SABERS: Shadows of Ravena

The Thunderbird roared across the sky, its twin engines slicing through the turbulent air as it approached its destination. Inside, the cockpit was eerily silent, save for the occasional hum of the ship's systems and the faint static of the comms. Alekzandra "Icarus" Trottle sat in the pilot's chair, her eyes scanning the controls with practiced ease. Beside her, the muted figure of Eilífr prepared for yet another mission.

"Rendezvous is the same place, seventeen days from now, right?" Icarus broke the silence, her voice calm but carrying a note of apprehension.

"Correct," Eilífr replied evenly over the comms. "Though it could be sooner, depending on how much and how valuable the intelligence is that I obtain."

She nodded, though he couldn't see it, her fingers gripping the throttle a bit tighter. These missions always set her nerves on edge. She knew he'd be fine—he always was—but a small, persistent voice whispered in the back of her mind: What if he doesn't make it this time?

That thought alone was unbearable. For six years, her life had revolved around these suicide infiltrations and extractions, always with him at the center. She had built her identity around it, forged her confidence through fire and chaos. The idea of him not being at the LZ for extraction left a gaping void she didn't want to face.

Her gaze flicked briefly to the bay monitor, where she could see him inspecting his gear. Eilífr's movements were efficient, methodical, as if he were preparing for another day at the office rather than diving headfirst into a city teeming with Extractants. That calm, unshakable demeanor both reassured and infuriated her.

It also made her question the reasoning behind these missions. Why did he have to go in on foot? Other units relied on state-of-the-art drones or robots to scout and gather intelligence remotely. Meanwhile, Eilífr was sent in alone, cutting through enemy ranks while she circled above, waiting and worrying.

"Closest city to us?" his voice interrupted her thoughts, dragging her back to the present.

She glanced at the navigation screen. "Uh, should be Carnitas. Wassup? Want me to detour?"

"No," he said, his voice firm but thoughtful. "Go there after drop-off instead. I feel like something's off. I'd much rather you remain close by if something goes wrong."

She snorted softly, masking her unease with humor. "Come on now. It's you we're talking about. Something always goes wrong around you."

"Mmh," he murmured, his tone neutral but not dismissive.

Her heart warmed slightly despite herself. She appreciated that he was thinking about her safety as much as his own, even if he didn't show it outwardly. Staying closer to the LZ would save precious minutes if an emergency arose. She wouldn't have to race back from Nautica, a thought that had gnawed at her more than once in the past.

"Drop site in view," she announced, her voice sharpening with focus as the landscape below began to match the briefing map. "ETA four minutes."

The tiny clearing came into view, nestled at the base of a rugged mountain range roughly three miles from the outskirts of Morgan. It was an ideal spot for insertion: concealed from aerial surveillance yet close enough to the city for Eilífr to begin his mission without wasting time.

Icarus glanced at the bay monitor again, watching as Eilífr secured his final piece of gear. His golden armor gleamed faintly under the interior lights, the faint scorch marks and acid burns from past missions adding an almost ceremonial weight to the sight. He moved with the same deliberate precision that had earned him both admiration and fear among his peers.

"You know," she said, her voice softer now, "you don't always have to do this alone."

He paused, his head tilting slightly toward the camera. "It's what I'm designed for."

That simple, clinical response left her with a bitter taste in her mouth. She wanted to argue, to tell him he was more than just a tool for survival, but she knew it wouldn't reach him. Not now, not like this. Instead, she focused on her role, bringing the Thunderbird in for a smooth descent toward the clearing.

As the landing struts engaged with a metallic thunk, she toggled the ramp controls. "Good luck," she said, trying to keep her voice light.

"See you in seventeen days," Eilífr replied as he stepped off the ramp, vanishing into the shadows of the mountain range without a backward glance.

Icarus watched him go, her fingers hovering over the controls for a moment longer than necessary. Then, with a resigned sigh, she powered up the engines and lifted the Thunderbird back into the sky, angling toward Carnitas. She hated this part—the waiting, the uncertainty—but at least this time, she wouldn't be too far away if he needed her.

Still, as she climbed higher into the sky, the nagging thought lingered in the back of her mind: What if he doesn't make it this time?

