The Majestic drifted silently through the vast emptiness of space, its hull battered and scarred, the scars of a battle they barely survived. The distant, shrinking silhouette of the MIRA facility loomed ominously behind them, now nothing more than a graveyard of ambition. The silence of the void pressed against the ship, suffocating in its oppressive stillness, a reminder that everything they had fought for—everything they had lost—meant nothing in the grand expanse of space. There were no cheers, no relief in the escape. Only the cold, biting realization of failure.
Inside the cockpit, the crew was a picture of exhaustion, their bodies slumped in their seats, as if the weight of their failure was too much to bear. Lucas stared out the view-port, eyes hollow, haunted by the images of the men and women they had left behind. Nick's face lingered in his mind, the memory of the friend who had pushed him aside when the walls had closed in. If Nick hadn't made that move, maybe he'd still be alive. But he wasn't, and now they were all that was left.
The ship's controls were a blur of buttons and blinking lights. Jacob didn't need to be told what to do; his hands moved mechanically over the console, trying to keep himself busy, trying to ignore the guilt gnawing at him from the inside out.
"We have to get General Cheese and the others seen to," he muttered, his voice tight with something he couldn't quite name. The loss of so many, the crushing weight of it all, was suffocating. The entire mission had been a failure. They had run, leaving their comrades behind, and now they were nothing more than the survivors of a massacre.
General Cheese shifted uncomfortably in his seat beside Jacob, his breath ragged as he tried to adjust his body. His arm had been mangled in the chaos, his body broken and bloodied, but he refused to show weakness. It was hard enough to keep his composure, but the guilt burned in his chest, fierce and unrelenting.
"I can manage. Just get us there," he gritted, though his voice betrayed the pain he was clearly in. The words sounded forced, like they had been rehearsed in his mind a hundred times before he had spoken them aloud. The ship's hum filled the space between them, an unnerving reminder of how small they were in the vastness of the universe.
Jacob turned his attention to the view-port, the dark expanse of space stretching before him like an endless, empty abyss. There was nothing out here. No hope, no future. Just the cold, suffocating darkness. He had heard it said that in space, no one could hear you scream. But that wasn't true. Jacob could hear the scream. It was inside him, echoing through every inch of his being. The silence was deafening.
The crew gathered in the ship's medical bay, the sterile white walls stark against the bruises and blood that marred their bodies. The space was cramped, filled with nothing more than basic medical supplies and equipment that flickered to life with a low, almost mocking hum. The bay was far from comforting; there was no comfort to be had here. Only cold, unfeeling tools and the endless ticking of the clock, counting down the moments until they all finally cracked under the weight of it all.
Lucas stood off to the side, his hands twitching nervously at his sides as he surveyed the room. His face was drawn, his eyes red-rimmed from the lack of sleep and the trauma of what they had just endured. The image of Nick's body, lifeless and cold, was burned into his mind. It should have been him. It should have been Lucas who had fallen. But Nick had saved him. Had pushed him aside, giving Lucas a chance to escape. And now Nick was dead. And Lucas, with the weight of that truth hanging over him, was still here.
Someone should have checked on General Cheese, he thought. He wasn't sure who it should have been—maybe Eva, maybe him. But they all knew that the chances of him surviving were slim to none. Everyone was in bad shape. But they were survivors. They were alive, and that was all that mattered now. Or was it? Was it enough?
"Someone should check on General Cheese," Lucas muttered, his voice hollow. "He's lost a lot of blood."
"I'll handle him, after I'm done with the kid" Eva said, her voice steady but distant. She turned to the others as she gently moved towards Taquito Man, who lay against the wall, barely conscious but still breathing. She knelt beside him, a deep frown tugging at her lips as she examined his injuries. His body was covered in lacerations, deep and jagged, the result of his first real fight. His breathing was shallow, ragged, but he was alive. The Nihilum's healing factor would take care of the rest, she knew. But the process was slow. Even now, steam rose from his body, hissing like a kettle left on the stove too long. His wounds would heal—eventually—but they wouldn't come without their price.
