Harold stood silently in the cold, sterile room, his eyes fixed on the row of medical cryo-pods. Inside, his men floated in suspended recovery, their battered bodies encased in glowing blue light. The rhythmic beeping of the monitors was the only sound, a somber reminder of their survival—though just barely. He sighed, running a hand through his graying hair, and adjusted the strap of his equipment bag before turning on his heel.
The hangar stretched before him, alive with activity yet weighed down by exhaustion. Soldiers from the expedition gathered in subdued groups, each one marked by the horrors they had endured. Armor plates bore scorch marks, uniforms were torn, and eyes betrayed sleepless nights.
Harold's gaze swept over the crowd. What remained of their force—four companies, approximately 600 soldiers, a mere fraction of their original strength—stood battered but alive. Among them, there was no celebratory camaraderie, only the quiet resilience of those who had seen too much.
Near the center of the hangar, a squad surrounded a tech specialist bent over a damaged reconnaissance drone. Sparks flew as the specialist worked, muttering curses under his breath. Harold approached, the soldiers straightening slightly as he drew near.
"At ease," Harold said, his voice steady but weary. He gestured toward the drone. "What's the verdict?"
The specialist didn't look up, his focus unwavering. "She'll fly again, sir. Might not be pretty, but she'll get the job done."
Harold nodded, a faint flicker of approval crossing his face. "Good. We're going to need every tool we've got."
As he moved further into the hangar, Harold passed soldiers hunched over crates of gear, tending to their weapons, or sitting in contemplative silence. Each squad carried its own weight of loss and survival, and their exhaustion was a reflection of his own.
At the far end of the hangar, a team of engineers worked on a towering mech. Its frame bore the scars of battle—deep gouges in the armor and scorch marks from plasma strikes. Sparks cascaded down as a welder repaired a joint, while diagnostic lights blinked erratically.
"That's the Seraphim," a voice said behind him. Harold turned to see Azrael, his suit streaked with oil and soot.
"How bad is it?" Harold asked, nodding toward the mech.
Azrael sighed, crossing his arms. "She's holding, but barely. We've got her running on spit and prayers at this point."
"She'll hold long enough," Harold said firmly, though his own doubts lingered beneath the surface.
Azrael's expression hardened. "She has to."
Harold's gaze lingered on the Seraphim, the mech standing as a testament to their will to fight. Around him, the sound of repairs, quiet murmurs, and the occasional burst of laughter broke through the somber atmosphere. These men and women had been through hell, but they weren't finished yet.
"Harold"
Harold turned at the sound of the familiar voice, his sharp gaze softening slightly as Samuel stepped into view. Clad in armor that looked both familiar and foreign, Samuel cut an imposing figure. His Type-306 had been heavily modified, blended seamlessly with components of a black Type-70 Naginata. The combination of sleek modern plating and the rugged, ceremonial design of the past was striking.
"Samuel, you..." Harold began, his voice trailing off as he took in the changes.
"Yeah, I know," Samuel said with a small nod, rolling his shoulder to adjust to the hybrid armor. "I modified the Type-306."
Harold's eyes lingered on the armor, tracing the intricate craftsmanship that blended the practicality of modern tech with the symbolism of an older, nobler time.
"Carrying the kid's legacy now, huh?" Harold said softly, his tone edged with bittersweet familiarity.
Samuel paused, his eyes dropping to the floor for a moment before meeting Harold's. "Maybe," he replied, his voice steady but weighted. "But for now, we need every edge we can get. Supplies, gear, anything that gives us a chance."
Harold gave a small grunt, his gaze flicking back to the soldiers in the hangar, working tirelessly to prepare for whatever came next. "You're not wrong. The way things are shaping up, it's gonna take more than grit to survive the next fight."
"Exactly," Samuel said, his tone firm but quiet. He adjusted the gauntlet on his wrist, the old Type-70 engraving barely visible beneath a fresh layer of reinforced alloy. "I'll handle the supply requisitions. You focus on keeping these men ready. They need someone to look to."
Harold chuckled dryly, shaking his head. "And here I thought you were supposed to be out of the game."
Samuel offered a faint smirk. "Guess none of us really leave, do we?"
The two men stood in silence for a moment, the weight of their shared history and the uncertain road ahead hanging between them.
Their quiet was broken by a commanding voice from the upper floor of the hangar.
"Attention."
The sharp tone sliced through the subdued chatter, freezing everyone in place. Soldiers stopped mid-task, their heads snapping toward the source of the voice. Standing above them on the catwalk was a figure who seemed almost otherworldly.
