Ares Mangal-grah leans against the cold, jagged edge of what used to be part of Vallis's central dome, his chest heaving with each labored breath. His heart pounds like a drum in his ears, the sound almost drowning out distant searing hiss of plasma fire and the cries of the dying. The brief respite from combat is a luxury he can barely afford, but his body screams for a moment to recover.
Before he can fully catch his breath, the ground vibrates with the approach of more enemies. From the shadowed corners of the ruins, the K'tharr emerge, minions of the World Enders, their slim bodies elongated to an almost skeletal thinness stretching up into tall, ungainly figures, their long limbs propelling them across the Martian terrain in great, bounding strides. Their skin, a sickly pale hue, is stretched tight over their bones, giving them an ugly, almost corpse-like appearance. But it's their mouths that strike fear into the heart of any who see them; jagged, venomous teeth, sharp like shards of glass, protrude from their gaping maws, glistening with a poisonous sheen that promises a painful end.
These creatures move with an eerie, fluid grace, their limbs bending at unnatural angles as they swarm towards Ares. The air fills with their hisses, a sound like steam escaping from a broken pipe, chilling the blood of anyone who hears it. Their eyes, if one could call them that, are mere slits, glowing with a malevolent light that seems to pierce through the fine, red Martian dust.
The issue isn't to beat them. He's more than capable of that. Ares has taken down countless of these grotesque beings, his weapon spitting death with each controlled trigger pull. But the problem isn't one of skill or strength; it's their endless numbers. With each creature he fells, another takes its place, emerging from beyond the reaches of the central dome as if born from nothing.
Sooner rather than later, Ares knows he will run out of strength, the adrenaline that has kept him going will wane, and his body will weaken. The relentless tide of the K'tharr, with their venomous teeth and malevolent eyes, will eventually overpower him.
This is their true strength, not in their individual might, but in their inexhaustible numbers. This is why nobody can stop them; this is why the once-proud colony of Vallis now lies in ruins, its inhabitants either dead or fighting a losing battle against these alien horrors.
Ares checks his gun, the display flickering with the ominous red of low charge—the council's latest innovation, designed to combat these very horrors, was failing him at the critical moment.
He racks his brain for answers, for some strategy, some miracle that could turn the tide of this battle. But nothing comes. The weight of desperation presses down on him, the silence of his thoughts more deafening than the cacophony of battle around him. His options are dwindling, and his mind, usually so sharp, feels dulled by exhaustion and fear.
Cursing under his breath, Ares sets his gun, ready to fire. Each shot now counts more than ever, each blast a precious drop from an almost empty well. With a grimace, he aims, his gaze hard and determined.
Ares fires, the shot aimed dead at the head of one of the approaching K'tharr from a distance. The creature's skull explodes into shards as they do when struck in their only vulnerability. But hitting their heads is a challenge; these monsters are swift, darting erratically as they close in.
With the battle lust upon him, Ares's senses sharpen, his perception of time dilating. His gun, despite its dwindling charge, is his instrument of salvation. He stands his ground, legs spread for stability, eyes locked on the oncoming horde. As they charge, he begins his counterattack, his shots precise and deadly.
A K'tharr leaps from the shadows, its trajectory predictable to Ares's seasoned eye. His shot rings true, the creature's head disintegrating in mid-air, its body crashing down like a puppet with cut strings.
Another takes its place, and another; Ares moves his arm in a fluid motion, each trigger pull precise. He pivots, his gun finding its mark time and again, heads exploding in a gruesome display.
He drops one with a headshot just before it reaches the halfway point, then another, his shots clearing a path through the advancing line.
The air fills with the sound of his gun, each blast echoing off the ruins of Vallis. He's not just defending; he's carving a space of defiance in the heart of chaos. His gun, now glowing with the last vestiges of its charge, forces him to time each shot with deadly precision.
One by one, the beasts fall, their numbers thinning as Ares stands like a sentinel, unyielding. But as the last shot leaves his barrel, the gun's display blinks to life one final time before going dark, the charge completely depleted.
Ares curses as his gun clicks empty, the charge gone, leaving him momentarily defenseless. A K'tharr, seizing the opportunity, charges at him with ferocious speed, its maw wide open, venom dripping from jagged teeth.
In a flash of desperate ingenuity, Ares shoves the now-useless gun directly into the beast's gaping mouth, using the weapon as a makeshift barrier. The creature clamps down, momentarily distracted by the obstruction.
With the creature's head now close, Ares 's instincts take over. He pulls back his fist, his body moving on muscle memory and sheer will. His punch lands with a force fueled by desperation and rage, connecting with the side of the K'tharr's head.
The impact is cataclysmic; the creature's skull shatters under the sheer power of Ares's blow, its body crumpling to the ground in a heap of broken alien anatomy.
Ares stands over the fallen beast, his breath coming in heavy gasps, his hand tingling from the impact. He's bought himself a moment, but at a cost; now, he's truly weaponless.
He looks around, scanning for his next move, his survival now resting on his physical prowess and stamina.