She watched as his eyes glowed faintly, the soft orange glow betraying the struggle going on beneath the surface. His face was gaunt, his expression empty, as if the fight had drained the very life out of him. The light in his eyes had dimmed, leaving only the ghost of what had once been.
"I don't think he'll ever be the same," Eva murmured to herself, though no one heard her. They were too lost in their own worlds to pay her any mind.
The ship's hum continued, but no one seemed to notice the noise anymore. The crew had settled into a weary silence, their exhaustion consuming them as they sat in their respective corners of the room, trying to escape their own thoughts. The loss was too great. Too many had fallen, and now the survivors had to carry that burden.
Lucas leaned back against the cold metal wall, his eyes staring blankly ahead, though they saw nothing. It should have been him. He had been the one who couldn't keep up, the one who had hesitated. It was his fault, and the weight of that knowledge gnawed at him like a constant, relentless ache.
If Nick hadn't pushed him aside, maybe he'd still be alive. Maybe they all would be.
But Nick had made the choice. And Lucas had been the one who had to live with it. The realization that he was the one left behind—alive when so many others had died—made him sick to his stomach. It wasn't supposed to be like this. They were supposed to win. They were supposed to come home, victorious, bloodied but not broken. But now, as they sat in this ship—this lonely, silent ship—there was nothing but failure. The victory they had imagined had slipped away in the wake of their destruction.
"We didn't make it, did we?" Lucas's voice broke the silence, though it was barely a whisper. He didn't even know who he was speaking to. It didn't matter. No one had the answers.
General Cheese's eyes were distant, as if he had already checked out. But when he spoke, his voice was low, rough. "No. We didn't." He stared at the floor, as if the weight of the words had finally caught up with him. "And now we have to live with it."
Eva didn't say anything for a long time, her hands gently tending to Taquito Man's wounds, but even she seemed lost, her eyes unfocused. She had seen too much death, too much loss, and she had never been prepared for this. The reality of war had never been this real before. This was no game. It was survival. And some days, it didn't feel worth it.
When they landed outside the city of Polus, everything felt wrong. The town was still bustling, the air full of the sounds of people laughing, talking, oblivious to the horrors that had just unfolded. Bright banners hung from the streetlights, and music played from somewhere in the distance. The contrast was too stark. The peace of this place felt like a mockery of everything they had just gone through.
"Let's hurry to Taculo's place," Taquito Man muttered, his voice hoarse. His body had stabilized, but his spirit was broken. His first real fight had torn him apart in ways no wound could. He was no longer the idealistic warrior who had joined them. His eyes, once filled with hope, were now deadened by the bloodshed. "He's got the best healing supplies."
But even as they moved toward the bustling town, there was no real hope in the words. No optimism. They were just going through the motions now, trudging forward because there was no other choice. The past was gone, and there was no future in sight. Just endless emptiness.
Taculo's place was quiet when they arrived. The lights were dim, the atmosphere heavy. There was no music here. No laughter. Just the steady hum of an uncertain world.
They were greeted with nothing but
silence…
The small medical haven was a quiet, modest place, filled with the scent of herbs and oils, all carefully arranged along the walls. It was a sanctuary for the weary, a place that had seen its share of injuries and recoveries. But today, it felt more like a tomb. The faint glow from the lamps flickered as the crew stumbled in, their bodies battered, their spirits even more so. They were broken, both inside and out.
Taculo looked up from the herbs he was preparing, his sharp eyes taking in the sight of the crew as they entered. He was a jovial man by nature, his age and wisdom giving him a calm demeanor, but today, even his usual smile faltered. The sight before him was one that spoke of far more than just physical wounds. It was a death knell, a sign that something deep had been torn apart. His voice, though startled, carried a hint of his ever-present understanding.