As Eilífr descended through the winding forest trails, the faint crunch of his boots on the soft earth was the only sound accompanying him. He moved with purpose, his senses sharp and his rifle resting snugly in his hands. Still, despite the mission's weight, he couldn't ignore the stark contrast between the chaos he lived in and the tranquility surrounding him. The dense canopy above filtered golden rays of sunlight onto the forest floor, casting dappled patterns that swayed gently in the breeze.

The thought crept into his mind again—a question he had long pondered but never voiced aloud: Why didn't the Extractants destroy plant life? The Extractants consumed everything else, leaving cities in ruin, ecosystems in disarray, and civilizations broken. Yet, the forests, jungles, and even fragile patches of grass always remained untouched, their lush vibrance standing in silent defiance of the horrors the Extractants wrought.

This strange quirk had baffled scientists for years. No matter their size, class, or desperation, an Extractant would rather starve than consume plant matter. Not fruits, not vegetables—nothing. The biologists had run countless experiments and proposed a myriad of theories: chemical aversions, evolutionary instincts, or perhaps some yet-undiscovered environmental function that Extractants inherently respected. None of the answers ever seemed sufficient.

But in truth, Eilífr didn't care about the why. He had learned long ago that survival wasn't about understanding—it was about action. In their natural course of things, the Extractants were apex predators. In his, he was the apex hunter. They had their purpose; he had his. And if that purpose demanded his rifle over their existence, so be it.

Reaching the forest's edge, Eilífr paused. He crouched low, his sharp eyes scanning the area with practiced precision. The sprawling remnants of Morgan lay just beyond, no more than fifty yards away. What was once a thriving city now resembled a ghostly husk. Towering buildings stood like tombstones, their cracked facades and shattered windows etched with the scars of Extractant attacks. Vines and ivy climbed up the skeletal remains of human ingenuity, claiming what humanity had left behind.

Eilífr shifted his grip on the rifle, the weight of it familiar and comforting. He performed one final check of his surroundings, glancing over his shoulder to ensure the forest behind him was still undisturbed. Despite its stillness, he knew better than to trust appearances. The Extractants were masters of ambush, their silent predation honed to perfection.

Satisfied that nothing lurked in the immediate vicinity, Eilífr turned back toward the city. With measured breaths and a steady heartbeat, he crossed the invisible boundary between natural serenity and urban desolation. His golden armor absorbed the light in the clearing, its polished surface giving him the faint aura of a wraith as he advanced into the ruins.

The city loomed closer with every step. His rifle raised, eyes scanning every shadow and broken structure, Eilífr felt the familiar tension building in his chest. This was enemy territory. Every corner, every crevice, every flicker of movement could be a threat. Yet, he moved forward with unflinching determination, his mind a razor's edge focused solely on the mission ahead.

Mark the hives. Signal for extraction. Make it out alive. It was a mantra he'd repeated countless times before. It would serve him well again.

Eilífr moved through the ruins of Morgan like a phantom, his golden armor glinting faintly in the fractured light streaming through gaps in the crumbled buildings. Each step was deliberate, every movement calculated. He slid from one dilapidated structure to the next, his rifle raised and ready, the weight of his surroundings pressing against him. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of decay and dust.

As he pressed his back against a fractured wall, he scanned the street ahead. Broken vehicles littered the roadway, their frames rusting and skeletal. Debris was scattered everywhere—bits of metal, shattered glass, and remnants of a life long extinguished. His HUD highlighted potential points of interest, but he dismissed them quickly. His mission wasn't scavenging; it was survival and intel.

Sliding into another building through a jagged opening in the wall, he kept low, his armor's servos humming softly with each movement. The interior was a mess of collapsed beams and overturned furniture. Papers yellowed with age clung stubbornly to the floor, whispering underfoot as he stepped over them. He felt the dull vibrations of his boots against the ground—a subtle, familiar rhythm that matched the natural cadence of his movement.

Until it didn't.

Eilífr stopped abruptly, his body tensing. Beneath the weight of his armored boots, the sensation changed. The metallic thud of his step, which should have echoed faintly in the hollow room, was muted, almost dampened. His gaze darted downward, his instincts screaming for answers.