He didn't wear a traditional uniform, but something far more sinister. His attire had a ghostly elegance, mixing dark fabrics with cybernetic enhancements that gleamed faintly under the harsh hangar lights. A gas mask obscured his face, and his metallic arms reflected the cold light, looking both grotesque and functional.
"As you fine ladies and gentlemen," he began, his voice unsettlingly calm and refined, like a gentleman addressing a dinner party rather than battle-worn soldiers.
The hangar remained silent, the air thick with unease. Behind the man stood two familiar faces: Mech Commander Kaelen, his broad frame and stern expression unyielding, and Infantry Brigadier Commander Furgies, who appeared equally unnerved by the presence of the stranger.
"I apologize for the intrusion during such trying times," the man continued, his tone almost mocking in its politeness. "But as of now, I am in command, and your orders will be delivered by me."
A ripple of skepticism passed through the room, not because they doubted his authority, but because of the oppressive aura that seemed to emanate from him. It clawed at the back of every soldier's mind, a subtle but inescapable weight.
"And now, for the first order of business."
In an instant, he vanished, reappearing directly in front of a startled soldier, who stumbled back with a gasp.
"We march to the former capital of the Polaris union," the man declared, his gaze sweeping the room. "There, we will engage the entities that have made their nest in the dead city."
He began pacing, his hands clasped behind his back, his movements measured and deliberate.
"Following that," he continued, "I will require volunteers to enter the ruins of the Thermus."
With a flick of his wrist, a holographic projection materialized, displaying a crumbling facility amidst a barren landscape.
"The Thermus," he explained, "was once a state-of-the-art science lab. It holds the remnants of key technologies used in the war... and experimental ones."
The projection zoomed in, highlighting areas marked with warnings and restricted zones. The man tilted his head, placing a finger on his chin as if pondering a distant thought.
"But tread carefully," he added, his voice dropping an octave, laden with foreboding. "The experiments conducted there were... not entirely ethical."
The soldiers exchanged wary glances, their unease growing as the man's words sank in. Harold and Samuel stood at the forefront, their expressions grim. Whoever this man was, he wasn't just giving orders—he was leading them into the unknown.
"This will not be a simple mission," he concluded, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "It will require cunning, resolve, and a certain… tolerance for risk.
"Call me... Obsidian," the man said, his voice smooth and almost playful, like he was savoring the moment. He took a step closer to Samuel, his metallic arms folding behind his back. "Titles are for men with aspirations. I'm here because of necessity."
Samuel raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Obsidian, then. And what exactly makes you qualified to lead us into this mess?"
The room grew silent as the soldiers exchanged wary glances. Obsidian didn't answer immediately, instead pacing in slow, deliberate steps. His gaze swept across the room, lingering on each face as though weighing their worth.
"Qualified?" he echoed, his tone taking on a faint edge. "Do qualifications matter when the enemy is neither man nor machine? When logic fails, and monsters emerge from the shadows?"
He stopped, turning back to face Samuel directly. "I'm not here to impress you, Captain. I'm here to ensure you survive long enough to matter."
Samuel's jaw tightened, but he said nothing, holding Obsidian's unsettling gaze. The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable, before Obsidian spoke again, his tone softening slightly.
"You're skeptical. Good. Skepticism keeps a man alive. But let me make one thing clear—your survival is my mission. Your doubts, your grudges, your pride... leave them behind. Out there, none of it matters."
Samuel's shoulders stiffened, something his gut told him to be wary this enigmatic figure. "And what makes you so sure we'll follow you?"Obsidian leaned in, his voice dropping to a low whisper. "Because when the time comes, you'll realize that I'm the only one who sees the battlefield for what it truly is."
The room stayed silent as Obsidian straightened, his attention shifting to the rest of the soldiers. "Prepare yourselves. We leave at first light. Polaris waits... and so does whatever nightmares it holds."
Without another word, he turned and strode out of the hangar, his presence leaving an almost tangible void. The soldiers began murmuring amongst themselves, their unease palpable.
Harold stepped up beside Samuel, watching Obsidian's retreating figure. "Well, he's got a flair for the dramatic, I'll give him that."
Samuel sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah... but I can't tell if he's going to get us killed or save our lives."
"Maybe both," Harold muttered, shaking his head. "Guess we'll find out soon enough."
The two men exchanged a glance, then turned back to the soldiers, who were already beginning to prepare for the next mission. The capital loomed ahead, its secrets waiting to be uncovered.