"My goodness," Taculo exclaimed, his brows furrowed in concern. "You all look like you've been through the fires of hell."
Taquito Man, his usual bright and energetic self, was the first to speak. But his voice was strained, tinged with exhaustion and dread. "Order up! We need care, especially for General Cheese!" His words were rushed, the urgency in them almost too much to bear.
General Cheese, who had been trying to stand tall despite the intense pain, stepped forward. His posture was hunched, his face pale, but his determination still held firm. "I need a prosthetic. Right now," he said, his voice rough and raw, like it was being pulled from somewhere deep inside him. He clenched his remaining fist, trying to ignore the blood that still dripped from his wound.
Taculo's face softened with understanding. He knew that this wasn't just about physical healing. No, this was far worse. This was the kind of pain that left marks on a person's soul. Without a word, he rushed to the nearby counter, grabbing medical tools with quick precision, his hands moving with practiced ease as Taquito Man continued to explain their situation. The story of their encounter, the death of so many warriors, and the monstrous creature they had narrowly escaped—he had heard it all before. But today, the weight of it was different.
Taquito Man continued, his voice now quiet, almost desolate. "And we lost so many warriors back there, Dad. This Dark One is…" He trailed off, the words catching in his throat. He didn't need to say more. Everyone understood. The creature they had faced, the one that had come from the depths of their worst nightmares, was no longer just a threat. It was a destroyer. And now, they were left in the aftermath, the wreckage of their failure all around them.
Taculo didn't answer him immediately. Instead, he moved to General Cheese, beginning the task of carefully cleaning and dressing his wound. There was nothing to say. Nothing could ease the devastation they all felt. As the old man worked, his hands steady, his expression pained, a shadow passed over the room. The air felt heavier, suffocating in its silence.
Then, just as Taculo began to make headway with the prosthetic, Lucas's gaze fell on the window. He didn't know why. Maybe it was the flickering of the lights, or maybe it was the sudden stillness in the air. But his attention was drawn to the outside world. His mind wandered, lost in a swirl of thoughts he couldn't untangle.
Lucas had been silent for most of the journey, his mind too numb to focus on anything but the weight of their failure. He had watched Nick die. He had seen him fall, and the memory replayed in his mind over and over again. Nick had saved him. Nick had pushed him out of harm's way, and now, Lucas was the one left standing. Alive when he shouldn't have been. Alive when he didn't deserve to be.
The guilt gnawed at him, and it was the kind of feeling that couldn't be escaped. He had failed. They had all failed. And now, he didn't know how much longer he could keep pretending that there was still something worth fighting for.
"Maybe I should just quit," Lucas muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible as he stared out the window. His words weren't meant for anyone in particular, but they still hung in the air, a question he had been grappling with ever since they escaped the MIRA facility. Why keep fighting when all they did was fail? Why stay a part of MIRA Special Forces when it only led to more death, more destruction?
He thought back to the conversation he had with Ninja before they left the MIRA facility. Ninja had been adamant that they couldn't stop now, that they had to keep pushing forward. But Lucas wasn't so sure anymore. What was the point of it all? Was there a real purpose, or was it just a never-ending cycle of violence and loss?
"You're not the only one who's thinking about quitting, Lucas." Eva's voice broke through his spiraling thoughts. She had been tending to Taquito Man, but now her attention was on him, her eyes somber. "I get it. I've felt it, too. After everything we've been through… it's hard not to wonder if it's even worth it."
Her words were soft, but they carried an undeniable weight. Eva had always been strong, her resolve unshakable, but even she was beginning to crack under the strain. The mission, the loss—it was all too much to bear.
Taquito Man stirred slightly, the steam from his wounds rising in slow, painful wisps. His eyes flickered, the faintest hint of glowing orange seeping from the edges of his irises. His healing factor was kicking in, but it was slow, too slow. It was his first real fight, and it had shattered him. The rawness of the experience had stripped away his naivety, his youthful optimism. He wasn't the same person who had stepped onto that ship, eager to prove himself. His eyes—those once bright, hopeful eyes—now carried the heaviness of what he had seen, what he had done.
