmet rested beside him, his dark hair damp with sweat and matted against his forehead. His face was a study in quiet contemplation, sharp and rugged, with a faint stubble lining his jaw. He finally glanced up, his piercing eyes briefly locking with hers before he gave a low chuckle.

"Only the best for me," he replied dryly, leaning back slightly against the crate behind him.

Icarus smirked and lowered herself to a crouch, resting her forearms on her knees as she looked at him. Up close, her presence was even more arresting—a living contradiction of delicacy and strength. The faint scent of something earthy and metallic lingered around her, a mixture of sweat, engine grease, and battlefield grime.

"You're a hard man to find when you don't want to be found," she said, her tone light but her gaze sharp. "What's on your mind?"

Eilífr shrugged, the movement subtle beneath the weight of his armor. "Just thinking," he said after a moment, his voice low and measured.

Icarus tilted her head slightly, studying him. "About the mission? Or the past?"

He exhaled sharply through his nose, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "Both, I guess. The usual."

"Right," she said softly, her expression softening. "The ghosts."

The mention of them hung in the air like smoke, and for a moment, neither spoke. Icarus broke the silence first, her tone deliberately lighter.

"You know," she said, leaning back on her heels, "most people would kill for a ride on the Thunderbird, let alone get to sit around looking moody next to it."

Eilífr glanced at the gunship, its dark, predatory silhouette outlined against the faint glow of the horizon. "Yeah, well," he said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, "it's not exactly first-class."

Icarus laughed, the sound light and musical, and for a brief moment, the weight on Eilífr's shoulders seemed to lessen.

"You should try getting some sleep," she said after a pause, her tone shifting to something more serious. "You look like you've been carrying the world on your back."

"I thought that's what we signed up for," Eilífr replied, his smirk fading.

She gave him a long look, her hazel eyes catching the light once more. "We did," she admitted. "But you don't have to carry it alone, you know. Not while I'm around."

Eilífr's gaze lingered on her, his expression unreadable. Finally, he nodded. "I'll keep that in mind," he said quietly.

Satisfied, Icarus stood, brushing dirt from her armor. "Come on. Let's make sure everything's ready for tomorrow."

7 YEARS AGO, TRIBEKA CITY

The live-action map flickered in the dimly lit war room, a pulsing sea of blue and red that commanded the attention of everyone present. Tribeka City, once a bustling hub of innovation, was now a battleground overrun by Extractants. In the center of the chaos, a lone blue dot—SABER-1—was steadily moving toward the hangar. Around it, a tidal wave of flashing red signified the swarm converging on his position.

The Colonel stood at the head of the room, his expression unreadable as he barked orders into the comms. "Last shuttle loaded. Awaiting SABER-1 to depart," came the crisp voice of Commander Waterloo.

The Colonel's response was immediate and cold. "Leave him, Waterloo. There's a CI7 Phantom in the adjacent hangar. He's trained in basic piloting and can extract himself. Your personnel are the priority."

"Understood, sir. Departing now."

The map showed the final blue circle—the last shuttle—lifting off, leaving SABER-1 alone. Tension rippled through the room, unspoken but palpable. Officers, analysts, and senior enlisted personnel exchanged uneasy glances, their focus divided between the map and the helmet cam feed showing SABER-1's perspective.

The screen showed chaos: grotesque creatures clawing, snapping, and lunging at him. Some fired barbed projectiles or spat dense acid blobs, but none could stop him. Every Extractant that crossed his path fell, his movements precise and lethal. Occasionally, a lucky strike would cause him to stagger, but the golden flare of his shields always followed, holding firm.

"Sir," a Master Flight Sergeant ventured, his voice hesitant but firm, "was that really the right call? SABER-1 has to fight his way out and pilot a Phantom under heavy fire. That craft isn't designed to withstand the kind of punishment the Extractants will dish out."

The Colonel's expression hardened. "He'll be fine. Survival is what he was designed for, wasn't it?"

The room fell silent again, the air thick with tension. All eyes returned to the map and the feed.

"Overlord," came SABER-1's voice over the comms, calm and collected despite the chaos unfolding around him. "Requesting extract at LZ Bravo. Hangar is overrun, and I don't have the ammo to force my way through."

The Colonel's tone was sharp. "Denied. Intelligence shows three Nyrex-class aerials dominating the airspace. Extraction would be suicide for any pilot."

A pause, then the same calm response: "Understood. Falling back to LZ Juliet."

"Negative. The extraction team at the capital is still in process. If your swarm merges with theirs, it will endanger the civilians."

Another pause, heavier this time. "...Understood."

The exchange sent a ripple of unease through the room. One of the officers, a young captain, finally spoke up. "Sir, send him support, or else."

The Colonel turned, his glare icy. "Or what, Captain?"

"You'll be having an early retirement," she shot back, her voice steady. "Everyone here can see you're intentionally trying to get SABER-1 killed. It's been obvious since day one. You can't stand that he outperforms your beloved FireFlys."

Murmurs of agreement swept through the room. The Colonel's jaw tightened as he glared at the defiant young officer.

"Hmph." His voice was low and menacing. "Call ten pilots. Let's see if any of them are willing to take on this suicide mission. If not, every one of you will submit your resignation."

The room fell into a heavy silence. No one moved as the Colonel's command echoed.

The ten pilots arrived minutes later, their expressions grim as they took in the situation. The map displayed SABER-1's desperate fight for survival, the swarm closing in like a noose. The helmet cam feed showed the brutality of the battlefield in visceral detail.

The Colonel's voice was like ice. "Who's willing to fly this mission?"

Silence. Not one of the ten spoke or raised a hand.

The Colonel sneered. "Cowards, all of you. Dismissed—"

"Sir!" A voice cut through the air like a blade.

The room turned to see 2nd Lieutenant Alekzandra Trottle step forward.

"I'll do it," she said firmly.

The Colonel raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before it vanished. "Do you even understand what you're volunteering for, Lieutenant?"

"With all due respect, sir," she replied, her voice unwavering, "I don't need to understand. SABER-1 is out there holding the line, and I won't let him die because no one else has the guts to act."

The room was silent again, but this time, it was filled with a different kind of tension. Determination, admiration, and a spark of hope.

"Very well," the Colonel said slowly, his gaze sharp. "Prep for launch, Lieutenant. Let's see if you can back up that courage."

As Alekzandra turned to leave, the murmurs in the room grew louder, admiration mingling with disbelief.