Eva glanced down at him, her fingers brushing over his torn body as she continued to tend to him. "You'll be alright," she murmured, though the words lacked their usual reassurance. They were just words now, empty and hollow. She knew Taquito Man would heal, but she also knew that this fight had taken something from him. Something that wouldn't be as easily fixed as his physical wounds.
Lucas looked at Eva, his eyes meeting hers, and in that moment, there was no need for words. They both understood. They had all understood, deep down, that this war was breaking them.
"It doesn't get easier, does it?" Lucas asked, his voice quiet, but there was a bitter edge to it now. "No matter how many battles we fight, no matter how many we survive… we just lose more of ourselves along the way."
Eva didn't answer immediately. She didn't need to. There was nothing left to say. The fight was no longer about winning. It was about survival, and survival was a bitter, soul-crushing thing.
"We can't keep doing this," Taquito Man muttered, his voice groggy but filled with an edge of finality. His glowing eyes flickered slightly, the faint pulse of orange glowing brighter for a moment before fading. "Not if it's going to keep costing us everything. Not if we're going to keep losing… everyone." His words trailed off as his eyes fluttered shut, the healing factor slowly mending his wounds, but not the part of him that was broken.
The room was heavy with silence, thick with the weight of unspoken words. Taculo had finished tending to the wounds of General Cheese, but there was little comfort in the healing. The crew, though no longer in immediate danger, still carried the scars of their encounter. Their faces were ashen, their eyes dull and distant, as if they had seen too much for any one person to bear.
The flickering light from the lamps cast long shadows across the room, elongating the already oppressive mood. Outside, the world seemed far away, but inside Taculo's place, it was impossible to escape the crushing reality of their situation. They had survived—but for what? The crew had been pushed to their limits, and now they were left with nothing but the aftermath, the haunting echoes of those they had lost.
Jacob sat near the corner, his gaze fixed on the floor. His hands trembled slightly, not from physical injury, but from the overwhelming weight of failure. Nick's death had hit him hardest—he had been the one to lead them, and yet he had been the one to watch as everything crumbled. He should have protected him. He should have done more.
"Jacob?" Eva's voice cut through the quiet. It was soft, almost hesitant, but her eyes were full of concern. "You need to contact Commander Dietrich. He needs to know what happened."
Jacob's head snapped up, his eyes hollow. He had almost forgotten the higher-ups. They had been so caught up in the chaos of survival that the larger consequences, the political and military implications, seemed distant. But they couldn't avoid it forever. Commander Dietrich needed to know what had happened, even if it was the last thing Jacob wanted to do.
With a quiet sigh, Jacob nodded and moved to the console in the corner of the room. The soft hum of the ship's systems was a constant reminder of how fragile their victory had been. He hesitated for a moment before pressing the communication button to link up with Commander Dietrich's command center.
As the screen flickered to life, the image of Commander Dietrich appeared, his stern face framed by the shadow of his military office. His eyes were hard, unreadable, but there was an undeniable tension in the air. The moment he saw Jacob, his lips pressed into a thin line.
"Jacob," Dietrich's voice came through, clipped and authoritative. "Report."
Jacob swallowed hard. He could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He had been through battles before, but this felt different. This wasn't just another mission; this was the end of something. And he wasn't sure if anything could come after it.
"Commander," Jacob began, his voice tight with the emotion he couldn't quite suppress.
"We… we didn't make it. The mission failed. The MIRA facility is destroyed. The Dark One… it wasn't just a creature, it was something more. And we lost too many… too many good men and women."
Dietrich's eyes narrowed, his face hardening as he processed the information. "You're telling me the MIRA facility is gone. And you were unable to stop this… thing?"
Lucas throat tightened. "Yes, sir. We tried, but it was too powerful. The losses were… significant. I—I don't know how many are left, but most of our team is gone. Nick… Nick didn't make it. He… he saved me. He pushed me out of the way when—when the creature came for me." Lucas's voice cracked, but he forced the words out. "I should have been the one to die, sir. Not him. It should have been me."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line, and for a moment, Jacob thought Dietrich would say nothing at all. But the commander's face softened, just for an instant, before the stern mask returned.
"You did what you could, Captain. This was no ordinary enemy. No one could have predicted this," Dietrich said, his voice lacking the usual sharpness. "The Dark One… we have intel that suggests it's more than just a random anomaly. We may be facing something far worse than we anticipated." His tone hardened again. "The fact that you're alive is proof of your strength. But this doesn't change the fact that we've lost our foothold in this war."
Jacob clenched his fists at his sides. He hated hearing the words. Hated the hollow praise. It didn't bring Nick back. It didn't change what they had lost. "What do we do now, sir? What's left for us?" The question came out raw, desperate.
Dietrich didn't flinch. "You survive. That's all there is now, Captain. You survive and you fight. We'll regroup, reassess, and determine the next course of action. But for now, I need you and your team to hold tight. You're not alone in this."
Lucas, standing behind Jacob, was staring at the floor, his fists clenched. He hadn't said much since they arrived at Taculo's place, but the guilt was eating him alive. He felt the weight of it all, heavier than anything physical. If he had died instead of Nick… If he hadn't been so damn useless.
Eva, on the other hand, was still crouched by Taquito Man's side, her eyes red from the tears she had shed in silence. She knew better than anyone that their fight had only just begun. But right now, it felt pointless. What was the point of continuing when everything they did led to this? More blood, more pain, and more loss.
"Commander," Lucas's voice interrupted the conversation, quiet but intense. "Is this what we're fighting for? To just keep surviving? Is that all we can do now?"
Dietrich's eyes flicked to the side as he processed the question, and for a brief moment, there was no answer. The silence felt deafening. Finally, Dietrich spoke, his voice colder than before. "That's all there is, Lucas. You survive. You fight. You do what you can to protect the future. Because if you stop, if you give in to despair, then everything we've fought for… it was for nothing."
There was a finality to his words that stung. Jacob turned his face away, not able to look at the commander anymore. The reality of it all was too much.
Dietrich continued, his tone steely, as if he had already moved on. "Rest up. Recover. You'll get your next mission soon. This is far from over."
The communication ended abruptly, the screen going dark as Jacob sat back, his shoulders sagging. He didn't feel any better. There was no comfort in Dietrich's words. Just the stark reality that the war wasn't over—and neither was their suffering.
"We're all just waiting for the next battle, aren't we?" Eva said softly, her voice distant as she continued to tend to Taquito Man. "Waiting for the next loss, the next heartbreak."
Lucas didn't answer, but he didn't need to. He knew what Eva meant. The endless cycle, the weight of it all—he felt it in his bones. There was no escape. There was no end in sight. Only more darkness. More fighting. More deaths. More… everything.
And as the ship continued its silent journey through space, the crew knew that their lives were no longer their own. They were pawns in a war they couldn't escape, moving through a universe that had already forgotten them. All they had left was each other—if that, too, was taken from them, they would have nothing.
The crew remained silent for the rest of the night. Taculo worked tirelessly to help them, though even his efforts felt inadequate in the face of their emotional wounds. Outside, the stars glimmered—distant, cold, and unfeeling. The vastness of space had never seemed more oppressive, as if the universe itself was mocking their pain.
The crew knew it wasn't over. They knew there would be more battles, more bloodshed. But in the quiet of Taculo's place, in the stillness of their shared suffering, they realized something: there was no victory left to be had. There was only survival. And that, perhaps, was the most brutal fate of all…